Pedal power pests

There is such reward in the fact that the few of us who are blessed enough to live in or near the Natal midlands are so close to some of the most fantastic cycle routes in the country. The Midlands is quilted with forest estates, private farms and a little bare, unclaimed land. Perfect for the mud and dust powered mountain bike enthusiast.
Chickens are lovely – they are great to eat and are probably the most sought after source of livestock in the country, the most accessible any way. The one thing I am not too fond of is the bi-product of their lunch. Many a midlands farmer will disagree with much disdain as many have entered into agreements with local chicken houses to remove this stinking slosh as awesome fertilizer. Yes, it works well and we happily eat and export the mielies that flourish in this crap. There should however be a rule laid down to these farmers that the poop should IMMEDIATELY be turned into the soil. Why? You ask. Here’s why: The number one attractant of the common irritation that is the housefly is, apart from everything, poop! As our crop handlers let their poop-handlers spread the much on their fields (they would never do it themselves, it’s far too foul) the plagues of buzzing bombardiers arrive.

Now, most of the tracks that most mountain bike enthusiasts ride are, at some point, bordered by agricultural land – covered in poo – and attracting flies all the way from central Africa. I would not class myself as an elite rider, I am, however, by no means a hill-walker. I am able to ford the bush at a relatively steady pace. The only time I start to think that I may down to the fumes is when I am travelling so slowly and for so long that a fly is able to settle on my beaded skin. This has, since the arrival of the poo, changed somewhat. On a ride last week I was keeping a steady speed of around eighteen kilometres per hour when I noticed an inordinate amount of buzzing behind me. Flies; and there weren’t just a few. They were in my helmet and behind my glasses and in my ears. One even became a mid ride protein snack, much to my and its surprise. Going faster was my secondary defence after swatting myself senseless: “How fast can a fly fly?”

As I accelerated they all swooped into a low diamond peloton behind my head using my slipstream to go faster than thought possible. At wits end and tired of feeling like a piece of turd myself I took a turn down a steep hill.

“Surely, even in my slip, they won’t do fifty…”

And then bliss, just the wind.

So short lived.

Stopping to admire the view of the hill I had just scoured down I heard another sound. The swines had smelt my sweaty stench streaming off my back and were now rebounding into my body as if they had been attached by tiny little bungy ropes the entire time.

They are hideous creatures. I have yet to meet a person who relishes the thought of a house full of flies. In fact I would go as far as to say that they are more disliked than cockroaches. We take pleasure in seeing them buzz their lasts on a sticky fly strip, flattened under a swatter or explode in one of those electric zapper things. We have invented so many sprays, traps and other countermeasures against this pest that a US military outpost would be proud of the arsenal. Yet we persist in activities that attract them. Make up your minds – no, actually don’t – just wack ‘em!