Ah yes . . . bloodied even, but unbowed.
Tales of tears, of blood shed, of dreams dashed and risen again . . .
. . . all to follow.
Internet access here is minimal/ non-bloody-existant. Apologies for the delay but hopefully it'll be worth the wait. Gives me time to sift through and wipe out some of the emotional twaddle
Thanks for the good wishes.
Off now to Darkest Africa* for some serious R&R. Good luck to the Parisian Crusaders - the gods go with you and bring wings to your feet.
Mine are raised for a while
[SIZE="1"]*The Wilderness Beach Hotel, Western Cape.
That first recovery run'll be a real chore . . . [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A quick note to say safely arrived at the 'recovery venue'. There's an Irish Pub integral to the hotel. Every second hung image contains the word 'Guinness' - the bar mats are all liveried, the collection of advertising memorabilia extensive and impressive. But do they have it on draught?
Do they begorrah.
They do stock Windhoek though, which is working out nicely as a warm-weather option. Good call once again, MLCMan.
Right, off to find a shady spot to work on this race report thingy, just as soon as I've watched Roma knock MU Rowdies out of Big Cup. Humbling to think that Fergie and the boys are about to deliver so much unbridled pleasure to footie fans up and down the UK by pulling a classic Devon Lock.
Hey ho. Nice to see the R's haul themselves out of the muck, Andy - they look all but secure after a couple of decent wins. Good to see Keano and his Maccams slip past old pal Brucey into top spot, too.
Oh and a HUGE thank you to the generous souls who sponsored me.
And a big 'Ya Boo Sucks' to the corporate Jonnies who are slow off the mark.
I'll be on your cases next week fellas.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:A quick note to say safely arrived at the 'recovery venue'. There's an Irish Pub integral to the hotel. Every second hung image contains the word 'Guinness' - the bar mats are all liveried, the collection of advertising memorabilia extensive and impressive. But do they have it on draught?
Do they begorrah.
They do stock Windhoek though, which is working out nicely as a warm-weather option. Good call once again, MLCMan.
Right, off to find a shady spot to work on this race report thingy, just as soon as I've watched Roma knock MU Rowdies out of Big Cup. Humbling to think that Fergie and the boys are about to deliver so much unbridled pleasure to footie fans up and down the UK by pulling a classic Devon Lock.
Hey ho. Nice to see the R's haul themselves out of the muck, Andy - they look all but secure after a couple of decent wins. Good to see Keano and his Maccams slip past old pal Brucey into top spot, too.
Oh and a HUGE thank you to the generous souls who sponsored me.
And a big 'Ya Boo Sucks' to the corporate Jonnies who are slow off the mark.
I'll be on your cases next week fellas.
My donation will depend on the quality of your report -- I'm not that stupid.
No hang on, given your usual standard, I think I am....
Yes, great news about the Shepherds Bush boys; less so for the Rowdies in the Prem. However, I'm sure you'll have found a TV somewhere in an Irish bar showing the Big Cup game. 30 minutes in, 3-0. It's looking good.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
[Sheepish Grin]Bit of a hedge bet there; if the Rowdies went down I'm the Oracle, if not they're in the Semi's. Still, no-one saw that coming I'll wager. [/Sheepish Grin]
Oh, and yes, I did watch it in the Irish Bar. The Guinn-less one attached to our hotel. We had the Rowdies on one screen, Chelski on another and SA humbling the Windies on a third. Still, the Windies have a run-fest to look forward to against our woeful bunch. Oops, there I go again . . . :o
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I know that this is not the correct place for giving you this bad news, but as you are in South Africa, I have no choice.
Gossip is already in Spain: Yesterday I was looking TV: Paul McCartney has a new romance: her name, I do not remember at all, but her surname is GUINNESS
Apparently he was picking her for dinner together (my God!), but she has discovered paparazzis, then she decided stay at home (what a chance for us).
She was dating with Prince Charles before Diana and she is going to inherit the whole Guinness Business. How can she still being a single woman!!!! ???
She is old and not very nice, but this is not important: PLEASE, there is any single RC volunteer for marrying this Guinness Heiress before Paul does it!!!!!?????
Ana Wrote:She is old and not very nice, but this is not important: PLEASE, there is any single RC volunteer for marrying this Guinness Heiress before Paul does it!!!!!?????
[Automated Response] Thank you for your message.
Unfortunately Sweder is unable to respond in person as he is making an emergency dash to Dublin to sort out some unforseen last-minute nuptuals. He'll be back to you in no time. Meanwhile, here's some music. [/Automated Response]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A small, persistent voice in the back of my head suggested a hard-top 5k the morning before the hardest race in my modest running history was not perhaps the wisest choice. Chris and Dave concurred, choosing to spend a few extra hours under their duvets in their Newlands hideaway. I’d long since abandoned rational planning, having been swept up in the Two Oceans swell that permeates every aspect of life in the Mother City. Rog was in, too, as was his son, Luke. That voice was silenced as we arrived at the Old Cape Building to gather with our fellow overseas runners under perfect blue skies; this seemed like the right thing to be doing.
We sought our national flag, held stoically by a large bearded gentleman from Kent, resplendent in full Union Jack vest (as was I), accompanied by his wife. These two were seven-time veterans of the TOM, although a collection of niggles had persuaded them to down-grade to 21K this year. They spoke of ‘the big one’ with huge affection and no little eye-moisture, citing support on the route and camaraderie amongst the runners as major factors in their return. These themes cropped up time and again in conversation with fellow athletes, arriving now in a variety of awakedness to flock to their flags. Alongside us nationals from Germany, Brazil, the USA, Canada, Austria and several African nations milled in the courtyard, taking photos of each other, an air of expectation and excitement building. The idea was for us to set off in our national clans to run through the streets of Old Town. I say ‘idea’ because this was the inaugural running of the ‘International’ fun run, an extension of the charm offensive designed to lure more international runners to the event. A loud haler announced that we would be addressed by ‘some special guests’ before a ‘leisurely stroll’ through the sleepy City streets.
The guests, introduced by the Deputy Mayor, included a Russian triumvirate of 2006 winner Tatyana Zhirkhova and current favorites the Nockabollocov sisters (looking remarkably like the Cheeky Girls, a duo I’d raced (and passed) in my last FLM). Much to my surprise the next guest was not only famous but familiar; Tegla Loroupe. Well I’ll be jiggered – wee Tegla, African Queen of the Marathons and fellow Almerían athleta – I just had to say hello. And for once this wasn’t one of those ‘err, I’m a big fan and, er, don’t know what to say really’ moments – this was a reunion. At least it was in my mind.
‘Tegla! How are you? Ash from Almeria!’
The bemused, slightly worried look as I rushed to engulf the mini-maestro melted into recognition. I could have sworn she cast a last worried glance over my shoulder in case SP was lumbering up behind. We embraced, exchanging pleasantries; Tegla would be taking on the half marathon.
‘And you?’ she asked.
Her easy smile faded when I told her through my cheesiest grin ‘the Big One’;
‘Man, that’s a tough race. Good luck!’
I rejoined my countrymen, an extra spring in my stride, grinning ear to ear like a simpleton. Rog: ‘Did she remember you?’ You know I think she did. Big Race Director Chet Sainsbury called us to starters orders, wished us an historical first outing – the first of many - and we were off, loping easily en mass in the piercing sunshine, waving lazily to the smattering of locals gathered to see us off. There was a moment of pure comedy as the British and German divisions converged simultaneously on the exit gate. We laughed heartily; then some Berliners stepped on the gas and we quickened our stride, giggles fading on the growing breeze as we jockeyed, good-naturedly of course, for pride of place in the field.
Quite a few Capetonians had emerged to cheer us on, mingling on the sidewalks with bemused tourists. We jogged easily alongside the City Castle, built by the Dutch a couple of centuries ago. There was no doubting the origins of the architect; only a Cloggie could build a defensive fortress as flat as a pancake. Through a city park, past the natural History Museum, up a couple of fairly steep (d’you think that’s wise, sir?) hills through to the rendezvous at the Victoria Waterfront. During the gentle thirty minutes I chatted with a number of Brits. One, a seasoned campaigner, resplendent in full beard and UJ vest, echoed the earlier comments. He runs a marathon ‘most weeks’ and had completed one the previous Sunday. His aim was an improvement on last year; already a sub-six finisher (and therefore holder of a Bronze medal) 'something under 5:50' would be fine.
‘There’s a few things to watch out for. The heat, for one. You just can’t imagine how warm it gets. Oh, and there’s a sneaky hill on the backside of Constantia just before the finish; it’ll break your heart. No matter how many times I run this race it always catches me out.’ He left me in no doubt that, just as with your first 42K, getting across the line before the final gun is aim enough.
I ran with Tegla for a while. Hang on – I’ll just say that again. I ran with Tegla Loroupe in the Old Mutual International Friendship 5K. The mighty atom chirped away about the conditions, the beauty of the location, greeting well-wishers with that easy smile and gentle voice. If I sound smitten I most unashamedly am; it was a magic moment in the midst of this adventure. I hope there are a few photos knocking around out there somewhere.
Despite the absence of obvious discomfort later in the day I spent a good deal of the afternoon pondering the folly of taking my place in the 56K. Only in the very darkest, quietest corners of my private thoughts had I the courage to honestly assess my calf injury. I knew it was bad. Kader had known it too, but knowing I had my heart set on Two Oceans glory had sent me off with the best (and most positive) advice he could after my too-little-too-late visit to his chambers. The moment of truth approached like rolling black thunderheads in a clear summer sky, and here I sat, not an umbrella in sight.
What challenges awaited on the road to Table Mountain?
How deep would I have to dig?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yes, and I'm sure she remembered you from Almeria. It must have been some comfort for her to know that she had some real competition along the route, Sweder.
Too bad, though, that Haile Gebrselassie turned down the opportunity of a re-match. But you'll get him, next time. Perhaps.
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 man’s 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 didn’t want the hassle of parking and walking some 2k to the start line, assuring me that he really didn’t 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 we’re 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 Cam’s 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 God’s speed. Their easy cadence flows through the waiting throng like raw energy as the pensive shuffling steps up a gear and we bunch forward, necks craned towards the start. We’re 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 thousands sets of feet. Waiting for us.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Even at six twenty-five in the morning Cape Town cant raise a shiver. 21C is the official starting temperature as we lope en mass down Claremonts endless Main Road. Remarkably many hundreds of locals have lined the streets to send us off, though I barely acknowledge them. Im focused; focused on keeping things steady, staying with the boys. Rog is off my left shoulder, Dave to my right and Chris just behind. Theres no doubt we all respect the distance, the size of the challenge, but now, in this moment, we'll 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; were 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.
Were 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 nights last shadow.
At three kilometres we swap suburbs, Claremont for Kenilworth. The picture doesnt 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. Weve passed a couple of refreshment stations already though Ive 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 dont forget about it for the entirety of this adventure that set of muscles will hold a place in my thoughts but for now its 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. Ive got to pull over.
Rog was not alone in committing one of the cardinal sins of racing trying something new. I cant 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 hed 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 wed 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.
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, infinitely 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 across False Bay from the Indian Ocean, 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. Then I spy a sign, laced to a lamppost especially 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-beated 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 if 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 sub-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.
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, basking on the 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 arrangement 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.
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, fom 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 is hardly 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.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon
![[Image: TO7-56K6123748%5cDSC_0623.JPG]](http://www.actionphoto.net/raceimages/TO7-56K/large/TO7-56K6123748%5cDSC_0623.JPG)
