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Two Oceans Marathon, Cape Town - Sweder - 08-04-2014
As part of another running project (one that's taken a definite back seat to the Moyleman in recent months) I had cause to revisit the 2007 Two Oceans files. I was moved to edit the race report, losing over a thousand words in the process. With the 2014 race about to unfold I'm posting the abridged version here.
Two Oceans Marathon, Cape Town: Race Report - Sweder - 08-04-2014
It was an April morning when they told us we should go
As I turned to you, you smiled at me
How could we say no?
With all the fun to have, to live the dreams we always had
Oh, the songs to sing, when we at last return again . . .
Achilles Last Stand, Led Zeppelin
The time has arrived. The work done, miles banked, sweat shed.
Fourteen months in the planning. Paris to qualify, Steyning to prepare. Muscles stretched, pounded, stretched again, injuries sustained, patched up, ignored. All this behind; ahead? A journey.
Fifty-six leg-sapping kilometres
Thirty-four-point-eight unforgiving miles
Six hours' sweat in cold and heat
Four friends in common aim
Two Oceans
One shot.
* * *
Race Day
04:15. I wake without the help of my alarm clock.
The day has arrived. In a matter of minutes I'll set out to run in the World's Most Beautiful Marathon. There's a heady cocktail of fear, expectation and wild excitement brewing deep in my belly as I busy myself with the pre-dawn porridge ritual. I scarf a bowl-full in a silent house. The condemned man's last meal or fuel for an epic journey? My head buzzes with possibilities. So many questions to be answered, so many footsteps to tread.
05:10. In Clive's car, our host insisting we don't need the hassle of parking then walking two kilometres to the start line. We set off to collect Rog from his downtown hotel. The Old Warrior is waiting, bouncing on his toes in the half-light. We hit heavy traffic on the Newlands road. I peer into the cars and trucks queuing alongside us. Without exception the occupants are wearing running gear.
05:50: Ten minutes before the Half Marathon start we're still a half-klick from the line, clearly going no further on these wheels. Rog and I abandon ship, thank Clive for all he's done and follow the Hundreds of runners streaming past. More people emerge from cars abandoned on driveways or mounted on traffic islands to pull off tracksuit bottoms, adjust race numbers, apply liniments or peer into the gloom, looking for their friends. Excitement builds as a tannoy calls the short race under orders.
The highway fills with limbering runners. This is H zone, back of the pack, last refuge for slow-coaches and Two Oceans newbies. Moyleman arrives with Dave. Rog snaps an overhead of our four out-thrust feet clad in new-ish runners. The boys look rested, eager for battle. I bounce and half-kick, nervous energy seeking an outlet as we wait for the starter's signal.
06:15. African voices weave a wondrous song that seems to draw light into the world. A mass choir sings, praising the brave souls who undertake this journey, wishing us God's speed. Their easy cadence flows through us as pensive shuffling brings us forward, necks craned towards the start. We're off, walking for a minute, then jogging, finally running across the line, waving and grinning as the chip-readers chirp. A dream becomes reality. The road lies ahead, waiting for the sun, waiting for eight thousand pairs of pounding feet. Waiting for us.
Even at six twenty-five in the morning Cape Town can’t raise a shiver.
Twenty-one degrees celcius as we lope en mass down Claremont’s Main Road. Many hundreds of locals have lined the streets to send us off, though I barely notice them. I focus on staying steady, staying with the boys. Rog is off my left shoulder, Dave my right, Chris just behind. We all respect this distance, the size of the challenge. My heart beats heavy in my chest as my legs loosen to embrace the road. Ah, the race-runner's paradox; surrounded by so many yet, ultimately, alone. Dark thoughts rise to taunt and tease, to test my nerve. The people around me, rubbing shoulders, sharing my air, can do little to help me now.
Buildings loom overhead, black in the eerie half-light. A sea of bobbing heads leads us towards the colossal forms of Table Mountain National Park, crouched in night’s last shadow.
At three kilometres we swap Claremont for Kenilworth. The picture doesn’t change, but the light does. Morning's streaky fingers caress the rooftops to the west. Our group is silent save for steady breathing and the slap-slapping of feet, our running soundtrack, the rhythm of our quest. We’ve passed a couple of water stations, though I’ve yet to dip in, preferring to sip from my belt-bottle for now.
Nine kilometres in, just past the Old Apostolic Church in Bergvliet, I feel a tap on my arm. It's Rog.
‘Got a problem with me sock’ he grins. 'I’ve got to pull over.’
Rog has committed one of the cardinal race-day sins; he's tried something new. I can’t be too hard on him for electing to wear a new style of sock on the biggest day of his running life. I'm notorious for this. At least he’s carried an alternative pair. I wish him well as he peels off from the phalanx. Chris and Dave are nowhere to be seen. I wonder if we’ve subconsciously upped the pace in the last mile or so. Much of the pre-run chat was about strategy. We knew we were in for a warm one. The forecast was for a high of thirty degrees plus, and though some wind was expected, the latter stages of the race were going to be warm. Should we bash out the early miles at a faster pace, cover more ground in the coolest part of the morning? How would this impact long-term energy reserves? What about cramp?
I slow down, lingering on the edge of the human stream, peering towards the tail, but there is no tail. Runners pour towards me like Persians at the Hot Gates. No sign of Rog, so I re-join the ranks marching ever south towards giant peaks waking at sun's first kiss.
Just over ten kilometres gone and we’re still on Main Road, the leafy Burbs of Meadowridge and Heathfield behind us. Apollo has risen, his chariot blazing out of the eastern ocean to soar above the crags of Peck’s Valley and the coastal town of Muizenberg. At Westlake Golf Course we take our first detour from the straight and not-so-narrow, turning into Muizenberg North. I look left to see railway tracks cutting in to meet us. Lakeside station offers a small incline, parked cars squeezing us through a tightening gap . I take on water bags at the feed station. These are a great idea – flimsy plastic sheaths containing cool drinking water or Powerade. All you need do is nibble the corner and squirt liquid into your mouth, or over your head, as you wish. Much easier than messing around with plastic bottles or paper cups, far less lethal underfoot once discarded.
Over the brow of the hill we’re offered the first of many breathtaking views; Neptune’s Corner. White-capped breakers rush in across False Bay, plumes of spray launching from gleaming rocks, ripped tide sizzling onto bright white sand. I’m plenty warmed up and the temptation to slip across the railway line to dance into the surf grows by the second. I spy a sign, laced to a lamppost, apparently put there just for me:
‘No, You Don’t Have Time For A Dip.
Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon.’
To our right the creaky, salt-lashed verandas offer comfortable vantage for the locals. Claps, cheers and the occasional whoop send us on our way. We run, on the oceanside road flat once more, soft breeze cooling sweat on furrowed brows. Through St James at seventeen kilometres. These kilometre markers appear with friendly regularity. All most reassuring, yet at the back of my mind, in the midst of this tranquil scene, a monstrous beast stirs as if to remind me of the challenges to come.
We wind gently through Kalk Bay, still ocean-side, the craggy face of Glencairn Heights, still distant as we left Claremont well over an hour ago, now loom overhead. We reach the half marathon point, 21.1 kilometres. I can’t see a clock and I’m not carrying a timepiece. I feel like I’ve been chugging along at a fair lick, but It’s hard to gauge.
Into the town of Fish Hoek, a ramshackle neighbour to affluent Meizenburg but no less charming for that. More townsfolk greet us from sidewalks, chomping on croissants as we thunder by, weather-beaten faces and shiny black eyes impassive. At 23K we bid farewell to the Indian Ocean, turning due west onto Kommetjie Road, the long, gentle gradient across the Cape Peninsular bound for Noordhoek. It’s a symbolic moment in the race, a farewell to sand and surf, to quayside creperies and seafront pubs. Time to pack away comfy day-dreams and wistful thoughts; it’s time for business, boys. Knuckle down, pay attention; the fun starts here.
We climb out of Fish Hoek, the sun at our backs. I’m warmer by the step, taking one water to drink and another to spray over my cap and sweat-stained shirt. My calf nags, though it's nothing more than that at this stage. There’s something else troubling me, something unexpected and very much unwanted; my stomach. Concerned about the heat and potential mineral loss, I’d persuaded myself to take a nightly dose of salt tablets. Purchased on Thursday at the Expo, these long-lasting, slow-release pills were designed to guard one's system against cramp. My experience at the Jog Shop Jog, where both calves had turned to stone in the last mile, had convinced me this was a good idea. Sadly I’d not factored in possible side-effects on my digestive system. Only now, entering my 24th kilometre, does it occur to me that this might be a problem. I need a loo break, and I need one soon.
This may not all be down to the salt tablets. Something I’d overlooked in my preparations was how to trick a body used to rising at 7am to get up at 4 and somehow get through its' daily ablutions in double-quick time. Then there was Friday's over-eager munch-fest, culminating in a none-too-clever late (8pm) last meal.
Whatever the reason, I'm in trouble. Being British and, more to the point, being me, I elect to soldier on rather than find some temporary shelter and with it blessed, unofficial relief. This decision is reinforced when just shy of 25K, right about the point we leave Silverglade to enter Sun Valley, I spot a ‘bus’ ahead. It’s the Sub Six bus. ‘Buses’ in South Africa are groups lead by Runners’ World Pacers, denoted by a small triangular flag bearing their target time. I plod steadfastly, the bobbing flag coming ever back to me through the rolling runners' river. I’m level . . . and past. Blimey, what pace am I running? Despite the low rumbling in my guts I still feel good, though the rising temperature is starting to hit. I’d better ease up. Even with my foot ever so slightly off the gas I stay ahead of the group.
Sun Valley lives up to it's name. Like Lee Majors in the opening sequence to The Six Million Dollar Man, I’m burnin' up. I’ve no idea what the temperature is – it’s barely 9 o’clock in the morning – but the sodden vest clinging to my back tells me I’ve a full sweat on. The road continues to rise inexorably towards the next phase, towards half way and the legendary Chapman’s Peak. The heat is on.
Hot, bothered and alone in a sea of runners I leave Sun Valley and start the long climb past Noordhoek towards Chapman’s Point and the Peak beyond. The road weaves gently and just as it dawns on me we should be approaching halfway a familiar red and black hooped vest pulls alongside.
‘Alright mate, hows it going?’
A horribly relaxed, fresh-looking Moyleman beams a broad grin across at me.
As I suck in an extra lungful of warm air to respond he adds
‘Pretty fuckin’ hot, eh?’
I nod, a waterfall of sweat cascading off the brim of my cap.
‘Been struggling to get air’ I pant. ‘Leg’s alright so far.’
In fact the leg has been relatively fine but this is mainly down to the small pharmacy consumed pre-start and on route. With halfway upon us it’s time for yet another ibuprofen.
‘Dave’s just back there. Haven’t seen Rog since he stopped. I’m gonna push on – good luck mate.’
And he’s off, striding through the assembly, peak pulled down on his cap. He might be feeling the heat but he’s not letting it get to him. Good man. Soon Dave arrives, upright, relaxed, looking good. A similar exchange transpires and he too leaves me to eat his dust.
28 kilometres and a mid section time check: 2:48.
Well, that’s pretty good, except that the easiest sections are behind me in the relative cool of the early morning; the heartbreakers are still to come, just as Dante would have them, in the blistering heat. I shake my head – more sweat flicks across those about me. I’ve got to lose these negative thoughts! It’s tough, yes, and getting tougher, but I’ve trained for this. Get your head down, dig in and shut up. Yet I've not trained for this, this infernal bloody heat. Someone’s steadily turning up the gas. We must be gaining a degree every half kilometre. My stomach rolls again to remind me that heat and hardship aren’t my only enemies just now. I have to get to a toilet soon.
All this analysis, coupled with seeing two mates steam past, has seen my pace drop. A glance behind shows the Sub Six bus gaining incrementally. Another head shake, more hot showers and I’m back in the groove. Hang on – that has to be Rog up ahead – how’d he get there? It is, Mad Rog, looking solid as he climbs past the turn off to Noordhoek beach and another of those sponsored gags . . .
'Still No Time For That Dip.
Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon.'
Ha Ha Ha . . .
I kick – at least it feels like a kick – and catch him, barely able to speak when I get there.
‘Oi!’
‘Watcha! Didn’t see you there!’
He probably didn’t recognise me. Hunched over even more than usual, pouring sweat, cap down over my face (I hate caps. I will never wear another). We swap notes. Rog confirms the failure of the new socks, admitting that Sam had advised against the two-piece from the get-go. A lesson learned. It was Rita Mae Brown who said ‘Good judgement comes from experience, and often experience comes from bad judgement.’ At least I think it was Rita Mae . . . it might’ve been James Brown for all I know or care right now. I confess a desperate need for a bathroom break, explaining after the usual response that no, a tree or shrub won't do it for me. There's not much Rog can say to that so we plod on.
I glance left and see a sight to gladden the most despondent heart; Noordhoek Beach, beautifully white, handsomely broad, shimmering in the morning sun. The Atlantic Ocean, much colder and more brutal than her Indian cousin, crashes wave after wave on the rocks below. Last summer (our winter) Mrs S and S Minor took a horse ride from the far end up to Chapman’s across this beach; they barely saw another soul. It’s a slice of heaven here on Earth for we mortals to enjoy, to inspire us to greater things, to remind us that no matter how clever we think we are we have nothing on nature. Or God, or whatever floats your evolutionary boat.
The arrival of this view means one thing; Rog and I are climbing Chapman’s Peak. 30 Kilometres in, shoulder to shoulder, the old battlers from Paris, hammering up the steep ascent to Chapman’s Point. The winding road, reminiscent in all but surface of our beloved Snake, winds upwards and northwards along the Cape's western shore. Carved into the side of the boulder-strewn mountains, the road is vulnerable to dangerous rock fall. Realising the potential for keeping such a fabulous route, from Hout Bay to Noordhoek, open, the City fathers invested in an array of safety nets and overhanging canopies. As we pound the tarmac, the ocean raging below, we look up to see the rocky haul these fishermen have claimed and thank them from the bottom of our hearts. Chapman's was closed to the race for some years until a reliable solution was found. If it weren't for these nets we'd be taking the road over the top, baking in the unforgiving sun. 'Chappies' - at least the uphill section - lies in the shadow of the mountain. As fast as Apollo strives for his zenith he’s not yet outrun the blissful shelter of the peak, and I relax a little as the air cools around me. Runners ahead are starting to walk, but if we’ve trained for anything these past months it’s to run hills, so we run, chatting away as if on a Sunday morning lope. Ahead of us the road slithers around vast outcrops of rock, wrinkled and grey like the skin of an ancient elephant. The zig-zag course lures racers into thinking the summit is around the next bend. Of course, it isn’t. We’ve spied the top, the only section of rock to so far to catch the sun rays. It’s easily a kilometre if not more away.
There’s a water station below the long canopy section, right at 32 kilometres, and I take a handful of baggies. One down the throat, one over my head, the others across my front and back. Despite the shade I’m cooking in my shell, a lumbering lobster ready to scream. The first twinge of regret has appeared in my right shin, but it’s only half an hour since my last painkiller so I grin and bear it. Rog fumbles with his camera, determined to snap a shot of the procession of walkers, joggers and runners parading up the Peak. Suddenly he hits a small rock lurking at the base of the mountain wall. He stumbles, cries out and goes down in a heap, his right arm shooting out, still clutching the camera. He hits the deck and rolls almost back to his feet without stopping, an impressive manoeuvre given the circumstances. His hand is cut but the damage appears minimal. He looks more embarrassed than hurt so we chug onwards towards the shimmering golden arch that is the tipping point of Chapman’s Peak. I swear I can hear singing, a sort of rhythmic chanting as the corner approaches. Around the top bend we’re greeted by an entourage of joyful youngsters, waving and smiling as we stumble past, singing songs to the passing warriors. They’re uniformed in green Old Mutual shirts and black pants, boys and girls alike, and they herald the arrival of a welcome oasis in this desert of Herculean hardship.
To the left and right of the road, taking advantage of the tourist rest/ viewing areas, numerous stalls are decked with drink and food. Waitrons (as they are known here) walk amongst the runners bearing trays of small baked potatoes and sections of peeled banana. We gaze, bewildered at this mad scene. I feel like one of the abducted airmen leaving the Mothership in Close Encounters; I blink away the salt-sweat tears, grin my thanks as I grab a small spud and cram it into my dry mouth. I spit half of it out, dimly aware that anything else in my digestive tract right now could prove terminal. I’ve been feeding in Hammer Gels since the 12K marker and they've joined the bubbling ferment. Rog gulps his down.
‘What a great idea!’ he beams.
‘It’s all down hill from here’ I gasp, pointing a finger towards a point where the trail drops sharply.
‘All the way to Hout Bay. Yipee!’
It should be a turning point, and it is, but not the one I’m hoping for.
***
Down down, deeper and down.
That’s the way the road runs from Die Josie, the high point of Chapman’s Peak, all the way to Hout Bay, from kilometres 34 to 38. It should provide respite for those hard-working muscles after the 5 kilometre climb out of Noordhoek Bay, but of course it doesn’t. Running downhill on tired legs is less fun than struggling uphill. My quads burn, my right calf and shin are aflame and I do believe my back has started to chime in with all this jarring. Sweat flies, flesh wobbles as we judder our way along the cruel cambers of this oh-so-long and winding road. Then, a mirage! What toilet on yonder outcrop sits! I start to laugh, desperately hoping I can control both my gigglebone and my sphincter as mirth rises in a rush of hot hysteria.
‘Yeehah! Ah’m off t’ Khazi!’
I break into a full run for the first time in while, un-clasping my water belt in preparation for blissful release. But there’s a catch. They're open right enough, but it seems I’m not the only one in need of sanitary salvation.
‘Argh, there’s a queue!’
‘I saw someone taking a dump in a bush over there’ offers Rog.
This is bad. Never mind my cramping stomach, Rog is losing valuable time in his own quest for a medal.
‘You should go on, Rog.’
‘Naa, I’m fine. Here, I brought some loo paper, just in case. Take this.’
He reaches into a compartment in his Camelback to pull out a plastic-wrapped wad of toilet paper. What can you say at a time like this? Hugging is ill-advised. Exploding in an embrace with your running partner would be a poor way to express one's gratitude. I grunt and grin and do a little dance as my nerve centre indicates it’s been given the green light and what the hell are we waiting for? Mercifully a stall door bangs open and I push rudely past the exiting runner. The smell is tolerable. I lock the door, lift the lid . . . oh good Lord . . . it’s a bottomless pit! Beneath a bog standard loo seat, instead of a porcelain bowl and pipe system, there’s an inky blackness. Way below, what looks like rock face is spattered with . . . well, we know what it’s spattered with. With no time to waste pondering the prospect of hanging my backside over such a perilous drop, I assume the position.
Two minutes later I’m back in the sunshine. Rog is stretching against a wall, eyes flicking nervously along the trail of runners streaming past.
‘I think the 6 hour lot must’ve gone by.’
We’ve been here at least ten minutes and I’ve no doubt the we’ve missed that particular bus. To be honest, all my thoughts of 'a time' went a while back. Since the scorching at Sun Valley I’ve set my sights on a finish – and medal – of any kind. With one major obstacle removed I feel certain of making it.
‘C’mon, let's go.’
We take to the road, still two kilometres of descent to go. My legs scream at the injustice of a re-start, agony licking at my shin. I ignore it. I feel sure all I need to do now is get moving, get the blood flowing, and all will be well. We’re up to a decent pace when Rog decides to meander across the central white line. His parsimonious running style brings his right shoe into contact with a protruding cat’s eye. Whump! The boy’s down again!
‘Hey, steady mate!’ I reach for his arm and pull him up.
‘Needed another burst of adrenaline’ he grimaces.
The wound on his hand has opened and an impressive streak of claret runs up his arm. There’s no point suggesting a stop – we both know that many more breaks and we’ll be out of time. With the sub six bus gone the next group will be the sub seven, after that the sweeper bus. There’s several cut-offs on the 56K route; if you don’t make each stage by a certain time you’re pulled off the circuit. The next checkpoint for us will be 42.2; the cut off there is 5:17 (11:37 am) – we’re at least a mile or two ahead of that but I know too well loss of momentum added to the toughness of the terrain could eat that in no time. He’s OK, a thumbs up, a grin and a return to his chest-out, easy style a clear indication of his fitness to continue.
‘Stay away from those bloody cat’s eyes’
‘Amazing isn’t it? We spend all those hours running through mud, over rocks and flint, up and down slippery trails and I go and stumble on a flippin' road!’
Another cheering throng greets us at the base of Chapman’s Drive. I doff my sodden cap to acknowledge the support. They look hot, which makes me feel a soupçon better about feeling thoroughly baked. Running through the picturesque town of Hout Bay I marvel at the collection of restaurants, cafes and bars that litter the roadside. Each outlet has a number of patrons seated outside, sunglasses on, beer or glass of wine in hand, watching the panting, sweating chain-gang shuffle past. Good grief, it’s not even close to midday – these swine are guzzling ale with no regard for propriety, or my sanity! I could murder a pint . . actually, no, I couldn’t . . . in fact the thought of eating or drinking anything has me back on the good ship queezy. That recent pit-stop did nothing for the flips and twists in my belly and I’m none too happy about that. My leg is screaming steadily and now that we’re back in the full glare of the still-rising sun I’m finding breathing a chore. At 39 kilometres in I’m really struggling. Three water bags to one go over my head and chest. I swallow the occasional Powerade, but like the weird guy in Constantine, frantically drowning himself in booze, I can't slake my thirst. Rog is worried. I know this because he’s started to encourage me a lot more. I stumble into an ugly stagger, hold up a shaky hand in apology.
‘Sorry mate, I just need to get my breath.’
I need to recover in the next kilometre or so because my family and friends are waiting, as arranged, on the roundabout just ahead. I’d hate them to see me in this state. I walk for a hundred metres or so and, feeling slightly better, break into a gentle trot. It lasts about a minute and I’m walking again, hot air rasping down my impossibly dry throat. I feel sick – perhaps it would be best to throw up? Perhaps not. Rog walks alongside, dismissing my wafted suggestion that he abandon this wretch. Then something happens, something so touching, so spiritual and yet so very human, it almost reduces me to tears.
Sometime last summer Rog found The Lord. He wasn’t drifting about all beardy and wise on the Snake or anything, Rog simply let Him into his life. He doesn’t rave on about it, except to say it’s changing his life in a gentle but positive way. He’s formed the Habakkuk Harriers, a running charity to raise funds to build a church, having vests and business cards designed and made to spread his message. We've ribbed him gently about it from time to time, all good friendly banter. Now, here, on this apparently god-forsaken, dust-dry, sun-cooked roadside, he turns to lay his hands on my shoulders.
‘Lord, please help our friend Ash to find the strength within him to carry on, to achieve his dream. We ask this of you Lord because he is a good man and he needs your strength.’
I look at Rog. He offers a sheepish grin in return.
‘I’ve never done that before’ he says. ‘I feel a bit embarrassed to be honest, praying out loud like that, but you look like you need it.’
Emotion wells up in my throat and I have to swallow hard to keep myself together.
‘Don’t be daft. That was a really lovely thing to do. Lets hope it works, eh?’
I start running, and though everything still hurts, I feel a little better.
At 40 kilometres I can see the mound of the traffic circle at the main Hout Bay exit. Mrs S stands on one of the rocks in the centre, hand shielding her eyes from the fierce sunlight, Rog’s son Luke by her side. I wave my sweaty cap like a loon and can’t repress a huge grin. She sees me and waves back, calling Phoebe to join her. They’re both waving now, and my cap is going like the clappers spraying all and sundry with warm, stale sweat. No one seems to mind.
We embrace, a sticky, sweaty kiss for Mrs S, a nasty soggy hug for the Pheebster. Pats on the back from Jacqui and Clive, a banana offered from somewhere. I climb onto the island and suck air, desperate to fill my lungs. I confess to finding it tough, especially the heat. Jacqui is sunburnt already and everyone looks warm. Runners continue to pour round us, some running steadily, others walking, heads bowed under dripping caps.
‘C’mon Rog, we gotta go. The climb to Constantia awaits!’
The cry of bravado takes an intolerable amount of energy.
We set off, running slowly, waving to our loved ones. I discard the banana as soon as we’re out of sight, much to the relief of my tightening stomach.
Up the road aways, taking advantage of some shade from the lofty cedars, arcadias and pines along Hout Bay Road, I take another walk break. And another. Clean breaths are as rare as hen’s teeth. Rog continues to encourage and cajole, my response is feeble at best but we keep going. Ahead yet more wonderful volunteers line the otherwise deserted approach to the 42.2 archway. 4:33, incredibly only 13 minutes outside my initial target time of 4:20, but I’m in horrible shape and I know it. This will be nine miles to test the heart. I’ll see how deep within myself I can dig without irrevocable damage to my battered soul.
Immediately after the Marathon marker we start the never-ending climb to Constantia Nek.
This is one of Cape Town’s most beautiful suburbs, set to the north of Table Mountain, housing a number of exclusive wine estates and sumptuous dwellings. All this amounts to bugger all when you’re in perpetual agony, breathless and sun-dried, dragging your weary, sweat-soaked carcass up 4 kilometres of unforgiving mountain.
In fairness, all but the strong and the foolhardy walk this section. Never mind all the macho posturing about 'no walking in a running race' and all that. Hogwash. This is tough, baby, really tough. And I like hills. Rog is happy enough to walk too, at last having the decency to complain about the heat. Whilst the kilometre markers seem to have been set impossibly far apart, official water stations are ubiquitous. I’ve no doubt the canny organisers foresaw the increase in demand at this juncture and, as with just about everything else related to this race, they’ve got it spot on. I pour and squirt enough water to irrigate the Sudan, taking a couple of frozen Powerades to cool my on-board supplies. We’re walking at a good pace, passing a lot of people as we climb. I make a solemn, silent vow, one I’ll make good just as soon as we reach the summit.
At 46 Kilometers, as the road levels out, I turn to Rog.
‘Mate you’ve been fantastic. You’ve dragged me this far. It’s time for you to stretch those legs and leave me to hobble on alone.’
Rog looked genuinely shocked.
‘No, no – ‘
‘Enough. You’ve probably blown any chance of sub six thanks to me; there’s no guarantee I’ll finish, let alone medal, but you still can. Go on old boy, give it a go.’
We smile at each other. He knows I’m right.
What he can’t know, and I won’t tell him, is that my right calf is in constant convulsion and the pain is enough to make me want to gnaw my leg off. The rest of my ailments – thirst, heat exhaustion, general decrepitude – I can live and probably finish with, perhaps even within the allotted seven hours. But this bloody leg will be the ugly roadside death of me and I’d rather not take anyone with me, least of all this prince amongst men.
This is no Oat-ish act. The thought of Rog coming away with nothing just because he’s a stand-up bloke who wouldn’t leave a mate is simply too awful to contemplate, too much to bear. I should feel obliged to fly him back next year and frankly I defy any mortal to swing that one past Mrs S. Besides, there’s a small, slightly twisted part of me that thinks it might be more interesting to write about heroic failure than a hobbled, ugly, just-in-time crossing of the line. It’s certainly more in keeping with most of my fellow countrymen where sport is concerned.
With a slap on the back and a cheery wave Rog is gone, run-shuffling into the distance. I’m left dragging my tortured limb in a horrible parody of Quasimodo, shielding my eyes from the sun, seeking Esmeralda. Or, rather more urgently, a paramedic. All I lack is the drool, and frankly that can only be moments away. I feel no sorrow, no self-pity; whatever the reason for my failure, be it poor planning, crazy indulgence, a late last meal, those pesky salt tablets or simply overestimation of my own ability, I’ve given it my best shot. I lined up, took my place at the start, stood shoulder to shoulder with giants and set myself in fair competition with my fellow man. If I can’t make it this time then you know what? I’m going to come back and kick this course's hot, tarmac’d arse ...
It’s taken more than I can spare out of me just to think that clichéd bunch of baloney. I tell the demons in my head to give it a rest, gulp some warm, dry air and try to take stock.
Around me any number of people wear various shades of agony.
Here a young man stretches fit to bust against the trunk of a towering pine; there a girl stands, crossed legged, reaching for her toes to coax blood into her locked hamstring. The trouble with walking up Constantia is one assumes this to be a restful phase. Far from it. You have to work incredibly hard just to walk up a heavily cambered hill without respite for four kilometres under a blazing sun. So it shouldn't come as a shock when you reach the top and that hoped-for flood of energy is AWOL.
I stumble through Glen Alpine and onto Rhodes Drive, a wonderfully winding, leafy trail to lead us home. There’s still a 10K to run/ walk/ crawl - it may as well be 100 for me. I’m spent, done in, facing my darkest hour in a short but illustrious running career. The Demons of Despair are chuckling, another wretched, wrung-out soul ready for harvest. The shaded pine straw sings a Siren's song; oh how I long for it’s cool embrace! To curl up under the trees, suck on a frozen fruit juice, to dream of glories that might have been as I wait for the cosy, comfortable sweeper bus . . .
Tom Petty's mournful refrain pops into my head:
God it’s so painful
When something that’s so close
Is still so faar outta reeach . . .
Sod you, Demons. Sorry Tom, I didn't come all this way to ride the sodding bus, least of all through one of the coolest sections of the course. I just need something to get me going again, something to take this pain away, to reboot my resolve.
And blow me down, there it is. Just ahead, off the hard shoulder, set back amongst the ferns and shrubs; a physio station! Two banks of what look like oversized vaulting horses against which a rag-tag collection of human flotsam rest their bones. A team of angels - OK, they might be physiotherapists - work to restore life to dead limbs, massaging muscles, beating bones and blood, chirping encouragement to rouse dulled spirits. I stagger off the road and crash into a barrier.
'Hi there- er . . . Ashley?' (My name, as with all runners, is printed below my number).
'How can I help you?'
I could weep. Instead, I smile and remove my foul baseball cap.
'Right calf's gone. Been stiff for a while.'
Up to this point I've not looked at the offending limb. I'd rather disassociate myself with the traitorous appendage, but I suppose I'd best have a look. According to the levels of pain I should see some horrible, Cronenbergian prolapse weeping from a ragged, bloody hole . . . but it all looks rather normal, if a tad swollen. The fellow goes down on his haunches and takes my calf in his hands.
'You may feel this . . .'
Gaaaawdblimeyyousorrysonofabitchnastyorriblelittleman . . .
'Mmm, yep, 'bout there ... ooh, yes, yes ...'
'Yes, I can feel something there - hold on.'
Iron fingers peel battered flesh from bruised bone, rhythmically grinding knotted muscle to allow the blood to flow.
'Wow! Aha, yep, definitely there . . .'
He carries on, telling me I'm doing great, that I must keep going.
'Reckon I can get home on this peg then?'
He looks mortally offended at this slight on his healing powers.
'Take it easy fella, walk a little, run a little, you'll be just fine.'
A friendly, manly slap on my soggy backside tells me we're done.
'Now, go and get your medal.'
It's all I need, a restoration of belief. No matter what happens I'm getting to that line and I'm bloody well getting that bloody medal and no, I don't give a monkeys what sodding colour it is.
'Thanks mate, you guys are real stars.'
A cheery wave and I'm hobbling again, this time with purpose and, more to the point, for the first time in an age, belief.
The next six kilometres, all down hill, are a cacophony of violence and agony but I'm simply not in the mood. Runners pull up here and there as I shuffle down Rhodes, past Honenort, Southern Cross Drive, Duntaw Close and finally the gardener's paradise, Kirstenbosch National Botanical Gardens. Those wags at Old Mutual have been at it again;.
'No, You Haven't Got Time To Stop And Smell The Roses.
Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon.'
Fuck off.
I take on gallons of water (mostly to wear) and only realise that my cap is gone when I aim to salute some cheering bystanders. It's probably crawled off into the bushes at the physio station to start a fungus farm. I don't miss it. Rhodes Drive is nothing if not sheltered, the street dappled in leafy shadow. More casualties appear along the roadside, some destined never to finish, others to come agonisingly close but just too late to 'medal'. My series of walk-breaks gets me into a bizarre game of stagger-tag. Helene, an international youngster (international runners carry orange tags, locals yellow and local veterans of ten races or more blue 'permanent' numbers) overtakes me and vice versa, repeatedly, over several kilometres. We grin and wave at each passing, content that the mere act of catching, losing ground and catching again is taking us closer to home. It's a timeless meander through some eminent real estate, nothing more than a slightly unhimged Sunday stroll with the occasional welcome dousing thrown in. I cackle loudly (and look hurriedly over my shoulder for men in white coats) as, with barely four kilometres left, we arrive at a shower station. Just like in my first FLM there's a sort of timber frame Gazebo arrangement set up on the roadside, armed with overhead sprinklers. I'm soaked in stale sweat. This heavenly mist-rain is fresh and cool, and though the heat stopped being a factor some time ago I'm grateful for the temporary illusion of refreshment. I'm shot to pieces. I no longer bother with gels. I still feel like throwing up, deciding I can run on empty from here on in, or at least until my torment ends, be that at the finish or in the gutter.
Just after the 54 kilometre marker the realisation that I'm going to make it rises through the froth. There are no clocks on the course but I've enough grey matter left to work out that I'm still inside the seven hour cut-off. Oddly, this realisation elicits nothing more than a spluttered guffaw and a slight change in my bearing. I want to look alive for the camera. Just as I'm mentally patting myself on the back we reach an intersection where the course makes a sharp left turn ... and up an almighty bloody hill. Of course, the killer, the last kick to the balls that Mr Weekly Marathon warned me of during the 5k Friendship Run yesterday. Well, you know what? I'm going to run the bastard.
And I do, working feverishly at an invisible Nordic Trac, arms pulling, legs sliding forward, head slumped on my grisly, sodden chest. I reach the top with nothing left, gasping for air, deride myself for an act of madness. Helene slips past as I curse, spurred back into my grotesque shuffling action. I catch her as the road dips and bends to the right. A young boy cavorts, turning cartwheels beside a sign that reads '55K'. I could go for a cartwheel myself, except the resulting mess would take a skilled surgeon hours to unravel. One last climb, past the turn-off to the Old Zoo. I can hear a hubbub brewing, a roar, like a distant ocean that builds and builds until it sounds like the Coliseum in full cry. My heart lifts as the runners ahead veer off through a gate and onto . . . grass! The lush lawns of the University of Cape Town rugby fields, the Groote Schuur Estate ...
Somewhere deep inside me a tiny glowing ball of energy releases, through my heart and lungs, through my aching sinews, into my shattered legs. I run. I lose around a ton in weight, feel light as air. Is this the bends? Euphoria floods me, everything is beaming bright; the entrance arch to the final furlong, the screaming, yelling, waving hoards along both sides, the vests of runners I'm streaming past, my feet flying, barely touching the ground. I'm waving like a fool, grinning like a loon. Both arms aloft, saluting the crowd like I've won the lot. And I have; I've won the bloomin' lot. The FA Cup, the Champions League, the Cricket World Cup all rolled into one. I don't see my bouncing, screaming family who've spent the last fifteen minutes (since Rog and Chris came home) biting their nails to the quick. I see only the finish line, the cameras, the chip mats, and the clock . . . the clock that says 6:30:23, 24, 25 . . .
I cross the line. Be-beeep! My arms sink to my sides and I shudder to a halt.
Someone hands me a ribbon with metal dangling at one end, but I can't see it.
My eyes are filled with salt, with sweat, with tears.
It's over. Finished. Done. And I feel . . .
. . . nothing.
There's nothing left; I've spent the lot on that last mad, helter-skelter 200 metres. Every ounce of humanity has left me; I'm a husk, a dripping, panting, bent-double shell of a man.
* * *
Epilogue
I’ve left out a few details from my journey. Like meeting Peter. Peter was running his nineteenth consecutive Two Oceans. Peter carries a basket on his back to collect money along the way for Guide Dogs for the Blind. Oh, and he’s run every one, and an equal number of Comrades, a snip at 90K, barefoot.
And then there’s the intolerable cruelty of The Gun.
I’d heard about The Gun but finally I got to see it for myself. Having staggered from the finish area into the arms of my family, placing my medal around Phoebe’s neck, I lurched into the International Hospitality tent. They stopped serving alcohol the same year they re-opened Chapman’s Peak, 2004. Apparently one or two competitors got a little worse for wear, not to mention unstable. Hard to believe.
Dave came in under the magic six hours to claim a magnificent bronze medal. Hats off, mate, an awesome debut in crushing conditions. Rog caught up with Moyleman and they came home together in 6:14. My official chip time was 6:26.
The first person I saw was Dave, sat at a large round table, legs akimbo, a distant look on his face as he stared into near-space, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. I grabbed his hand and pumped his arm as the smile burst into a broad grin. Then Moyleman grabbed me from behind and spun me round. We hugged – not a sight or sound for the squeamish – and the grins lit up the tent. Cam and Tina, respective better halves, offered their congratulations. And there was Rog, looking for all the world as if he’d just loped a gentle twelve-miler. Another embrace, slightly longer, half-sobbed, heartfelt thanks for his magnificent support.
I wobbled off to the bar to grab a cup full of ice and a Powerade, then into the private enclosure alongside the finishing straight. I brushed past a young blond lady and recognised her at the last moment.
‘Bravo, Helene.’
‘Well done to you.’ Weary smiles exchanged.
The barrier was lined with finished runners and their families, waving and cheering on the finishers. I looked left to the finish line to see the clock: 6:48. Blimey, twelve minutes to go. I wonder how many there are still trying to get home?
As the minutes ticked down the tannoy announced – gleefully, it seemed to me – that though all those who’d entered the UCT fields would finish there were still plenty on the road for whom fate remained in the balance. I joined the crowd, yelling out the names of those struggling to make the line. 6:55.
‘Five minutes left! you can still make it!’ roared the MC.
There seemed no end to the runners rounding the bend to our right. A couple of hobblers would struggle but make it. A trio appeared, the outer two all but carrying a distraught man in the centre, his face convulsed in pain. They crossed in 6:57. 6:58, still more coming in, some of them moving horribly slowly.
‘COME ON!!!’ I started screaming, desperate for these poor souls to beat the guillotine. I glanced left once more as a man dressed in official TOM gear stepped out from the shade. He turned his back on the finishers, eyes only for the clock. His right arm extended, a small black pistol gripped firmly in his hand.
‘One minute to go!’
I glanced right again. Still more runners, a few walkers. The walkers had 200 metres to go; they’d no chance. But a young lad in a black and white vest was making a bid for last second glory. I squinted into the sunlight, making out his name as he drew closer.
‘COME ON ANDY!!!’ The crowd roared as one, the shouts turning to screams as the announcer counted down. Come on mate! Dig in! Andy’s teeth were set, lips peeled back in supreme effort, back arched, eyes clamped shut; he poured everything into that final 50 metres.
BANG!
A waft of blue-grey gun smoke drifted up across the clock. 7:00:01.
Andy fell, hands on knees, head almost to the floor, barely two metres from the line. Marshals stepped forward, directing the arriving athletes into a side exit, their faces emotionless masks under dark sunglasses. I stood staring at the finish line. The crowd noise died with his ambition, heads turned away, unable to look. Death aside, it was the most terrible thing I’ve witnessed. Someone hit slow-mo on the VCR. The few left striving for that piece of metal now walked like zombies towards the finish, eyes dead, shoulders slumped, beaten, but they would never know the agony of that poor lad.
I rejoined my family, Jacqui and Clive. We bundled Rog and his son, Luke, into the wagon and took them back to their hotel. We embraced once more, vowing to hook up back in the UK to plan the next adventure.
On the ride home I thought I’d throw up. Clive cracked a can of draught Guinness for me as he drove – seems the laws are a little more lax in SA – and I sipped half-heartedly at it. The dark liquid did nothing to quell the internal uprising, so I shelved the can and held on for dear life. Back at Chez Nel I made a bee-line for the bathroom, diving into the shower. Standing there, under the stinging hot cascade, I finally let go, emotionally and physically, watching Guinness, PowerAde and the remains of part-digested gels mingle with my tears to swirl, the wrong way, I noticed, down the plug hole.
RE: Two Oceans Marathon, Cape Town - Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man - 09-04-2014
Damn you Sweder ... that's another race I've had to add to my bucket list.
As ever though, a brilliant and inspiring race report.
