I don't mean to make a mountain out of a molehill, but since I started on my saddle mission to conquer the Cape Argus Pick n Pay Cycle Tour, my steepest learning curve has been cycling up hills. When it comes to hills and drugs - I'm no pusher.

Because I refuse to get off my bike I've devised a cunning strategy. It's not a scientifically developed heart-rate cadence plyometric thing, you won't find it in any cycling manual and it's not something instructors will tell you.

But if you follow my example you may never have another uphill battle. I have to thank Mr Lamont, my Standard 7 geography teacher, for my climbing success. Most people have fond memories of a teacher who inspired them to believe in themselves. I don't. I've just got Mr Lamont - a sadistic oaf, who taunted, tormented and teased me. At the bottom of a steep hill, I take a deep breath and think of Mr Lamont and how he made my life a living hell. I pedal furiously as I think about the time he humiliated me in front of the class because I answered "Hungary" when asked what the poorest country in the world was. Before I know it, I'm a third of the way up the hill. Soon, though, the climb gets tougher and my legs begin to ache so I turn my thoughts to more sources of ire.

I think of telesales people who interrupt me at important times to tell me I've been exclusively selected for a spcial deal. Yeah right! I think of Telkom's decree that I can only report my faulty landline from a landline, but my landline is faulty! I think of the 10-hour wait at PE airport when my plane was delayed. I think of queujumpers on the M5 and able-bodied jerks who park in bays reserved for disabled people. I think of SABC continuity announcers and load-shedding and people who abuse exclamation marks!!! I think of the hours I'll never get back being told that "your call is important to us".

I think about the plumber who left us without hot water for eight days and Randall Abrahams's sneer. I think of people who are cruel to animals and corrupt politicians and Hansie Cronje. I think of my ex-girlfriend who made off with my Bob Dylan CD and people who drive SUVs in the city = the best 4x4 on tar? I think of the cost of petrol. I think of Lucky Dube and Taliep Petersen and Sheldon Cohen. I think of racists who urinate in old women's food. I seethe. Purple fumes of rage pour out of my ears, but I'm halfway up the hill. Now, though, it's time for some serious anger. My thoughts turn to Edgbaston 1999. That SA vs Australia World Cup semifinal. Why didn't you run, Allan? Why, Allan, why? I think of the government's catastrophic HIV policy, attacks on the judiciary and apartheid leaders who got away with murder. I think of being stuck in traffic and the ANC Youth League's bumbling leader, Julius Malema, and how his bombastic rabble-rousing threatens our democracy.

These thoughts allow me to power up three-quarters of the way up the hill. To get to the top, though, I need to draw on my inner ire; I need something special for my final, desperate push. I need to think of someone who inspires raw anger.

When I need to go into rage overdrive I can reply on Robert Mugabe to make my blood boil. I think of the people he has allowed to starve, the political opponents he has tortured and the economy he has destroyed, Bob drives me up the hill.

When I get to the top of the hill the rage and fury melt away. It's a cathartic experience; it's therapy on wheels. And when people want to know my secret to uphill success, I just smile mysteriously and tell them: I do cross training.