Scrolling through social media last Sunday, I went cold as the images of twisted metal and the accompanying updates came through.

An alleged drunken driver had ploughed into a group of cyclists on an early-morning training ride from Blue Lagoon towards Umhlanga. What should have been a breezy morning out turned into a nightmare as Kings Park Cycling Club member Jared Dwyer and chairman Richard da Silva were knocked over and killed.

The horror is barely imaginable. One moment a happy group of 30 cyclists were minding their own business, the next they were in a frantic panic trying to save their friends.

Wrecked bikes, wrecked lives. For some, life will never be the same again.

Sport, lest we forget, is not only about the elite athletes who crack the big-money deals and appear on our television screens. By far the majority of participants are middle-of-the-roaders; mums and dads who try and stave off the ravages of middle age, youngsters who want to stay in shape and look good and yet more still who simply give in to their competitive urges.

The guys who jog around the block or who stretch themselves on the local squash court once a week all help make up the numbers. There aren’t cheers for them and, usually, the only applause is their own by way of cracking a personal best time or getting one over their training buddy. That’s the great redeeming feature of sport: we can all do it, no matter how slowly or hopelessly.

It’s marvellously Corinthian and a welcome counterpoint to the cynicism that envelopes so much modern professional sport. Just look at the state of world football. Or cycling. Or cricket. Even tennis. Much of it is riven with self-interest, dishonesty and cronyism; athletes are almost secondary.

I’m no idealist and I have nothing but abiding admiration for sportsmen and women who produce excellence consistently, but none ever started at the top. They all made their way slowly into the light before finding their footing and elevating themselves beyond the rest of us. They are the lucky ones.

Indeed, one such youngster trying to make his way is boxer Khotle Morabedi, who I watched in action in Johannesburg last weekend. Hailing from the Free State Goldfields, little Khotle dreams of making it under the big lights. But hard-bitten reality pulls him away from this dream. He arrived in Johannesburg for his fight against DeeJay Kriel without a trainer or manager. He’s had no trainer for his past three fights and trains himself.

Two blokes from a gym in Hillbrow worked his corner, egging him on. Morabedi fought his heart out, but Kriel was a cut above, winning a decision.

Morabedi pocketed his R3000 and caught a ride to Hillbrow, where a friend put him up for the night. Hillbrow is not a pretty place.

As you might imagine, the youngster has stars in his eyes, but the odds are hopelessly long on him emerging from journeyman status. Compare him to someone like Floyd Mayweather jnr, who would not be able to comprehend living life on the margins. He wouldn’t get out of bed for R3000.

Such stories play themselves out with a steady, predictable routine across South Africa.

Think of the many aspirant golfers struggling to make the cut, the participants unlikely to ever appear on a leaderboard.

Or the tennis players who embark on the Future or Challenger Tours, doing so on a hand-to-mouth basis in the hope of making it in one of the most competitive leagues in the world. Those at the top table have it much different to the rest, who will never know of the glamour and the five-star existence enjoyed by the game’s elite.

Happily, there are those who participate purely for the natural high that sport provides. Mass participation events are all the rage in SA sport and the explosion in mountain biking and road running, in particular, affirm South Africans’ love of the outdoors.

This column can offer no succour to the bereaved families, just our honour and acknowledgement. Dwyer and Da Silva died in pursuit of the fun and freedom offered by sport.

It doesn’t get nobler than that. – © Sunday Tribune