With just two weeks to go to the start of the Blue Cross, I have prepared an exhaustive checklist, even though I find checklists tiring, but not as tiring as Jenny was the last time I forgot to pack the tent for a Blue Cross, hence the list.
Jenny still hasn’t moved on from my slight oversight which had me, Jenny and granddaughter Jocelyn sleeping under the stars on the bank of the Save River, but safe and secure behind a stout and innovative game fence hurriedly built by Jocelyn to keep passing elephants out, made entirely out of wash line and a bag of oranges.
Because we are set to be joined on this year’s Blue Cross by Gary Mango Martin from New Zealand and sons Jason and Daniel from Australia, I practice pitched two tents and two swags in the garden this morning, to air them, and also to look for my favourite left sock, missing since last year’s Blue Cross, or possibly longer.
Even though I haven’t deployed the swags since 2020, I was able to pitch them in under 40 minutes, and they didn’t smell too bad. Put another way, I didn’t find my missing sock. F.Y.I. for those who don’t know, swags are an all-in-one tent, groundsheet, mattress combo, invented by an Australian too lazy to roll up his sleeping bag. They are guaranteed almost 100% elephant proof, unless the elephant stands on top of the swag, which could happen, because swags are rather low slung, which is why Jenny and I sleep in tents, not the swags. Daniel and Jason, should you read this blog, please disregard this last bit, because me, Jenny and your dad have fully booked the tents.
Swags might well be almost elephant proof, but unfortunately, they’re not cat proof. Our cat, MF Jones, was able to trample one of the swags flat within minutes of me putting it up. If there is any doubt as to what Jones’ initials stand for, please refer to my neighbours who heard his full name shouted out twice today, once when he trampled the swag, and earlier when he walked into the house with a squirrel in his mouth.
Even though I know them to be rodents with fluffy tails, I do love squirrels. I set off after Jones in hot pursuit, shouting his first name loudly and in full, apologies to the neighbours. After 2 laps of the patio, I grabbed Jones by the tail and forced him to eject the squirrel uneaten. Shame, the poor little guy was in shock, but still alive. Cradling his quaking little body in my hands, I carried him to safety, whence upon the ungrateful little bastard staged a full recovery, savaging my thumb, before fleeing up tree. Just my luck, there are a million nut-eating squirrels out there, and the one I save turns out to be carnivorous.
Onto the cycling part of the blog, I am so excited to be riding the Blue Cross again, 500 kilometres with 10,000 meters of climb, even though the hills and mountains are sure to be one year steeper. I am even more excited to be sharing our beautiful Zimbabwe as per the stunning photos below with best friends from Australia and New Zealand. And good news, thank you for asking, my bottom is almost no longer wounded after suffering a prolonged bout of the very embarrassing and hard-to spell ailment.
Not looking to provoke an outraged response from MAGA supporters, but I have scientific proof that Donald Trump one hundred percent caused my haemorrhoids. In keeping with the state of world politics, I always read world news on my phone whilst ensconced on the throne. Joe Biden was boring, and so were his headlines, so I’d be in and out in under five minutes, job done, pardon the pun. But because Donald Trump has flooded the zone since January, with so much news, so many headlines, my morning constitutionals have become drawn out and protracted, which Dr Google assures me is the root cause of my wounded bottom. But that has been easily fixed. My toilet is now a strictly no-reading zone. I am in and out in a jiffy, I have no idea if Trump’s tariffs are on again, off again, on again, off again, or whether he once had a best friend called Jeffery, and fully expect my bottom to be back to showroom condition by the start of the Blue Cross, at which point it should revert back to severely wounded after six days of shitting off in a seated position.
As soon as I finish the Blue Cross, I’ll have to hurry to start training for the Tour of Europe which kicks off in Montpellier, France on September the 11th. Not to tempt fate, but apparently, the old adage what doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger was first coined by a man on a mountain bike. Also apparently, he died on a mountain shortly after coining the phrase, most probably in the Pyrenees, judging by some of the Tour de France stages. It is obvious I need to train harder, so I moved my stationary bike, aptly named Root Canal, in front of the television for the duration of the Tour de France.
In September me and some friends will ride 2700 kilometres across France, Spain and Portugal.
Until my next blog from the Blue Cross, have fun, do good, do epic, and save a squirrel if you can, even though it could be carnivorous – Eric Chicken Legs de Jong.
* Names and images may have been changed for privacy reasons
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