My coronavirus can beat up your coronavirus

The other day I’m minding my own business, walking briskly while minimising the jiggle of my tummy and man boobs. My new route is 8km and takes me between 01:08 and 01:12 depending on the number of pints consumed the previous evening. I was feeling particularly good on this Saturday morning and looking forward to maybe going down to a time of 01:06. I then make the mistake of glancing at the walkway across the street. He was about three metres behind my pace. A fellow wearing blue work overalls, heavy safety boots, a large rucksack on his back, pushing a big Ryobi 1200W electric lawnmower, with a 5-litre petrol container strapped to it. Look, I’m used to being overtaken by joggers during my walks.

I do not think of myself as an overly competitive individual. In fact, I pride myself on my advanced maturity levels. However, on this morning something inside me snapped under the weight of my masculine pride. I mean, how could a fellow carrying what looked like 25kg of luggage walk faster than me in a light T-shirt, shorts and Hitec hiking boots? So, I surreptitiously quickened my pace and glanced over my shoulder. The 3m gap had gone down to about 2.5m. I lengthened my strides as well and glanced over my shoulders. Two metres now. This went on for another two minutes or so, until he was inevitably walking abreast of me. Not only was he gliding effortlessly, he was whistling a cheerful tune. By this time, I’m swinging my arms like a man possessed. I didn’t give a damn about my man boobs bouncing within inches of slapping my chin. About a minute later I had a clear view of his back. Two minutes later the

“contest” was over.

I arrived back home in 01:14, with aches and pains in muscles I was last aware of 30 years ago. As the missus was rubbing my throbbing calves later that evening, she quietly asked me why I’d felt the need to race a complete stranger who clearly shares a juicing doctor with Lance Armstrong. The best illustration of the admittedly moronic forces at play is an incident from 24 years ago.

A friend, BB, had purchased a brand spanking new 1996 Opel Kadett 200is. Its reputation as a beast on the road preceded it. So he picks me up for a ride. Barely out of the Durban CBD, we’re idling, waiting for the traffic light to turn green on Sydney Road. A blond-haired fellow pulls up in a ’70s VW Passat station wagon. He starts revving his engine, staring at my friend and giving him a signal, daring him to dice.

“Ignore him,” I told BB. He nodded at me with a smug snarl and when the traffic light turned green, stomped on the accelerator and, with

Imbecilic competitiveness is not restricted to the male species. However, testosterone compounds it. I’m obviously not immune

tyres screeching and smoking, his mean machine took off. It was a stillborn contest. At no point were the two vehicles even remotely close to being abreast. We watched the back of the Passat getting further and further away. My friend was changing gears like a man possessed.

I was transfixed in my seat. By the time the greyhound turned up then Franscois Road, we were probably a good 400m behind. When my vocal cords finally returned from hiding, my first words to him were, “Dude, you’re a medical doctor and you sew up car crash victims. Why would you do that?” His only response is at the nub of this irrational phenomenon; “That guy’s engine is obviously customised, otherwise he wouldn’t have stood a chance.” Say what?

Imbecilic competitiveness is not restricted to the male species. However, testosterone clearly compounds it. I’m obviously not immune. Travelling with the entire family at OR Tambo a few months ago, I studied another family with growing irritation. I think the father is a drill sergeant in the SANDF. As they boarded the plane, he was handing out boarding passes, barking, “Thando, 22F! Bongi, 22E.”

Even the stowing of the hand luggage was bloody impressive; “Small black bag? Check. Green duffel bag? Check!” I looked at my own family of slouches, caps worn backwards, saggy sweatpants with heads buried in their phones and made a mental note to whip them into shape by our next trip.

If you think these trying times will curb this malady, think again.

I overheard two blokes try and outdo each other with stories about who was more exposed to Covid-19 on their recent travels. I knew it would be a matter of time before one of them yelled, “That’s nothing china, this bloke on my flight had blood coming out of his eyes, hey!”