Easter weekend. Yay ! I have been looking forward to this for ages. Not because I was expecting a big haul from the Easter Bunny, but because it meant a veritable festival of uninterrupted racing – bliss !
Unfortunately my husband also had designs on the long weekend and delightedly announced a surprise weekend away up the coast. To one of those lovely remote villages, where the entertainment comprises watersports and evening braais. Electricity yes. TV no. Only snag being that my lovely filly had accepted to run on Saturday and our little colt was debuting on Monday afternoon…. Ah. Now what ?
Well, hubby declared, he’d concede to cutting the trip short and leaving early on Monday to watch the boy, but he was going quad biking on Saturday.
Dilemma. Interesting how my friends were divided straight down the line between the racing and non-racing ones. The racing friends didn’t even question the fact that I might not go to the track and immediately jumped in with suggested routes. My non-racing friends hemmed and hawed, asking ‘are you REALLY going to drive 3 hours each way for a 60 second race? It is a helluva long way you know’.
What is it with Capetonians that they are so scared of spending time in their cars ? Nothing like telling me I shouldn’t do something to make me want to do it, so of course Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny and 9am found me well on my way back to Cape Town. Radio silence as 5FM has not reached that far north yet, so just the sound of my thoughts and my wheels on the open road.
The Coast Road really is beautiful. I drove along stretches of pristine coastline, little white fishermen’s cottages and great swathes of untouched fynbos where birds of prey stood silent sentry on the telegraph poles as I passed. Quaint farm stalls boasted hand-painted signs advertising Weskusbrood and homemade ‘konfyt’. You could almost taste the farm butter and thick, chunky jam. Big, imposing gates would appear as if out of nowhere, inviting you up roads that disappeared mysteriously over the nearest hill. Where else does one pass the snowy white peaks of salt that are the Cerebos factory or find names like Dwarskersbos, Bessieheuwel and Buffelsfontein ?
About the time the industrial skyline of Saldanha loomed in the distance, I smiled to encounter a cavalcade of CA cars heading in the opposite direction. A few kilometres down the road, a perfectly sculpted ear stuck up out of a red, wet slick on the road, serving as a reminder that these fantastic road trips frequently cost the local wildlife more than the townie interlopers.
Finally, Table Mountain loomed into sight, and my foot grew heavier as the time for the first race crept nearer and I was still frustratingly far from Rosmead Avenue. However, despite the best efforts of my fellow road users, I pulled into the Kenilworth car park and sprinted into the parade ring just in time to see my girl strut her stuff. She did me proud and I was thrilled to lead her and the thoroughly delighted William Bambiso into the no 2 box a little after 12:30.
A quick few celebratory drinks (of the non alcoholic variety in case there are any law enforcement officials reading this!) and a few races later it was time to hit the road again.
As I made my way back up the coast, the setting sun painted the landscape every hue of orange and pink. The seabirds cawed and threw long silhouettes as I wove my way around the last few curves of the mountain, and I had mentally spent all my winnings by the time I arrived home just in time for a solid glass of red and congratulations all round.
Why would one drive 3 hours each way to watch a horse race? As I settled down to a nice fat crayfish, hot and smoky from the fire, I reflected ‘why on earth not ?’
