Tales from the Two Oceans

[Sweder]

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 gunslinger’s 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 Vaughan’s nineteenth anniversary taking on these two monsters and he’s 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 Vaughan’s garrulous twin. He’s 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. It’s Mikey’s 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 I’d been moved by the glorious failure of the guy beaten by the gun by a matter of a second or two yesterday. Mike’s grin stretched wider still.
‘Ha! You never heard about Mikey’s 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. He’s left it late and he’s pushing for the line, and he’s 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. Mikey’s 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 I’d be sure to come back to take this mighty challenge on again.

‘You learn a lot your first time out’, offered Roger.
‘You’ll come back here and do better. And you’ll want to keep coming back; it’s a great run.’
He’s right. Despite the daunting company there’s 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. That’s enough to bring me back.

LtoR: Blue Peter; Sweder & Clivacious; Rehydratin'; Pheebs at sunset