April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon

[Sweder]

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 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.