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 . . .
Achillies Last Stand, Led Zeppelin
So the time has arrived. The work is done, the miles banked, the 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 gut-wrenching, 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.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
04:15. I'm wide awake without the help of my alarm clock.
The day has arrived. In a matter of minutes I'll be setting 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 guts as I busy myself with the pre-dawn porridge ritual. I scarf a big bowlful in a silent house. The condemned mans' last meal, or the fuel for an epic journey? My head buzzes at the prospect, the possibilities; so many questions to be answered, so many footsteps to tread.
05:10. In the car, my host Clive at the wheel, having insisted that I didnt want the hassle of parking and walking some 2k to the start line, assuring me that he really didnt mind getting up before dawn to get me there. He declines my offer of porridge, offering a perfect impression of an offended Sharpie, and we set off to collect Rog from his downtown hotel. The Old Boy is ready for us, bouncing on his toes in the half-light. Clive's wisdom is proven as we hit heavy traffic on the Newlands road. I peer into the cars and trucks beside us; without exception driver and/ or passenger is kitted out in running gear.
05:50: ten minutes before the start of the 21K race were still a half-klick from the start going no further on these wheels. Rog and I abandon ship, thanking Clive (profusely in my case) for getting us this far as hundreds of worried runners speed past us to meet the starting gun. We stroll along the main drag, watching people emerge from cars abandoned on driveways and traffic islands, pulling off tracksuit bottoms, adjusting race numbers, applying liniments or peering into the gloom for sight of their comrades. Excitement builds as the distant tannoy calls the half-marathoners under orders; more noise and they are, apparently, off.
The four-lane road, separated by a large central pavement, is filled with limbering 56Kers. This is H zone, the back of the pack, last refuge for scoundrels, slow-coaches and newbies. Moyleman arrives with sister Cams fella and occasional JSJer Dave, and we four are well met. Rog snaps an overhead of four feet clad in new-ish runners. The boys look rested, chipper and eager for battle. I bounce and half-kick as nervous energy seeks an outlet, waiting for the tannoy to signal the start.
06:15. Wonderful African voices fill the pre-dawn. A huge choir massed at the start is singing to us, praising the brave souls who will travel on this incredible journey, wishing us Gods speed. Their easy cadence flows through the waiting throng as the pensive shuffling steps up a gear and we bunch forward, necks craned towards the start. Were under way, walking for a minute or two, jogging, finally running across the line, waving and grinning as the chip-readers slake their thirst.
A dream has become reality. Ahead lie 56 kilometres waiting for the sun, waiting for the pounding of eight thousand pairs of feet. Waiting for us.
Shot of the start courtesy: Rogcam
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Even at six twenty-five in the morning Cape Town can’t raise a shiver.
21C is the official starting temperature as we lope en mass down Claremont’s endless Main Road. Remarkably many hundreds of locals have lined the streets to send us off, though I barely acknowledge them. I’m focused; focused on keeping things steady, staying with the boys. Rog is off my left shoulder, Dave to my right and Chris just behind. There’s no doubt we all respect the distance, the size of the challenge, but now, in this moment, we'll start to unwrap the mystery of the Two Oceans. My heart beats heavy in my chest as legs loosen and lungs expand ready to embrace the road. Running races is a paradox; we’re surrounded by humanity yet ultimately exposed, alone. Our darkest thoughts rise up to taunt and tease, to test our nerve; the people around us, rubbing shoulders, sharing air, can do little to help.
We’re still in the morning twilight. Buildings are dark cavernous walls; ahead a sea of bobbing shapes precedes us, and in the far distance the colossal forms of the Table Mountain National Park lay nestled in night’s last shadow.
At three kilometres we swap suburbs, 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 strangely silent, steady breathing and the slap-slapping of feet our running soundtrack; the rhythm of this early morning life. We’ve passed a couple of refreshment stations already though I’ve yet to dip into one, preferring to sip from my belt-carried bottle on the hoof, at least until those few early miles are tucked away and I feel I'm truly settled. My calf, sore in the early stages, has settled into a low grumble. I don’t forget about it – for the entirety of this adventure that set of muscles will hold a place in my thoughts – but for now it’s not a problem.
9Ks in, just past the Old Apostolic Church in Bergvliet, a tap on my arm; Rog.
‘Got a problem with me sock’ he grins. I’ve got to pull over.’
Rog was not alone in committing one of the cardinal sins of racing – trying 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, simply because incredibly I did something even more foolish. At least he’d carried an alternative pair. I wished him well as he peeled off from the main phalanx towards a low wall. I looked back. Chris and Dave were nowhere to be seen and I wondered if we’d subconsciously upped the pace in the last klick or so. Much of the pre-run chat had been about early strategy. We knew we were in for a warm one; the forecast was for a high of thirty degrees plus, and although some wind was expected the latter stages of the race were going to be hard on those from colder climes. Should we bash out the early sections at a faster pace, cover more ground in the coolest part of the course? Would this sap long-term energy reserves? What about cramp? Salt loss would be high – how can we manage that? At the Expo on Thursday Rog and I had discovered, and invested in, a range of salt-storage products. I think because they were on the Hammer stand – a tried and trusted provider of gels and energy bars – I was ready to embrace anything they offered. This would turn out to be nothing short of lunacy – of which more later.
I slow down, lingering on the edge of the streaming runners, 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 turn to re-join the ranks, marching ever south towards the giant sun-kissed peaks.
Photo taken appx 10ks in - courtesy: Rogcam
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Just over 10k’s gone and we’re still on Main Road.
Meadowridge and Heathfield are behind us, so too the pre-dawn half-light. 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 left into Muizenberg North. I look left and see railway tracks coming to meet us. Lakeside station offers a small incline, a few parked cars squeezing the runners through a gap or two. I’ve taken on a few water bags now. These bags are a great idea – flimsy plastic sheaths filled with cool drinking water or Powerade. All one has to 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, less lethal underfoot once discarded.
Over the brow of the hill and we’re offered the first of many breathtaking views; Neptune’s Corner. White-capped breakers rush in from the Indian Ocean, across False Bay, dashing plumes of spray against gleaming boulders, washing up with a sizzling hiss onto bright white sand. I’m plenty warm now and the temptation to slip across the railway line and dance into the surf is growing by the second. I spy a sign, laced to a lamppost, placed there just for me:
‘No, You Don’t Have Time For A Dip: Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon.’
Darn.
To our right the creaky, sun-dried, salt-lashed verandas of shops and homesteads offer comfortable vantage to the locals. Clapping, cheering and the occasional whoop send us on our way. We run, the road flat once more, alongside the ocean, a soft breeze cooling us as sweat starts to glisten on a thousand furrowed brows. Through St James and the 17K marker. These 'Kay' markers seem to appear with a friendly regularity I’d not expected. This is all most reassuring, yet in the back of my mind, in the midst of this soothing, tranquil scene, the low growl of a monstrous beast rumbles in reminder of the challenge ahead. Focus.
Our path winds gently through Kalk Bay, still ocean-side, the craggy face of Glencairn Heights, peaks first illuminated, still distant as we left Claremont well over an hour ago, loom massively overhead. We reach the half marathon point, 21.1 kilometres, but I can’t see a Clock and, as ever, I’m not carrying a timepiece. It might be useful to know how I’m doing – it feels like I’ve been chugging along at a fair lick, but It’s hard to gauge.
We're into the town of Fish Hoek now, a slightly more ramshackle variation on Meizenburg but no less charming for that. More townsfolk greet us from the sidewalks, chomping on croissants and muffins as we thunder by, their weather-beaten faces and shiny black eyes impassive. Just on 23K we bid farewell to the railway and the beach to turn sharp right/ due west onto Kommetjie Road, the long easy gradient that crosses the Cape Peninsular to Noordhoek and halfway. It’s a symbolic moment in the scheme of the race; a farewell to earthly pleasures, to sandcastles and surf, to quayside creperies and seafront pubs. Time to pack away those comfy day-dreams and wistful thoughts; it’s time for business boys and girls. Knuckle down, pay attention; here starts the lesson.
We climb out of Fish Hoek, the sun leering at our backs. I’m getting warmer by the step, taking one water to drink and another to spray over my new cap and sweat-stained shirt. My calf remains a constant nag, though nothing more than that so far. There’s something else troubling me though, something new, unexpected and certainly unwanted; my stomach. And it’s here I must confess my folly, my unbelievably dumb breaking of one of the cardinal rules of distance running; never, ever, try anything new in a race. Concerned about the heat and consequent loss of minerals I’d persuaded myself to take on a nightly dose of salt tablets. Purchased on Thursday at the Expo these were long-lasting, slow-release chappies designed to gradually guard your system against cramp. My experience at the Jog Shop Jog, where both calves had turned to stone in the last mile and a half, had me convinced this was a good idea. Sadly I’d not factored in possible effects on my digestive system; only now, entering my 24th kilometre on race day, does it occur to me that I might have a problem. I need a loo break, and I need one soon.
This may not all be down to the salt tablets of course. 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 the rather over-eager Friday 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, if 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’ dead ahead – it’s the Sub Six bus. ‘Buses’ in South Africa are the Runners’ World Pacers, denoted by a small triangular flag bearing their target time, usually surrounded by hopeful runners. I plod steadfastly, the bobbing flag coming ever back to me through the rocking, 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. It can’t be this easy; I’d better ease up. Yet even with my foot ever so slightly off the gas I’m staying ahead of the group.
Through 25K and Sun Valley lives up to it's name; like Lee Majors in the fabulous opening sequence to The Six Million Dollar Man 'I’m burnin' up'. I’ve no idea what the temperature is – it’s still 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, gradually, inexorably towards the next phase; half way and the legendary Chapman’s Peak. The heat is on.
Photo taken on subsequent drive of the route - not race conditions.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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 at this point, 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
‘Getting pretty fuckin’ hot innit.’
I nod, a small waterfall of sweat and water 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 strongly 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 enough Dave arrives, upright, relaxed, looking good. A similar exchange transpires and he too leaves me to eat 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 all still to come, just as Dante would have them; in the inferno. I shake my head – more sweat flicks across those about me. I’ve got to lose those negative thoughts! It’s tough, yes, and getting tougher; but I’ve trained for this. Get your head down, dig in and shut up. But I haven’t trained for this – this infernal bloody heat. It feels like someone’s turning up the gas, steadily, easily; 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. Man I have to get to a toilet and 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, and will never wear another). We exchange 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 at this juncture. I confess a desperate need for a ‘bathroom break’, explaining after the usual response that no, a tree or shrub ain’t gonna do it for me. There's not much Rog can say about that so we plod on.
I glance left and see a sight to gladden the hardest, most despondent heart; Noordhoek Beach, beautifully white, handsomely broad, shimmering in the morning sun. The Atlantic Ocean, so much colder and more brutal than her Indian cousin, crashes wave after wave on the guardian boulders 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 left here on earth for we mortals to enjoy and aspire to greater things, to remind us that no matter how bleedin’ clever we think we are we got nothing on nature. Or God, or whatever floats your evolutionary boat.
The arrival of this view means only one thing; we’re climbing Chapman’s Peak. 30Ks in and we’re shoulder to shoulder, the old battlers from Paris, hammering up the steep ascent to Chapman’s Point. The winding road, so reminiscent in all but surface of our beloved Snake, winds upwards and northwards along the Cape peninsular’s western shore. Carved into the side of the boulder-strewn mountains the road is victim to dangerous rock fall. Realising the potential for keeping such a fabulous route, from Hout Bay to Noordhoek, open the City fathers invested in a vast array of safety nets and overhanging canopies. As we pound the tarmac, the ocean raging below we look up and see the rocky haul these fishermen have claimed and thank them profusely 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 baking in the sun right now.
The major benefit of 'Chappies' - at least the uphill section - is the shadow of the mountain. As fast as Apollo strives for his zennith he’s yet to 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, chirruping away to one another as on a Sunday morning lope. Ahead of us the road slithers around vast outcrops of rock, wrinkled and grey like the skin of a gargantuan elephant. The zig-zag course lures racers into thinking the pinnacle is just around the next bend. Of course it isn’t, and we giggle; we know this ploy so well. Our Sussex serpentine friend does this every weekend. We’ve spied the top, the only section of rock to so far catch the sunrays, and it’s easily a kilometre if not more away.
There’s a water station below the longest canopy section, just about at 32 kilometres, and I take a handful of baggies. One down the throat, one over the head, the others across front and back. Despite the shade I’m still cooking in my shell, a Lobster waiting to scream. The first twinge of regret has appeared in my right shin, but it’s only half an hour after my last painkiller so it’s grin and bear it time. 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 boulderlet lurking at the base of the rock face. 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 manoever given the circumstances. His hand is cut but at this point 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 singing, bouncing youngsters, waving and smiling as we stumble past. They’re uniformed in green Old Mutual shirts and black pants, boys and girls alike, and they herald the arrival of a remarkable oasis in this desert of Herculean labour.
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, amazed, bewildered at this madness. I feel like one of the abducted airmen leaving the Mother Ship in Close Encounters; I blink away the salty sweat, grinning 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, but even they have started turning me over. Rog gulps his down.
‘What a great idea!’ he beams.
‘It’s all down hill from here for a bit’ I gasp, pointing a finger towards the downward trail ahead.
‘All the way to Hout Bay. Yipee!’
It should have been a turning point, and it was, but far from the one I’d hoped for.
[COLOR="Plum"]Photos taken on subsequent drive of the route - not race conditions.
Last shot on raceday courtesy Rogcam (taken by recovering runner!)[/COLOR]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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 down to Hout Bay, from kays 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 even less fun than struggling uphill. My quads start to 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 through the cruel cambers of the twisting road. Then, a mirage: lo! What toilet on yonder outcrop sits! I start to laugh, desperately hoping I can control both my gigglebone and my sphincter as the mirth rises on a volcanic rush of hot hysteria.
‘Yeehah! Ah’m off t’the Khazi!’
I actally break into a full run for the first time in while, mentally shedding my water belt in preparation for blissful release. But wait; there’s a catch.
No, they’re open, 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 here.
‘Perhaps 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 and pulls out a plastic wrapped section of toilet paper. What can you say at a time like this? Hugging is ill-advised; exploding in an embrace with your running partner at this juncture would be a poor way to express one's gratitide. 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 without a word. The smell is tolerable and I lock the door and lift the lid . . . oh good Lord . . . it’s a bottomless pit! Beneath a bog standard (sorry) loo seat instead of a porcelain bowl and pipe system there’s an inky black vastness. Way below what looks like rockface is spotted with . . . well, we know what it’s spotted with. Undaunted by 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 passing the rest area.
‘I think the 6 hour bus must’ve gone by.’
We’ve been here at least ten minutes and I’ve no doubt the we’ve missed the bus. To be honest all my thoughts of times 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, lets get going.’
We take to the road again, 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 back at a decent pace when Rog decides to meander across the central white line. His low running style brings his right shoe into contact with a protruding cat’s eye, and 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 is running up his arm. There’s no point suggesting a stop – we both know that too many more breaks in our route and we’ll be off the map. With the sub six bus gone the next group will be the sub seven, and 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 still miles ahead of that, but I know too well loss of momentum added to the toughness of the terrain could eat that advantage 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, across rocks and flint, up and down slippery trails, and I go and tumble on a flippin' road!’
Another cheering throng greets us at the base of Chapman’s Drive. I doff my sodden cap in thanks for their enthusiasm and welcome support. They look hot, which in a very small way makes me feel a soupcon better about feeling thoroughly baked. 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 . . except actally, 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 quietly on a permanent basis, and now that we’re back in the full glare of the still-rising sun I’m finding breathing extremely difficult. 39Ks in and I’m really struggling. Three water bags to one go over my head or chest. I swallow the occasional Powerade too, but like the weird guy in Constantine who drowns himself in booze in the liquor store I can’t seem to get enough fluid. Rog is getting concerned. I know this because he’s started to encourage me a lot more. I stumble into a staggered walk, holding up a shaky hand in apology.
‘Sorry mate, I need to get my breath.’
I want to recover enough in the next K or so because my family and friends are waiting, as arranged, on the roundabout just ahead. I’d hate them to see me this distressed. 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? Then again, perhaps not. Rog walks alongside, dismissing my waved suggestion that he carry on alone. And then something happens, something so touching, so spiritual and yet so undoubtedly human it almost reduces me to a blubbering wreck.
Rog found The Lord not so long ago. He wasn’t drifting about all beardy and wise on the Snake or anything silly like that; he just had the occasion to find Rog, or Rog found Him. Anyway, El Rog has taken some good-natured stick from some, mostly from me to be fair. 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 the message. And here, on this apparently god-forsaken, dust-dry, sun-cooked roadside, he turns to me and lays a hand on each shoulder.
‘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 and help.’
I look at Rog and 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 Rog – 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 40K I can see the mound of the traffic circle at the main Hout Bay exit. On one of the large boulders in the centre stands Mrs S, hand shielding her eyes from the impossibly bright 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 my hot, stale bodily fluids. 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, citing the heat as a key factor. 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 intollerable amount of energy.
We set off again, running slowly, waving to our loved ones. I discard the untouched banana as soon as we’re out of site, 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 breath is 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 super volunteers line the parade 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 very fibre of my being. I’ll find out just how much courage I posses, how deep within myself I can dig without scraping the blood-dried wasteland at the bottom of my tourtured, salt-crusted soul.
[COLOR="Plum"]Photos courtesy of Clive Nel.
Rog & Ash's triumphant arrival at Hout Bay; Have a banana; Ooh missus, it's 'ot![/COLOR]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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 and 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 very strong and foolhardy elect to walk this section. Never mind all the macho posturing about not walking, it’s a running race and all that. Hogwash. This is tough, baby, really 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 every two or three miles now thankfully the water stations remain ubiquitous. I’ve no doubt the canny organisers realise 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 that I’ll make good just as soon as we reach the summit.
At 46K 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 a Bronze (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 fair crack.’
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 own leg off. The rest of my ailments – thirst, heat exhaustion, general decrepitude – I can live with 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 of self-sacrifice. For one the thought of Rog coming away with nothing just because he’s a stand-up bloke who wouldn’t leave a mate is simply to awful too contemplate and far 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 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 colourful multitude.
I’m left dragging my tortured limb in a horrible parody of Quasimodo, shielding my eyes from the sun, seeking Esmeralda – or more likely a paramedic. All I need 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 the simple underestimation of the heat and overestimation of my own ability, I’ve given it my best shot. I lined up, took my place on the grid, 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 courses hot-tarmac’d arse.
Man, 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.
Around me any number of people wear various shades of agony.
Here a young man stretches fit to bust against the trunk of a massive 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 has been a restful phase; far from it. You’re working just as hard to walk briskly up a pretty tough, heavily cambered hill without respite for four kilometres under a blazing sun. So it shouldn't come as a shock when one reaches the top and is not immediately rewarded with a flood of energy.
I stumble through Glen Alpine and onto Rhodes Drive, a wonderful, winding, leafy trail that will ultimately 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 the barbie. The shaded pine straw calls to me; oh how I long for it’s cool embrace! To curl up under the trees, sucking on a frozen fruit juice, dreaming of glories that might have been as I wait for the cosy, comfortable sweeper bus . . .
Tom Petty pops into my head:
God it’s so painful
When something that’s so close
Is still so faar outta reeach . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well, sod you, Demons. Sorry Tom: I didnt come all this way to ride the sodding bus.
Least of all through one of the nicest sections of the race. I just need something to get me going again, something to take this pain away and reset my iron will.
And blow me down, there it is; just ahead on the hard shoulder, set back amongst the ferns and shrubs; a physio station! Two banks of what appear to be large vaulting horses against which a rag-tag collection of human flotsam rest their fragile bones. A team of angels OK, they might be physiotherapists work vigorously to restore life to dead limbs; massaging muscles, beating bones and blood, chirping encouragement to rouse the 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 Ive not looked down at the offending limb. Id rather disassociate myself with the traitorous appendage, but I suppose I'd best have a look. According to the levels of pain I've been through I should see some horrible, Cronenbergian prolapsed muscle weeping from a ragged, bloodied hole . . . but it all looks rather normal, if a tad swollen. The fellow goes down on his haunches and takes my calf in two 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 again.
'Wow! Aha, yep, definitely there . . .'
He carries on, telling me I'm doing great and to 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.'
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 bleeding crap-arse 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.
The next six kilometres, all down hill, are a cacophony of violence and agony but Im simply not in the mood. Runners stop around me as I shuffle down Rhodes, past Honenort, Southern Cross Drive, Duntaw Close and finally the gardeners 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 the 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 with leafy shadow. More casualties appear along the roadside, some destined never to finish, others to come in agonisingly close but just too late to medal. My series of walk-breaks gets me into a bizarre game of tag with one or two runners. Helene, an international youngster (international runners carry orange tags, locals yellow and local veterans of ten races or more blue permanentnumbers) overtakes me and vice versa for 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 eminently pleasant real estate, nothing more than a slightly unbalanced Sunday stroll with the occasional watery gift thrown in. I cackle loudly (and look hurridly over my shoulder for men in white coats) as, with barely four kilometres left we come upon a shower station! Yes, just like in my first FLM there's a sort of timber frame-come-tent arrangement set up with sprinklers. It's a bit like dousing a swimmer as I splosh through but I take it anyway - at least it's fresh and cool, although the heat strangely stopped being a factor some time ago. I don't bother with gels - I still feel like throwing up and decide I can run on empty from here on in.
Just after 54K the notion that Im going to make it starts to dawn on me.
There are no clocks on the course but Ive enough grey matter left to know Im inside the seven hour cut-off. Oddly this realisation elecits nothing more than a spluttered guffaw, yet I sense a subtle change in my bearing - I might have to look alive for the cameras! Just as Im mentally patting myself on the back and writing my thanks to the Academy we reach an intersection and the course makes a sharp left turn and up an almighty bloody hill. Of course the killer, the final kick to the balls that Mr Weekly Marathon warned me of yesterday. Well, you know what? Im going to run up the bastard. And I do, working feverishly at an invisible Nordic Trac, arms pulling, legs sliding forward, head almost on my grisly sodden chest. I reach the top with less than nothing left, gasping for air, and immediately deride myself for an act of madness. Helene slides past as I curse myself, spured 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 Id need someone to extricate my limbs from one another afterwards. One last mini-ascent past the turn-off to the Old Zoo. I can hear a hubbub brewing, a roar that sounds at first like a distant ocean and builds and builds until it sounds like the Coliseum itself. My heart lifts in my chest as the runners ahead veer off the road, through a gate and onto . . . grass! The lush lawns of University of Cape Town rugby fields, the Groote Schuur Estate and the finishing straight.
From somewhere deep inside I pull a tiny glowing ball of energy and release it, through my heart and lungs, through my veins into my legs, and I run. I lose around a ton in weight, feeling light as air; is this the bends? Euphoria floods me, everything is beaming bright colours; the entrance arch to the final furlong, the screming, yelling, waving hoards along both sides; the vests of runners Im streaming past, my feet flying, barely touching the ground. Im waving like a fool, like a loon! both arms aloft, saluting the crowd like I've won the lot. And I have; I've won the bloomin' lot. It's the FA Cup, the Champions League, the Cricket World Cup . . . the '99 Treble, all rolled into one. I dont see my bouncing screaming family whove spent the last fifteen minutes (since Rog and Chris came home) biting their nails to the quick. I see only the finish, 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 stagger to a halt.
Someone hands me a ribbon with some 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 mad, helter-skelter last 200 metres. Every ounce of humanity has left me; I'm a husk, a dripping, panting, bent-double shell of a man.
And I've just finished the most incredible run of my life.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
First up, the facts.
Dave came in under the magic six hours to claim a magnificent bronze medal. Hats off to you 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.
Peter The Great
OK, so there’s the stats.
But 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.
Intolerable Cruelty
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 ‘Chappies’ – Chapman’s Peak – 2004. Apparently one or two competitors got a little worse for wear. Hard to believe.
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, just a hint of a smile playing on his lips. I grabbed his hand and pumped his arm and 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 12 miler. Another embrace, slightly longer, and heartfelt thanks for his magnificent support. Luke was there too, eyes a-gog; I suspect this young man may have glimpsed his own future today.
I wobbled off to the bar to grab a cup full of ice and 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 enclosure barrier was lined with finished runners and their families waving and cheering on the stream of 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 chap 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 tannoy.
There seemed no end to the amount of runners rounding the bend to the 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 contorted in agony. They crossed in 6:57. 6:58, still more coming in, and 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 of the finish zone. He turned his back on the approaching runners, looking up at the clock above. His right arm extended and raised, a small black pistol gripped firmly in his hand.
‘One minute to go!’ bellowed the tannoy.
I looked right again. Still more runners and 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.
‘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 hard, lips peeled back in supreme effort, back arched, eyes clamped shut; he poured everything into that final 50 metre dash.
BANG!
A waft of blue-grey gunsmoke drifted up across the clock.
7:00:01.
Andy, hands on knees, head almost to the floor, two metres from the finish line. The marshals stepped forward, directing the arriving athletes into a side exit, their faces emotionless masks under big dark sunglasses. I stood slack-jawed, staring at the finish line. Death aside it was the most terrible thing I’ve witnessed; the crushing of a man’s spirit. The crowd noise died with his ambition, heads turning away, unable to look. Down the field the few left striving for that little piece of metal slowed as if someone had hit the slow-mo button on a VCR. They walked like zombies towards the finish, eyes dead, shoulders slumped; but they would never know the agony of that lad.
I heard tales of dramatic cut-offs the next day; I’ll leave that for the re-hydration report, for there lies a whole series of yarns to spin.
Days of Chunder
I rejoined my family and Jacqui and Clive. We bundled Rog and Luke into the wagon and took them back to their hotel. I thanked the big man again and we vowed to hook up back in the UK to plan the next adventure. Mrs S’s face turned to pale granite.
All the way 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 cool dark liquid did nothing to quell the uprising, so I shelved the can and held on for dear life. Back at Chez Nel I made a beeline for the bathtoom, diving into the shower. Standing there under the stinging hot cascade I finally let go, emotionally and physically, watching the Guinness, Powerade and remnants of gels mingle with my tears to swirl down the plug hole.
Yes SP, it swirled the 'wrong' way.
And no, I didn’t make a movie of it
Mama Africa
On the following Monday we intrepid Oceaneers and our spouses, families and friends gathered at Mama Africa for dinner. 56K shirts and medals were de rigueur for the runners; team photos immediately after the run were eschewed so as not to embarrass the weak-assed amongst us (ahem). The food was sublime, the entertainment – from a drumming troop that just wouldn’t quit – authentic and wonderful. A night of laughter, story-telling and the consumption of much excellent wine ensued. We ended the evening on a round of Springboks, a pleasant little shooter consisting of something creamy and something green and no small measure of alcohol.
Warm hugs of true friendship end this African Tale.
Once again we dropped Rog and Luke off at their digs. Rog turned towards us.
‘Thanks for sharing your dream with us Ash.’
I didn’t say it then, and I’m only whispering to you now you understand:
[SIZE="1"]The dream isn’t over, it’s only just begun. [/SIZE]
There’s unfinished business in the hills of Chappies and Constantia. Like that hammy gap-toothed Austrian, I’ll be back. Roll on admissions.
[SIZE="1"]LtoR: Mama Africa medal shot; Sleeping Sweder post-race; Raceday medalists l/r Dave, Sweder, Moyleman, Rog[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
On the day after the race I partook of a Two Oceans institution; a visit to The Blue Peter.
This is a pub with perhaps the finest view in all pubdom. Nestled amongst the waterfront dwellings of Blouberg Sands the hostelry's gently sloping lawns afford a view across Table Bay of the mighty mountain and accompanying peaks. Casual drinkers and dedicated rehydrationalists sup their poison as the suns sinks softly into the hazy horizon. Seabirds wheel and screech, their ballet in silhouette against the spreading orange glow.
Clive, my host and guide on this cultural foray into TOM traditions, secured us a well appointed table under a sunshade not too far from the heaving bar and within easy reach of the Waitrons bustling hither and thither, trays laden with foaming ale and pizzas. The Guinness, a reasonable approximation of the dark nectar, flowed easily, restoring my reserves so cruelly flayed in the landmark's shadow but a day before. As we drank, Clivacious (as only Jacqui, his long-suffering and elegant better half may call him) took on his fuel of choice; Savanna, a popular Protean cider taken with a wedge of lemon stuffed into the bottleneck. They must be pretty good because the old boy sank a fair few of them, never losing his apparent thirst or desire for the brew.
After an hour or so (and a fair number of drinks) our number grew. Here was the purpose for our visit, a coming together of old friends, all veterans of the Two Oceans, gathered to sink ale and swap tales with increasing gusto and embellishment. First to arrive was Vaughan. Vaughan is a native of the Mother City, a man with a hard physique and a gunslingers squint. His smile is ready yet economic, suggesting an enviable ability to focus, and his polished, nut-brown bald pate has spent many a day in the warm California sun. He married a local lass when they both worked for an SA brewery. Said firm sold out to American giant Miller, and the newlywed spouse was offered a lucrative post in the US of A. They set sail for the New World where, following the addition of a couple of sprogs, Vaughan took on the role of Mr Mom househusband. He seems most comfortable with this, and why not? He takes on all the household chores, runs the youngsters to school whilst his missus racks up the bucks. Oh, and he gets to come back to Cape Town, on his own, to run the Two Oceans and the Comrades every year. 2007 is Vaughans nineteenth anniversary taking on these two monsters and hes hell bent on extending the run. His clan are shooting for a sub ten Comrades in June. Ninety kilometres in ten hours? Holy moley, just the idea is bone-jarringly hideous.
Next up are Roger and the first of three Mikes.
Mike is Vaughans garrulous twin. Hes rarely without his trademark grin, gleaming teeth set in a broad mouth on an equally tanned visage. His shaven appearance and choice of sleeveless running vest enhance the suggestion that he and Vaughan are related. They are not, save for their devotion to running Ultra races and racking up head-spinning numbers for their weekly mileage. Roger, grey, salt-and-pepper goatee and yet another excuding a healthy after-sun glow, sits between the Kojac brothers, often acting as referee as the tales get taller and the good-natured insults fly.
Last to arrive is Mikey. Unlike the other three Mikey has only run about eight TOM/ Comrades doubles. Small, wiry, slightly paler than his pals Mikey has the nervous energy of a hungry bird, eyes flickering around the gathered runners as the conversation, and the beer, flows. Its Mikeys stories, or, more accurately, the stories told about Mikey, that are the most interesting. Like the time the four amigos set off on a day/ night trip in a minivan to take part in a 50K run in some windblown part of the Eastern Transvaal. The boys had, as you might expect, loaded up with a case or two of cool fizzy drinks, not unrelated to lager, for the journey. These were despatched rather early in the venture; stocks were replenished on route. Arriving at their hotel the evening before the 6am gun most of the group dined and turned in. Mikey had other ideas, sampling the local nightlife until 4am. He made the start line, still intoxicated, and proceeded to stagger around the 50-kilometre track in unholy condition under a blazing sun, somehow without suffering a terminal collapse. The resulting apparition was described as damn ugly. It remains a feat unlikely to be copied in these quarters.
I told them how Id been moved by the glorious failure of the guy beaten by the gun by a matter of a second or two yesterday. Mikes grin stretched wider still.
Ha! You never heard about Mikeys blow out? Man, that was something!
Mikey had this idea one year he was going to be the last one across the line inside the limit. Hes left it late and hes pushing for the line, and hes going to make it, too. Except his sunglasses fall off his head ten metres from the line. So what does he do? He stops, turns around, picks up his shades and BANG! Misses his medal by two seconds.
Knowing chuckles reverberate around the table. Mikeys sheepish grin confirms the truth of it. I remain incredulous, jaw slack, an unsightly puddle of drool forming on the bench beneath me. These guys are joking about a race that nearly saw me off a couple of times. Another long pull at my Guinness settled me down.
As the early evening air cooled around us, the jars of restorative comfort arriving with alarming regularity, I realised I was out of my depth on any number of levels. But as the stories of races gone and campaigns yet to come unfolded I also understood that Id be sure to come back to take this mighty challenge on again.
You learn a lot your first time out, offered Roger.
Youll come back here and do better. And youll want to keep coming back; its a great run.
Hes right. Despite the daunting company theres more in the Two Oceans for me than simply survival. Perhaps not a bronze; that may remain ever elusive. But I would love to take on this course and run it well. As well as I can. Thats enough to bring me back.
LtoR: Blue Peter; Sweder & Clivacious; Rehydratin'; Pheebs at sunset
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Finally received my official TOM photo CD this week, over a month after ordering. Still, it's nice to go through the pictures and see how dreadful you looked at various stages of the race. Here's a selection, including a reminder that things could have been worse, along with a couple from Rog-air's collection.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Finally received my official TOM photo CD this week, over a month after ordering. Still, it's nice to go through the pictures and see how dreadful you looked at various stages of the race. Here's a selection, including a reminder that things could have been worse, along with a couple from Rog-air's collection.
Good pics. If you don't mind, I'll stick em on the Flickr site when I get a chance.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
