Are Ya Gonna Be Kobe or Vince?

Riders on Chapman's Peak

I was amazed to find Vince Carter’s mug splashed across Botswana TV a few months ago. I couldn’t help but think what a useless waste of talent as he launched yet another fall-away jumper. “Take the ball to the freaking hole,” I chirped to the listening television. It’s sad when the pinnacle moments of your career are a dunk contest and jumping over a seven-foot French dude. But ragging on Vince was quite hollow coming from me, sitting there, reclined, on the couch in Lesotho . “Martin, you’re exactly like Vince. You settle for the fade away jumpers in life and never challenge yourself by taking the ball to the hoop,” I whispered to myself. “You’re Vince.”

The thought chilled every fiber of my being. Perhaps I do settle for the easy things in life. I’m too easily content and goal-setting has never been my forte. But please don’t call me Vince. And please not those awful nouns: faker, whiner, liar or pre-Madonna.

With this in mind, I signed up for the Cape Argus bicycle race. I needed a mountain to climb to prove I was not Vince settling for another fade-away jumper. The Argus is the largest participatory bike race in the world with over 35, 000 riders annually. The route is a breathtaking 109 kilometers that sees you slipstream your way down the False Bay coast from Cape Town and back up to mother city over the exquisite Chapman’s Peak and Atlantic seaboard.

Training was hard. I looked lustfully at the fat cakes and chips and cokes. At these moments, I had a refrain I uttered to myself: “Are you going to be Kobe or Vince?” I hate no athlete more than Kobe Bryant, but even I have to admit he has the most indefatigable will to conquer of any athlete post-Clinton Whitehouse. Call it a begrudging respect .

Cycling the hills of Lesotho had its advantages. I was training at altitude and the roads were rarely flat. There were several Kobe-Vince inner-dialogues ascending the steep slopes. I would bike from village to village on the weekends picking up bananas and water fueling myself through the oppressive African sun.

When the eve of the race arrived I was quite nervous. I carbo-loaded because I heard that’s what Stevie Y did before a big game. I was sleeping in a 20-person dorm at a backpackers. Not ideal for the 5:30 wake-up. I arose as my roommates returned from a wild night on Long Street.

The race was easier than I thought. The views were magical and my legs metronomical. Slipstream Sean had lent me a really nice bike. It made a huge difference because it was much lighter than what I had trained on. The wind was howling. Even the impregnable Lance Armstrong said the winds were something to behold. But reaching the summit of Champman’s peak it was hard to be bothered by the aching quads and the belligerent breeze. The Atlantic Ocean silenced the muscle spasms. It was hard for me to imagine there was a more beautiful road in the world. I crossed the finish line in 4 hours 51 minutes, somewhere in the middle of the pack of thousands of riders. I thought to myself: well you’re no Kobe Bryant, but at least you’re not Vince.