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 this Prince amongst men.
This is no Oatish act of selfless 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 to 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 didn’t 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 I’ve not looked down at the offending limb. I’d 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 I’m 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 miss my cap 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 ‘permanent’ numbers) 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 I’m going to make it starts to dawn on me.
There are no clocks on the course but I’ve enough grey matter left to know I’m 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 I’m 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? I’m 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 I’d 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 I’m streaming past, my feet flying, barely touching the ground. I’m 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 don’t see my bouncing screaming family who’ve 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
Sweder, what an emotional tale of your great adventure. You brought me to tears often. I could feel your pain, and your stubborness to face your demons and still continue on. That is the toughest thing to do; its so much easier to give in. But you didn't, and you did it! Wow! I really am overcome with emotion for what you just accomplished. It is so incredible - you're my hero!
Thanks for sharing it all with us and letting us be a part of the Two Oceans Marathon.
Phew! I had to lie down for a while after reading that. That must have been really quite painful to relive.
It's been an amazing journey for you guys, and it sounds like all that training had a suitably dramatic climax.
I honestly thought I'd read the report and wish I'd got my act together in time to go -- as originally intended. But it had the opposite effect: the description of the race made me realise that I would never have made it round before the cut-off, and probably never will, unless something radical changes.
The real killer sounds like the heat. It's hard for us to be able to prepare for that. But anyway, you got through it. A fantastic achievement that will stay with you forever.
Thanks for all the great reporting too. It's been a thrilling ride for all your armchair running companions.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Astonishing! Congratulations Ash - a real 300 Spartans kind of run. But I'm not sure whether your report goes into my "Best of RC" collection or my "Beware lest this happen to you!" file... that was a really brutal race you had yourself there.
Will you tell Ana this is what she has to look forward to, or shall I?
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 B-line 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"]Still to come (in a few days - my wife is weilding a very large knife and an exceedingly short temper):
The Blue Peter; Drinking With Giants - Tales of Long-Distance Madness;
Walking With Elephants – The Chance Of A Lifetime
Photos[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:[SIZE="1"]The dream isnt over, its only just begun. [/SIZE]
Theres unfinished business in the hills of Chappies and Constantia. Like that hammy gap-toothed Austrian, Ill be back. Roll on admissions.
Nooooo, please.... I couldn't bear to read another of those.
Do something quick and easy, like the FLM.....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Shit a brick Sweder, you know how to fire a guy up - I'm re-writing my training schedule as we speak, um, I mean, as I type, er ... well you know what I mean.
As previously mentioned my access t'internet has been limited. I took the opportunity to review my report last night and was horrified to see some of the errors I'd missed in my frantic attempts to get the story out.
Perhaps, like the run itself, the report is suitable imperfect.
None-the-less I shall spend an hour in a Waterfront café correcting some of the most glaring offences. Apologies.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:As previously mentioned my access t'internet has been limited. I took the opportunity to review my report last night and was horrified to see some of the errors I'd missed in my frantic attempts to get the story out.
Perhaps, like the run itself, the report is suitable imperfect.
None-the-less I shall spend an hour in a Waterfront café correcting some of the most glaring offences. Apologies.
You mean you didn't really finish after all?
Bah. I knew it was too good to be true.
Better luck next time.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
How could I compare my own woeful story to that marvellous account.
What a fabulous recall of events - I got my head down and focussed on completing the damn thing.
It did feel odd passing the great man @ half way, so many miles slogged out and completed together. But it really was a day for the personal battle.
My moment came at the top of Chapmans, my quads turned to lead - the last half-marathon was a battle of wills to just keep chugging. In fact I think I sought treatment at exactly the same Physio station, great hands enabled me to walk-shuffle into the finish and I too also caught Rog, 2k from the end. How did he get past me? God works in mysterious ways - cuts and blood all over him.
I will say this - I've never run a better organised or supported race in my life.
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:Will you tell Ana this is what she has to look forward to, or shall I?
Perhaps I seem to be a crazy person, but I am too much down-to-earth for never evolving myself in a so hard race. Also me, I am not able of running 6 hours without visiting T**l*ts. Regarding this matter Im still wondering how will I do for my HM (because in my case it would require a very looooooooong time). So do not worry. This is out of question.
UltraMarathon You know what? I am happy enough just about having known that TOM exists, and ultra privileged that this fact has taken place thanks to the magical Sweders words, but I will stop on this way because everybody already knows that I am Sweders fan nº 1.
Dear Moyleman, do not feel complex about Sweder and please, post your report: we are expecting about your millions of steps
All the best for the FLM, Nick. Most of us on here have been down that path at some time or other, so we know what you're experiencing. If it's your first, you'll be feeling pretty daunted by it, but that's all part of the experience. A marathon consists of much more than the 26.2 miles. The adventure starts a few months before the race, and stops the day you die.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon
