Cape PointRiders on the storm | Riders on the storm | Into this house we're born | Into this world we're thrown | Like a dog without a bone | An actor out on loan | Riders on the stormEscaping the city for Cape Point early Saturday, I passed a dead cyclist. His body, lying at the curbside and encircled by police and several civilians, was covered by the ubiquitous white blanket of death. I experienced a familiar sickening lurch; the momentary realization of a life abruptly ended and a black hell of despair befalling an innocent family.
Creslin Attwood, 54, a member of the
SuperCycling team, was brutally murdered on the Glencairn Road at 06:00 by a drunken tourist driving a Black VW Polo. Fleeing the scene, the driver almost took out several other cyclists. He apparently handed himself over to the police on Sunday.
Actually, according to
this report, he didn't. That should make it murder. And who said he was a tourist? Or a 'he'?
Let's get a couple of things straight. 'Spandex Bullets', training for the
Argus Cycle Tour, are a pain. Too many ride abreast and abuse motorists who ask them to get into line. In short, they're a cocky bunch and I don't like them. I mean, why cycle when you can drive? Alternatively, why not walk?
That said, cycling is a major sport and Cape Town's coastal roads offer arguably the world's most exhilarating training routes. Natural-born fetishists, cyclists adorn themselves in the most garish, sickeningly colorful bodysuits imaginable. They're a bloody eyesore, stick out a mile and, no matter their misbehavior, there is no good reason — bar out-and-out accidents, to hit them.
Unless it's proved otherwise, I assume the driver of the Black VW Polo did not have good reason to kill Creslyn Attwood. Clubs and bars disgorge their drunken patrons in the early hours and, with the traffic police sleeping late, death reaps a rich harvest Saturday and Sunday mornings. I assume our errant Polo driver was drunk, stoned, asleep, or a mix of the three.
I travel that road most weekends and I do not drive slowly. There is a speed limit and I stick to it — most of the time. Moreover, the road on which Creslyn was killed — outside Dixie's, allows me to. It's broad, enabling cars to overtake each other while cyclists drive abreast. Driving defensively, one should not be involved in an accident unless it's a head-on collision.
Had Creslyn's killer handed himself in, he'd probably have been found guilty of culpable homicide and fined ZAR3,000. That's US$300. Life is "cheap" in Cape Town.
Cape of Good HopeThere's a killer on the road | His brain is squirmin' like a toad | Take a long holiday | Let your children play | If ya give this man a ride | Sweet memory will die | Killer on the road, yeahAll I can do is hope that Creslyn's family comes to terms with his death as soon as possible and that they are supported by friends now and in the future. I doubt they could give a toss about what happens to the driver. It won't bring Creslyn back.
What troubles me more is the road rage I experienced inside the Reserve.
Conditions need to be ideal to visit the caves beneath Cape Point. If you don't know the walk, don't do it. An incoming tide and an inadequate knowledge of the ledges will see you trapped. Even a walk that beautiful doesn't warrant R10,000 or R20,000 in rescue fees — around six times the probable financial value that will be attached to Creslyn Attwood's life.
A small swell, spring low tide, and some cloud cover suits photography best. The sun was out but, what the hell, I wanted to see how winter's storms had altered the coast. They'd changed it appreciably. The coast has been stripped of sand and the boom of the wreck of the
Shir Yib, an Iranian barge that went aground in the mid-70s, has been flattened by falling rocks.
The shore's a dangerous, rock-strewn mess; but with the tunnels beneath the cliffs having been cleaned out by the sea, it's a beautiful mess.
The two most precarious transit points on the short walk from Dias's Beach have been made more so by the sand's erosion, i.e. immediately before and after the wreck. More, as I discovered the weekend before, Dias Beach has had the sand gouged from it at the Cape Point end, creating a steep dune drop to the sea.
On the other side, you can walk up to Cape Maclear and across to the Cape of Good Hope — there's a beautiful cove, densely birded, on the way.
I left the Point around 15:00 and, having had the good karma washed from me by the hordes of tourists atop the cliffs, headed for the gate. From the Point, I was followed by a white VW Golf which, like me, was traveling with its lights on. Right up my exhaust.
Bugger it. I was doing 60 km/h and this was, after all, a national park. This guy wanted to go faster and I wasn't going to let him. Especially after what I'd seen in the morning.
On the stretch past Buffelsfontein, I upped my speed to 80km/h and readied my camera. The Golf overtook me on a curve and there was no way I could get a picture. Angered, I followed it from the top of the Smitswinkel Flats to the Olifantsbosch turnoff at 100km/h but the driver picked up speed all the way.
Heading up to the Smitswinkelbaai lookout, he overtook a tourist bus on a blind curve and disappeared.
I felt an asshole. Here I was, in Cape Town's most sacred place, traveling 100 km/h. I still feel bad about it. Had a buck, ostrich, baboon, tortoise or anything else crossed the road, either the Golf driver or I would have hit it. But I badly wanted a picture of that car.
I wanted that guy banned from the reserve.
Because such people — people like me, who occasionally lose it — kill people like Creslyn Attwood.
Girl ya gotta love your man | Girl ya gotta love your man | Take him by the hand | Make him understand | The world on you depends | Our life will never end | Gotta love your man, yeahThe Doors |
Riders on the StormNote: I stopped riding a bicycle about fifteen years ago. One morning while riding to work, a large truck brushed my elbow. I decided to call it a day. I'm also the guy who "thinks bike". Having ridden a motorcycle some twenty to thirty years ago, I watch for bikes in my rear-view mirror and pull over for them — enjoying the thanks and recognition of a raised gauntlet. Also, I see too many wrecks on my way to and from the Point, both cars and motorcycles. Our roads are fucking insane. Nevertheless, like those who drive without a thought for the driver in front of or behind them, I'm not immune from the odd rush of blood to the head.
I'd like to think Creslyn Attwood did not die in vain. Tens of thousands of cyclists remain out there and all should complete the Argus Cycle Tour. For that, we're responsible.