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 AlmerÃan 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
April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon
