Until Saturday morning after the 21km race at the Kolonnade Retail Park near Sinoville in Pretoria, I never realised what the requirements were to be a good citizen in the New South Africa. My understanding has always been that the main prerequisite was that as long as one accepted all South Africans of whatever race, religion or gender as equals then one was automatically classified as a good citizen. But then Nigel rudely disabused me of this puerile notion.

After this encounter, upon reflection I now consider myself a slow leaner in this regard. When I cast my mind back, I can now recall numerous incidents where I was mystified by the new social, moral and ethical code that was being imposed seemingly by society at large rather than by legislation.

The very first incident that I can recall was whilst trying to leave the parking lot of the Cresta Shopping Centre sometime in the mid-nineteen nineties. There in my side mirror was a person trying to assist me in reversing out of the parking lot. Having successfully being able to reverse for 30 years, I was a tad aghast at the necessity of assistance. Having successfully reversed out without his assistance, there he was next to my window with cupped hands demanding a gratuity for services rendered.

 

After remonstrating for a few minutes that I neither required nor requested his services, I drove off in a huff to the next shopping centre. Upon entering it, what did I notice? The Parking Lot was crawling with parking assistants like ants scurrying around. I certainly was not going into that Shopping Centre. Let me try another. To my annoyance that one too was overrun with the ever cheerful, smiling assistants with broad grins. Now I was cornered. What was I to do? I decided to venture in but to refuse all offers of assistance.

And so my life was forever changed. Instead of a pleasant drive to the local Spar around the corner, it became an altercation with a parking assistant.

Over beers I discussed my anguish with friends in a similar predicament.

“It is your attitude”, they chimed in unison.

“Change their nomenclature from Parking Assistant to Security Guard whose other duties relate to assisting you with parking,” they proceeded.

“Why would I need additional protection,” I protested with disdain

“I already have a gear-lock and satellite tracking,” I remonstrated volubly.

“What is R1 for the additional security provided?” they shot back.

 

They had made a valid point. So from that day onwards, I dutifully and gratefully without demurring handed over the going tariff.

This state of affairs continued quite happily for a number of years.

Then some years later at the KHOSA 10km Night Race, my attitude would make an abrupt and dramatic U-turn. After the usual refrain, “Hi, Baas, I will look after your car while you are running,” I gave my usual nod of acknowledgement in the possibly misplaced hope that my vehicle was in safe hands for the duration of the race.After running a mediocre 48 minutes with Clive Kaplan, I strolled off to my vehicle chiding myself for such a poor performance. But where was the Kombi? There was a vacant space where it was previously standing.

I stormed off to the “security guard”?

“Where is my Kombi?” I screamed

“What Kombi baas,” he plead

“The one that was standing here,” as I pointed to the vacant space.

“No baas. No Kombi parked here.”

 

Using Clive’s Cellphone, I phoned Netstar. In the Kombi with a gear lock on was my briefcase with my wallet, my credit cards, my Autobank Card, my ID Book and my Passport. My whole life was in that briefcase.

“Hello, is that Netstar, I am looking for my Kombi?” I almost shouted at the operator.

“Yes, Sir, would that be registration XXXXXXX which is driving through the bush at Hammanskraal knocking over all the trees trying to evade our helicopter?”

“Yes,” I replied in astonishment.

“But what about the gear lock and what about my briefcase?”

“Sorry sir but I am busy with the pilot.

I will phone you back shortly

They are shooting at the chopper.”

As I was dropped off at home by Clive, the phone rang.

It was Netstar.

“Hello sir, we have recovered your vehicle?”

Without a thank-you I blurted out, “What about the gear lock and my briefcase?”

“Sir, I don’t know but I will put you through to the pilot.” he calmly replied.

“Hi, I’m XXXX. Was your car always so damaged with no dash or carpets?”

“NO. NEVER, it has only done 30,000kms. What about the gear lock and my briefcase? ‘Well sir, the gear lock is still on. They have travelled the whole way..”

“From Krugersdorp. The High School. In first! Surely not.”

“Happens all the time. Damages the gear box and engine mainly by otherwise it is OK,” was the insouciant reply as if this is an everyday occurrence which it probably was for him.

“What about my briefcase, my wallet, my ID book. Is it there?”

“And a cheque book in the name of DF Mac Mc Mc leeeland”

“That’s mine”

 

“Well sir, this vehicle has been totally trashed. We will have to tow it back to base.”

“Come in early and we will show you the damage and watch the early morning recovery process in our Control Room.”

I have always wondered whether the Security Guard had a special code. When he tapped my vehicle whilst making small talk with me, he was smiling to himself, “This is mine. This is all mine.”

Being thoroughly disillusioned by the episode, I refused in principle to pay a so-called car guard anything. Either the car guard at KHOSA was part of the gang or otherwise he was threatened not to say or do anything. Either way, my vehicle had been stolen.

In due course the 2.5L Kombi was replaced by the 2.6L version. Due to my bad experience with the car guards I was unrelenting: no money would be passed to these wastrels and layabouts.

On Sunday 14^th February 1999, I drove through the light mist along the N17 to Springs. It was my annual odyssey to run the Spring Striders 32km race. I was tense as I parked on one of the verges for two divergent reasons. I had overslept and had been forced to travel at 160 kph on the highway. The second reason was more pertinent. The previous year I had raised the bar and completed my run in 2:48, my PB. What counted against me this year was not my lack of training but rather my uncontrolled exuberance. The previous day I had run a 21km race in 1H53. I chided myself due to my stupidity in the choosiest of terms. But that was water under the bridge. I would have to deal with the consequences that day.

 

With all the downhills and easy sections, the first 10kms was accomplished in 50 minutes. The time might have been great but the warning signs were flashing. Their message did not yet indicate a disaster but they rather indicated caution was to be observed. I was past listening to my body. Incipient niggles and tiredness rearing their heads, were ignored.

I was in denial, oblivious to all these warnings signs. But the great arbiter lay ahead, the long incline up Tonk Meter Road over the N17 highway from the 25km mark until the 30km mark when the course veered left along the Service Road to the Springs Old Boys Club.

Expletives flowed in gay abandon as the heat bore down on from a cloudless sky onto foolish runners attempting the treeless slow poison incline. Finally the 30km water table before the left turn hoved into view. For the first time I allowed myself to glance at my watch. My time was just over 3 hours. The climb had consumed all my reserves both in time and energy.

As no self-respecting runner in those days was allowed to exceed 3h12, I had a formidable challenge ahead. I had to convince a shattered body that I had to run at just under 6 minutes a km for two kms. Pride would not allow otherwise. It dictated the pace. In between breaths, I cajoled my unresponsive body every onward. In its fragile abused state it would not respond. My pace was slightly over 6 minutes per km when what was required was a sub 6. I could not relent. I would not relent.

The split at the 31km mark told the true story. My time was 3:06:45. It was now or never. I had to pull out all the stops. 5:15 for the last km. Then I passed the verge where my Kombi was supposed to be parked. It was vacant. Nothing was there. In case I was mistaken about the house number, I glanced up and down the service road. No Kombis were in sight.

I went into a flaming rage. Another Kombi had been stolen. I cursed. I swore. I went into overdrive. Like a jockey slashing a sullen horse at the finish of a race, so I lashed my body albeit mentally. I chided it mercilessly for its insouciant demeanour. At the downhill after 31.4kms, I lengthened my stride & dropped the pace to 4.5 minutes per km. The other runners flashed past me as I sped past them. Some shouted after me and wanted to know what drug I was on. I took no notice. My motive was revenge and all that I could exercise that revenge against was my body.

As the last 200 metres drew up, the adrenaline rush subsided. The breath now came in long rasping gasps. I dared not look at the Race Clock. It was now or never. With the last reserves and the pulse racing at fever pitch I crossed the line.

3:11:20.

When this Kombi was finally retrieved on the Botswana border near Zeerust, it was a wreck. The 2.6L engine had been replaced with a clapped out 2.1L engine and the interior had been obliterated. As I drove back to Joburg in this vehicle which could barely exceed 80 kph, I could not fathom why somebody would want to destroy the interior like this. Were they barbarians? What were they? They could not espouse South African values?

I returned to the pub with my friends and posed the same question as I had done some years previously: exactly what service are car guards providing.

A gentle risible laughter tinged with a snigger arose.

“You obviously don’t understand, do you?”

“NO. I DO NOT,” not appreciating the joke at my expense, “TELL ME.”

“If you really must know, it is just the whitey’s social responsibility.”

“REALLY,” I retorted still palpably irascible. “Says who?”

“The rules of the new South Africa!”

 

“What about throwing the rubbish out of the car as I drive.

And overtaking in the shoulder

And paying one’s traffic fines.”

“Old school. No longer applies,” I was brusequely informed

 

So on Saturday while I was in a queue 2.5kms long travelling west along Zambesi Drive towards the N1 Highway, Nigel offered me some sage advice.

“These Tshwanians are still too Old South Africa. Let’s do it the new way.”

Even though my intention was to turn right onto the N1 highway, his instruction was to take the left most lane, overtake the kilometres of cars on the right hand side lanes.

 

At the traffic lights, I was then instructed to turn right and push in across 5 lanes.

Nigel, I must admit that we saved at least 20 minutes by using the New SA Method so I must thank you for training me in it.

But what I would like to know is what happens when all motorists apply these new rules.

Won’t this create mayhem, bedlam and pandemonium on our roads or am I too incorrigibly old school, Old South Africa unable to adapt to the new realities?

Disclaimer:  This advice was given by Nigel Asprey’s alter ego also confusingly called Nigel.

Quite disconcerting really.