The Eskay Cycling Herald: Terrorist scum don't ride bikes

So the Boston Bombers have been shot and apprehended respectively. We’re still unsure as to their motives, but the two Chechnyan brothers wanted to hurt innocent people in a brutal manner. Bastards, I tell you. And like any terrorist act, its primary aim is to instill a sense of paranoia among the citizens of any country and create problematic repercussions throughout the globe. Suddenly every sporting public gathering is now a possible terrorist target. Not that this is new of course – security measures are present wherever you gather for a sporting event. The London Olympics had a whole armed force on standby! But it’s the extra measures that will be included over and above whatever risk and disaster management framework has already been put in place. Security scans; sniffer dogs; pre-race checks…it could get out of hand.

In my humble opinion, most terrorists are the scum of the earth – clever; yes – cowardly; definitely – but scum nevertheless. And don’t give me the whole “one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter” garbage. Blowing up innocent people in churches or at the end of a marathon is plain nasty.

There are two observations I want to make in this regard. Firstly, I don’t think terrorists are cyclists. Secondly, we need to be careful at the Argus finish line.

The first main reason why cyclists can’t be terrorists is because cycling requires a fair bit of disposal income – something scum struggle to get together. Most of their spare cash is ploughed back into buying explosive parts (sticks of dynamite don’t come cheap!), cigarettes (because they must stress out BIG TIME), flying lessons, and kitchen appliances (like pressure cookers). They also spend their cash on bandwidth and laptops and subscribing to fundamentalist blogs and websites. Terrorists also need a fair supply of cheap cellphones and SIM cards. They should spend some cash on how to make the bombs look more sophisticated. Let’s face it – all these bombs are quite crude looking:

Admittedly they have replaced the old alarm clock with the digital timer. The bomb disposal guy needs to see how much time he has left. I reckon that timer is just another sadistic prop that they use– what is it with the visible countdown? It seems a silly waste of a digital timer….

I think if terrorists didn't spend their money on cycling stuff, they should perhaps take a look in the mirror sometime. They certainly don’t spend any of their money at the hair stylist! (Carlos – a gap for you maybe?) I mean, what’s with the bags-under-eyes-oily -woolly-locks look they've got going? Do they want to look like Al Pacino with a bad hangover? A cyclist would never let themselves go like that! And all that smoking…?

So while terrorists are busy scraping funds together to make up some crude bomb with nails and cheap cell phones, cyclists would far rather be soothing the carbon frame of that dual suspension bike in the local bike shop. For example, if you're Shaun, you're just shelling out cash to stay riding! If his interests lay elsewhere, I reckon Shaun could have funded a small band of terrorists by now. New hub? Forget it – get an AK47 instead!

So simply put – cyclists are just too selfish to spend their cash on some fundamentalist movement.

And what of the Argus as a potential target? We all know it attracts tens of thousands of people to Cape Town. That finish line is packed by the time the four-hour plus riders start coming in. But if there were a plot to bomb the Argus, I wonder how the whole scenario would unfold…..

Would the terrorists sit in their crummy Sea Point hotel room, peering out through binoculars to where the bomb disposal guy is busy sweating over the device? “Look Alexa”, he says in a thick Eastern European accent (although we know it could be from anywhere –but humour me here), “they think they can defuse big bomb with Western ways”. He’ll have some sweat on the brow and some ash will have fallen on his black leather jacket and into his beard as well from all the chain smoking. Meanwhile, down at the Argus finish line, the bomb disposal chap will be breathing heavily into his Perspex visor as he watches the bomb timer bleep downwards (yes – it’s the red-on-black digital numbers, like the ones on a clock radio). “Eisch…Warrant…!” sergeant Nkosi would yell, “haaibo! Is it the red or the bleck wire, wena?” Wirecutters would be hovering precariously between the only two visible wires. Red, or black? More sweat dripping onto the visor. Heavy breathing from Sgt Nkosi now. The suits are heavy and hot in the March sun. “Warrant!! Red or bleck?” he shouts into his mouth piece.

Meanwhile, the oily terrorists are sucking back on another Camel plain, carefully keeping watch over the Argus finish line. The Elite cycling group is coming through Camps Bay already– only a few more minutes (7 minutes according to the countdown timer - causing Sgt Nkosi no end of stress). Another drag on the cigarette and our terrorist is starting to get agitated. How could they have located the bomb, he thinks? And why haven’t they stopped the race? He was certain that a recycling rubbish bin was a safe bet to hide the device in! From where he comes from, no-one would use a recycling bin! But apparently Cape Town is full of people who are into this recycling/organic/free range Western indoctrinated bullshit way of living! Infidels! That’s when he knew there might be a problem – all those spectators actually throwing their recyclable trash into the bin where the bomb was! It was a young kid who had spotted it. Fat, Western kid. With a “Monster” cap on. Corrupted mind! Now the bin was surrounded by three rusted cop vans and two fire trucks. Accompanying this fleet were two white Mazdas from the metro police; an ambulance; and four tow-trucks! (he wasn’t so sure why they were there – but they were there before the police and fire engines…!) And one guy in an oversized suit wash rummaging in the rubbish bin…

“Nkosi”, crackles Warrant Officer Blackie Swarts’ gruff voice into the bomb disposal man’s earpiece “jy moet die blerrie swart een sny!” Sgt Nkosi is centimetres away from the primitive looking device. Next to the KFC box and Kauai smoothie cup, it’s just wires and timers and brown dynamite sticks…plenty of duct tape too. And that bloody countdown timer! Sgt Nkosi is seriously kakking himself! He only got into the police force because of his forged matric certificate 5 years ago. He never really expected to actually diffuse a bomb! Perhaps he should’ve taken the municipal job his uncle had offered him back home near Queenstown.

SifGav had trained so hard for this Argus. He found himself in the elite group after his 2:12 at The Burger and his solo 5:58 at the DC. “This time” he said through a clenched jaw, rounding the Sea Point pool “I get that bloody sub 3!” The group starts shifting around a bit now. Some of the team jerseys are now sprinting into position. Twakkie (who made his comeback), Gav, Shaun, and the CrackMan start to look out for each other. The group is surging along the promenade. 49km/h. 2:37:49. Looking good..... Bikes clicking and whirring. Some shouting here and there. But it’s mainly concentration now. CrackMan makes a break. He surges out on the right. That was always the tactic. CrackMan breaks early - pull some sprinters out....MTN Qhubeka are onto him like a flash. The palm trees swoosh past them as the crowd screams. But SifGav hears nothing. Its 2km to go. He feels strong. A group of Bonitas riders start grouping and pulling off to the left. SifGav sees the finish line in the distance now. Lots of sirens. Red and blue ones…strange? But the group surges ahead. “Right” thinks Gav “time to drop the hammer”. He stands up; pulls right; and powers past the middle of the batch….

Sgt Nkosi shifts the wire cutter so that the black cable is nestled snugly in-between its pincer-like grip. He can hear the crowds in the distance. Riders approaching. The decision not to divert the race was a good one, thinks Nkosi. “Don’t let the bloody terrorists think they've won” Warrant Blackie Swart had said. I’ll have this baby diffused in no time, thinks Sgt Nkosi.

Twakkie and CrackMan surge out on the right. Shaun and Gav are giving it their all. Legs burning! Lungs on fire! 800m to go. Bonitas are pushing hard and its neck and neck. CrackMan peels off and Shaun surges ahead. SifGav stands again and powers for the line…100m to go…

“Cut the bloody black wire!!” Warrant Swart shouts again through his earpiece.

The terrorists are leaving the hotel room. They've hastily packed their backpacks and are heading for the door in a rush. Cigarette butts and three empty half jack bottles are left on the dirty carpet. The door slams. If the terrorist had kept vigil at the window, he would've seen much jockeying for position in the Elite group. Difficult to say who would win from here. Only 100m out. The group surges around the corner towards the finish line.....