Many, many years ago, I used to run. I started to keep my then-girlfriend (now wife) company, and in an attempt to impress her and win her affection. I found that I enjoyed it, especially as I got fitter. I ran a marathon (on six weeks' training, another story in itself), then another, then another. My PB was 3:36 for the Peninsula Marathon (flat, fast and well-supported), followed by a *very* slow and damaging Two Oceans (on the old Chapmans Peak Drive route).
Then I start to freelance and worked all hours, we moved house, and moved again, and again, and again. We ended up on a smallholding outside Pretoria, where all my free time was taken up repairing fences, milking goats, emptying septic tanks and the like. My running had dropped away to almost nothing. We moved to Australia for a few years, and moved around there. We moved back, moved house again, built a house (another smallholding), milked more goats, started a family, expanded the family, sold the goats, moved house yet again.
I realised that I hadn't run more than a few hundred metres for about 10 years, and Linda and I both knew that I needed to do something about this for the sake of my health and my sanity. Our oldest child's playschool teacher invited any interested parents to a 5km breakfast run, which looked like just the thing. Unfortunately, I missed the turnoff back to the start, and ended up running two 5km laps of the course. I managed to keep running the whole way, but felt wrecked by the end.
However, this got me started. I ran erratically in the mornings, and entered a 10km race (along with the same teacher), finishing in 1:10 or thereabouts. I kept on with the erratic, short morning runs, feeling that I was getting nowhere.
Around the end of the year, Runners' World (SA) started their annual Comrades Marathon training schedule. I decided that this was what I needed to give me some incentive to run regularly. I bought a copy of the December edition, a logbook, and a new pair of shoes (my old ones were wrecked). I started running regularly, first 6 to 8km a day, with a 10 or 12 km long run on the weekends. I went to Don Oliver's monthly panel discussions at Rocky Road Runners, to keep my interest up. However, I wasn't planning to run Comrades, just keep running regularly.
A couple of 21km races persuaded me to join a club. After some scouting around, I ended up at RAC, which has proved to be a good choice. Our fourth child was due around the time that I should have run the first 42km race of Don's schedule, so I ran an earlier race (Jeppe Quondam/Pick'n'Pay), which was dreadful. By now, I was starting to get reasonably fit, and decided that maybe Comrades was a possibility after all.
Linda (two times Comrades medallist) supported me hugely, looking after four children (all under 4!) while I set off on Sunday mornings to run various races or long training runs. I ran two ultras (Om Die Dam and Loskop, about which I have written previously), the second of which was absolutely glorious and fairly fast (5:00 for 50km). This was followed by a fast 42 (Benoni Northerns/Slo-Mag; 3:55) which pushed my Comrades seeding from "F" to "D".
New shoes, and 6 1/2 hours to run (and walk) the Rockies' 62km long club run, and we were set. I started to taper, and my left knee blew up on me. A few sessions with my physio (Sue Fuller-Good), and I was right as rain, until my right knee fell apart. By now it was two weeks until Comrades, and Sue started to look very worried. I was in every second day, and in agony (from the treatment, not the injury). At the last minute (four days to go) it all cleared up, and I was set.
The next day, we loaded the Voyager. Linda, myself, four kids (the oldest having just turned 4, the youngest barely 4 months), Gertrude (our nanny), three campcots, two prams (one single, one for the twins), clothes, nappies, food for the road, bathing gear (it may be midwinter, but Durban is pretty tropical). We set out at 3am on Saturday, with two days to go. The idea was that the kids would sleep until 6am (or later), but they didn't agree with this plan, staying awake (but calm) the whole way. We stopped halfway at Montrose, and found the Wimpy full of runners, all migrating to the coast.
A brief stop in Pietermaritzburg to collect my race number and goody-bag, and we hit the last stretch into Durban. We followed the course until Hillcrest, by which time the kids were getting fractious and I was getting lost. Onto the highway, fullbore into Durban, North to Umhlanga and screech to a halt outside Breakers, a time-share apartment block where we had rented a place for a week. Unloaded the kids, fed them lunch, ferried in load after load after load of paraphernalia, shot around to the local Spar to load up with groceries, back to the flat, congratulate Linda and Gertrude on their unpacking, eat some lunch myself, sit down for five minutes.
When the kids woke, we took them to the beach (500m away), which was the first time ever for both them and Gertrude. They ran around in the sand, splashed in the water (not terribly enthusiastic). Back to the flat for supper, then an early bed for everyone.
Sunday started early, with the twins waking earlier than usual, unsettled by the unfamiliar environment. The weather looked good, but there seemed to be big clouds brewing out to sea. By lunchtime there was light rain, but we were not too fussed. Linda and Alexandra (the oldest) took me to Pietermaritzburg when the twins took to their beds for a post-prandial snooze. As we drove inland, the rain worsened. I had visions of a sodden race the next day, and started to feel even more worried than before. We finally arrived at the B&B where I had found a room, and Linda took off back to Durban and the kids.
I unpacked my kit, checked and double-checked, triple-checked. Relaxed. Found that I was tense and tried to relax. Waited for Linda to call to say that she was safely back at Breakers. Tried to relax. Read a trashy thriller that I had found in our apartment. Tried to relax. Finally Linda phoned -- she'd had to drive back at a walking pace, as the rain was so heavy. Tried to relax. Had a bath. Had supper, provided by my hosts. It was a lavish spread, probably delicious. I ate very little, and it all tasted like ashes.
There were two other runners staying there with their wives. One was running his third (first down run), the other was a novice like me. They were in good cheer, and seemed quite happy.
I went to bed, and fell asleep within moments (courtesy of sleepless nights because of the numerous kids). Woke early on race day (June 16th, Soweto Day, now Youth Day) and got dressed, drank some coffee, ate a slice of toast, drank some more coffee. Left the B&B around 5:30 to get a lift to the start.
Walking towards the start, I passed a prefab fence, through a gate marked "athletes only". That's when it struck me -- this was the real thing. I was really going to run Comrades. I found a toilet, took off my tracksuit and put on an old T- shirt and black garbage bag against the chill, gave my togbag to the people from Biddulphs. Fortunately I remembered the number on the tag that they gave me, as it disintegrated from sweat within 10km or so.
I made my way, along with some of the 13,000 other runners, into my seeding pen. Vangelis' opening theme from "Chariots of Fire" boomed over the PA system, bringing tears to my eyes. The barriers between pens were taken down, and we started to move forward, closing the gaps between seeding groups. Max Trimborn's cock-crow sounded, followed by the starter's gun and then a gut- thumping "boom" from a small cannon. After a few minutes, we started the shuffle towards the start line. It took a full five minutes before I crossed the line, and was actually running in the 2003 Comrades Marathon.
The atmosphere was far more electrifying than I had imagined, with what felt like thousands of spectators lining the streets of Pietermaritzburg to cheer the runners on. I tried to keep my speed down, and was passed by masses of runners. It was almost impossible to find my stride, as I was hemmed in by other competitors. We went down Polly Shortts in the dark, still hemmed in. Up the other side, down into Little Pollys, then up the back. This was the first of the "big five" hills on the route, and although I walked part of the way, it still had some impact on my legs.
The "big five" are misleading. Everyone talks about them (Pollys, Inchanga, Botha's, Fields, Cowies) as though they are the only hills on the course. Not so! They are pretty big, but there are plenty of hills in between that are quite nasty in their own right. It's just that they aren't as big or as bad as the biggies.
The first 60km or so is undulating. Some pretty nasty hills, some nice downhills, an occasional flat section. The crowd support was phenomenal -- clusters of spectators every few kilometers, becoming continuous by Hillcrest (the start of greater Durban, 30km to go). Some spots were more crowded than others, with braais (barbecues) set up, cooler boxes full of beer, and the entire family out for a day's entertainment.
The first 35km or so was magical. I was running easily, trying to keep slow, and felt that I was capable of flying all the way to Durban. Just past Cato Ridge my quads started to give me some warning twinges, and I encountered little cramps on the uphills. I started walking more seriously, and soon stopped running uphill at all, as the cramps became stronger. Fortunately, I'm a fast walker, and didn't lose too much time. By about 40km my quads decided that they had had enough, and started cramping on the flat sections. From here on, my race strategy was to walk as fast as I could uphill and on the flat, and run as fast as I could downhill. By keeping my legs moving fast, I could prevent the cramps from grabbing hold of my quads. When I'm not hemmed in, I have a fast "freewheeling" pace downhill, which is what saved me.
My impressions of the race have blurred quite a lot, but some stand out.
Ethembeni Home, a school for handicapped children, the route lined with pupils in their best uniforms, with scrubbed and shining faces, hands outstretched to touch the runners. I touched one or two hands, and found that I could not stop, and ended up touching all that I could. My tears started flowing, and stayed with me for rest of the race whenever I though of them. I was amazed and humbled that my touch should mean so much to them.
Sprinting down Fields Hill. Fields is the real nasty, 3km of steep downhill, 60km into the race. I had been warned that Fields would send me to the physio unless I was extremely careful. After the cramps and the walking, I launched myself headfirst down the road. The only way to keep the skin on my face from being scraped off by the tar was to force my legs to run as fast as they could. They responded to me request, and between us (my legs, by then an independent entity, and the rest of me) we passed a few thousand runners, running the fastest pace that I have run in my life.
From around the half-way mark I started to disassociate from my legs, and opened negotiations with them. Whenever I felt it necessary to run, I would discuss how far, how fast, and what they would get as a reward. Then I'd launch myself towards the target, keeping up a stream of encouragement in my head. It was very weird, but it worked, and somehow persuaded my legs to keep going.
From somewhere around halfway, I kept wondering whether I would be able to finish under the (self-imposed) 11-hour cutoff. I felt confident that I could break 12 hours, even if forced to walk most of the way, but considered that the new copper 12-hour medal would be a consolation prize, at best, and that I would be betraying the support and encouragement that my family had given me. I kept examining my pacing chart and calculating and re-calculating how far off target I was, how fast I would have to cover the next few kilometers, what the margin for error was, and so on. As the targets started slipping, I got more and more worried, until the downhills started. Suddenly I started to make up the time I had lost, and looked like coming in within a few minutes of my 10:58 pacing chart finish time.
Entering Durban, the crowd had thinned out (it was getting late by then), and my cramps had started to give up from sheer exhaustion. I ran a few paces, walked a few, ran a few, planning to make the finish with about 2 minutes to spare before the 11-hour cut-off (bronze). An 11-hour "bus", driven by a pair of experienced runners, caught up with me. I continued to run and walk and run and walk, until another RAC member grabbed me by the arm and insisted that I keep up with the bus. My legs felt more and more sore, but the busdriver showed me that I still had some reserves, and I kept running somehow.
As we approached the stadium, I broke away from my benefactors and zoomed in. As I entered, I was struck by a wall of noise. Hundreds of people leaning over sheet-metal barriers, drumming on them with their fists. I was picked up and surfed on the noise, putting on the longest, most painful and slowest sprint of my life. I crossed the line, to the beeping of the timing mats, in 10 hours, 50 minutes and 21 seconds. Somehow, I made my way through the chutes, put a medal around my neck and started to weep silently. I was totally drained, and didn't know whether to feel proud that I had finished, proud that I had made the (old) 11-hour cutoff, disappointed that I didn't make the 10 hours that I was hoping for, guilty that I had not run a better race (given all the sacrifices that others had made to let me run). In the end, I was too exhausted to feel anything at all.
I made my way to the tog-bag pickup point, where I retrieved my bag and stood in a daze, until Linda and Alexandra (my wife and oldest daughter) materialised and made me put on a sweater. Somehow, I stumbled back to the stadium, to watch the last runners come in before the 12-hour final cutoff. Then back to the car, to Umhlanga, supper and bed.
The next few days were a mix of lightheadedness and sore legs. Linda gave my legs a massage immediately after the race, and could feel the knots in all my leg muscles except my quads, which felt more like mincemeat than anything else. We played the "spot the runner" game, looking for athletic-looking types hobbling along the beachfront.
The day after Comrades (Linda's birthday), we had breakfast with George Parrott and the Buffalo Chips team at their hotel. It was wonderful to see some new faces, and talk about running, life, the universe and all that.
The rest of our stay was a very pleasant (and necessary) break from real life. My legs started to work again, and we did all the tourist things, spent a lot of time near the sea, and finally packed up for the trip back to Johannesburg. The kids were great on the trip, and we got back to find that Linda's mother had stocked our house with roast chicken and fresh bread.
During this time, a mild depression set in. This was largely because of having achieved my goal, running the Comrades Marathon. I also wondered whether I had let everyone down by running such a "bad" race, given the sacrifices that they had made. In the end I decided that, as my publicised target was 10:59:59, I hadn't done too badly, and that even if around 12,000 runners managed to finish (a big field by most standards), I was still part of a small group when compared to the population as a whole. All in all, I'm proud of my achievement, and especially proud given the circumstances (short training buildup, kids, bad race), and am planning for a much better run next year.
I now have new respect for Comrades finishers (and have new, even greater respect for Linda). While the run wasn't easy, it also taught me some lessons about life, endurance, and the will to succeed.
After a week, I tried a 5km run, which went fairly well. I started to plot and plan a new schedule, and new targets, partly to give me a lift, partly to keep me running and fit (for next year), partly for the sake of the races I hope to run. The inaugural BlueIQ Jozi half-marathon, in the heart of downtown Johannesburg, should be great fun. Alexandra is going to join me, and run the 420m mini-marathon. The City-to-city is a 50k between Pretoria and Johannesburg, fairly hilly (although nothing like Comrades!), and I'm hoping for a comfortable 5 hours+. Finally, the Soweto marathon is supposed to have more crowd support than any other race on the continent, and has a very relaxed cut-off. I'm aiming for silver (3:45, the slowest silver in the world), and hoping that I'll be able to break 3:30.
Linda has finally started running again, and hopes to run a fast 10km by the end of the year. I've volunteered to run with her, pace her, babysit for her. I'm looking forward to running with her again -- after all, she introduced me to running in the first place, and I married her because I want to share my life with her.
Pictures of the race are here. Pictures of our holiday are here. Pictures of my buildup races are here.