Walk in the park proves anything but, as land surveying effort turns into living hell

Early in the morning this past Saturday I skipped morning glory to do my first parkrun.

I had let my upper crust friends from leafy suburbia convince me that it’s the best way for one to start the weekend, catch some fresh air and keep fit.

I thought, well, I am 45kg with great legs, I look great in tights and have great music on my phone – it should literally be a walk in the park.

My other agenda was to do a manual survey of the land. I had no idea what 5km is in hectares, but it seemed like a good start.

I am black. I have been walking from home to the taxi stop on the other street, and from home to the shopping centre in a different section of the township.

A walk in the park in the morning didn’t seem like a bad idea, especially considering that the grass in suburban parks is well groomed.

But I was not prepared for just how challenging a Park Run is.

First of all, I had one or three glasses of wine the night before. So, it made sense that almost everyone in the race was ahead of me, save for the dog walkers.

At around 3km I didn’t know whether I needed a bath or a wheelchair.

The devil kept whispering that I had enough energy in me to cross the road and reach that fuel station shop for a can of Red Bull.

I wanted to quit, but that would still require me to walk back to the car, which was parked at the finish line.

A quagm ire. And in this park, there were no swings in sight for a girl to rest. I was struggling, but I am petite and built for things like fashion shows and dinner galas, really.

Around me, every Piet and Susan had calf muscles the size of my head.

Then two midget born-frees, who were clearly propelled by the spirit of Mandela, whizzed past me.

They were showing off with a somewhat choreographed and coordinated walk. They gave me that “hurry up now, aunty” look, as if I was embarrassing my entire people.

All I could do was silently pray “numb me, Nelson, numb me”.

Five kilometres is long. Someone even fell along the way. I think I was actually having a mild heart attack, but felt the pain on my right breast, instead.

There were some guides cheering us up – in Afrikaans. Ja.

At the end, I understood why farmers drive the van to go close the gate.

Listen, if we ever get the land back, we will definitely need Land Cruisers, hey.

‘ ‘ Now I fully understood why farmers drive the bakkie just to go close the gate