The opening Sunday of December was the first anniversary of my dad’s passing and it turned out to be a day of reflection rather than emotion.
We came together as a family (possibly for the first time since his untimely departure) and roasted a few chops on his braai.
Besides DStv’s sports channels, this was his favourite thing in the world and we washed the meat down with another of his favourites – brandy and cola.
In a previous column, I wrote about how he had unwittingly shaped my life and working career through his love of sport in general and cycling in particular.
These passions had rubbed off on me and through several twists and turns introduced me to the peculiar world of cycling, where I met several interesting characters over the years.
And, since this is a cycling column, I’d like to dedicate a few column-centimetres to one of them who shaped my cycling psyche at the very beginning – uncle Chris Botes.
While dealing with my personal tragedy last year, I received a call from his son, Hein, to inform me that his dad had also passed on and to ask whether I could write a piece for the local newspaper.
I was unable to at the time, but promised myself that I would eternalise his memory in my column when the words came to me.
When memories of him intermingled with those of my dad while I was standing next to the braai on that Sunday, I knew it was the appropriate time to type a few words in his honour.
I’m not exactly sure which caps he wore at the Eastern Province Cycling Association back then, but he was certainly heavily involved with the youngsters and, to me, he was the person I feared most.
He was a lanky individual with a leathery face and he barked instructions like an army general, so I assume he must have been the president of the organisation.
My most enduring memory of him was of the annual provincial trials during the winter holidays.
He would drill us for an entire week up and down Seaview Road just outside PE as he went through the process of selecting his squads in the most brutal of ways. It was basically survival of the fittest, or, one could say selection by way of attrition.
We would start at the old Rathmead Farm Stall on the city side of Seaview Road and he would follow us in his Nissan 1400 bakkie, coordinating our movements by sounding the hooter.
The first hoot meant sprint like hell and you would do this until you heard the next honk. It was pure torture and the sprint-stop-sprint cycle continued until the narrowing of the road, where we turned around for more of the same on the way back.
After a week of this, the last four surviving riders made the team by default. His style got the best out of me (I was too scared to give up and face his wrath) and it was a selection policy that clearly had no place for favouritism or bias.
The record books would show that it was a fine strategy as the little ol’ EP team dominated the annual interprovincial competition – named after the late Eric van Enter – during his reign.
For all the successes he had achieved with other dads’ youngsters, I believe one of his proudest moments came when Hein was selected for the junior Bok team in the late eighties.
Hein was as tough as nails and clearly the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
RIP.
