I watched a great video today. Featuring professional and soul surfer Rob Machado, this production centres on an individual’s “natural high,” that is, an activity which a person relishes, loves or cherishes. Something simple and in Machado’s case, it is riding waves big or small.
The love of an activity; a notion that is sometimes lost in the quest for great results and personal bucket lists. I recently had an email exchange with a top local athlete, a brief chat focussing on a future blog profile around a major upcoming triathlon. Now in his mid-forties, this guy alluded to his possible retiring from the elite ranks. Time to give the youngsters a chance, he mused tongue-in-cheek, although reading in between lines revealed a deep passion for competing at the top level for the sheer fun of it. My reply was something along the lines of why quit if you still enjoy it so much? We as athletes should keep doing what we love, right? His concurrence included his seeing his top-level competing as giving back to the sport, i.e. not making it easy for the up-and-comers and supporting the youth coming through.
Early Sunday morning saw me indulge in one of my favourite sporting pastimes: barefoot beach running. Not exactly something that is held in high regard by the greater athletic community and I’m not sure why. The biomechanical and strengthening benefits aside, there is just something about running on the sand at low tide - be it winter of summer, not to mention the sheer simplicity of the activity - which raises my mood like only a few other things can; true existentialism or even escapism if you like. I despise such terms as meditation being applied to sports but it could well be the case. Each to their own I guess.
It was a rather frigid morning (by Cape Town terms at least). A grey winter’s day beckoned with strong onshore wind adding to the chill. As I strolled to my usual start point adjacent to the wall and rocks of Surfer’s Corner, something great caught my eye. There was a guy who must be in his seventies, pounding a squash ball against the “muur” with a beach bat, moving around with the skill, intensity and agility of someone quarter of his age. Clearly in exceptional health and fitness, the guy exuded sheer joy and consumption in this simple sporting activity. A cold Sunday morning on the beach with a bat and a ball sucking the marrow out of life!
Starting out at jogging pace, a quick river-crossing saw my deciding to test my legs. Targeting a clump of sea weed a few hundred metres ahead, my stride lengthened, back straightened and feet met the ground in a more forefoot manner. Before I knew it, I was at my usual turnaround point, a large tributary running into the sea. Homeward bound, my pace quickened. Fast, slow. Faster, slower. Jogging the last few hundred metres back to the start wall, the same old guy was still at it, this time in a match up with what could have been his daughter. The persistent didn’t seem to bother them, both ensconced in their own love of a simple activity.
It is raining in Cape Town today and it is going to be pouring tomorrow. Winter is here with a vengeance, validated perhaps by the gale-force northwesterly predicted for the next day or two. My usual early morning run today (read: jog) to work was less than pleasurable. A tight body, more specifically stiff calf muscles and lower back, meant in less than optimal flow, a result no doubt of my barefoot beach fartlek. Such a simple activity, if not practiced for a while, can and does expose kinks the body like nothing else can, a self-scan of sorts.
It doesn’t matter though; it felt like the right thing to do at the time and a little tenderness now can do wonders in the long term.
