A Box Full of Knives

I got what I deserved this weekend. 4.16 is my personal best time for a marathon. I like to think that’s a pretty decent time for a marathon. Of course, when you’re friends with women who run marathons in 2.47 or thereabouts, you just always feel like a loser! “You’re not supposed to be comparing yourself to Comrades gold medallists,” snapped EP. Anyway, personal best 4.16. So when I crossed over the finish line at Kaapsehoop Marathon on Saturday in 4.58, one would think I’d be a bit disappointed. But I did a little air punch, smiled, bowed my head in gratitude and, of course, started crying.

When EP entered me into the Kaapsehoop Marathon on 3 June this year, we knew I needed a totally unachievable goal to get me off my couch and back out onto the road to recovery. The majority of my injury was over. I was still experiencing pain going up and down stairs, but I could run when the moment inspired me. I had put on almost 10kgs and I was breathlessly unfit. Getting onto the road was demoralizing and frustrating. But now I had something ridiculous that I had to train for and it had an end date to it. Amazing how student syndrome can be inspiring. How was I going to go from barely managing a 35 minute 5km time trail to a marathon in just 5 months? You just have to start somewhere. So I started. In a poetic twist, I started the day before Comrades in Durban. I was going to run Umhlanga Parkrun and maybe a little short warm up beforehand. I told EP and Lehlohonolo I’d do the warm up with them on their easy run. I won’t do that again. The little warm up was over 9km, run at pancreatic-failure speed. I wanted my 300 Parkrun points so I went from 5km time trial to PB 15km as a start to my marathon training. I really do try to be normal most of the time. It doesn’t come easily to me.

I had started my road to Kaapsehoop and it wasn’t as bad as one might have imagined. My broken knee and foot were a little sore after that run, but I rested it until I got back from helping at Comrades and started again….A little more circumspect this time. For the most part, I did my running return on my own except for a few lovely runs hanging on by my fingernails to EP and meeting some beautiful, almost long lost friends along the way. It was good to come back, slowly but surely.

EP fell early in August and tore ankle ligaments which had me having to get myself out of my bed and onto the road while EP snoozed away. It was tough on some of the colder days, but as Kaapsehoop’s date drew nearer, it became easier to haul my ass around the various neighbourhoods on runs.

Illuminati Michelle has turned coach and set up coaching sessions at RAC on Mondays and Randburg Harriers on Wednesdays. (You can join us on either evening from 5.30pm) I joined her for track when my foot was ready and started slowly. Work was crazy, so I only really got to track once every second week and both weekend long runs. I was getting stronger from the focussed programme my new bio had given me and things were looking positive for Kaapsehoop. I foam rolled. Every. Single. Day. I became very disciplined and focussed as October rolled around and I started planning for my date with my nemesis.

On the day, I was really terrified. I felt under-prepared. I had a plan which would see me finish in just under 5 hours, but really I would have been happy to get to the stadium in under 5.30 or even just get to the stadium. But I knew the treachery that was about to unfold on my still fragile legs. As I emerged from the forest near Kaapsehoop, just 9km into the marathon, I had my first cry and it was a cry of fear. I saw the downhill roll itself out like a red carpet in front of me and I couldn’t imagine how I was going to manage this. And then this calm enveloped me. A little voice said, you have nothing to prove. You have nothing to qualify for. You have nothing but yourself and your best and that’s what you will be today. You won’t be this race’s best. You won’t be your friends circle’s best. You won’t be any best except your best and you won’t even be your best ever best. You will be your best today. And that’s exactly what I did. I ran the race I planned. I forgave myself when I was behind and high fived myself when I was ahead. I was being the best me I could be on that day and I had a really wonderful run.

You know, running is like a gift of a box of knives. It’s a gift, but it has really sharp and painful edges to it. It teaches lessons that are usually quite unwelcome when the teacher arrives, but the lessons are gifts in every sense of the word. I received a huge gift from my favourite little knife this week. Thank you Kaapsehoop for the sharp stabbing pains in my calf today, but thank you for reminding me how to be my best, not by forcing myself forward, but rather just by being myself.

I ran most of the race in my own little bubble. I ran a few kilometres chatting to a lady who runs marathons for fun and I spent a poignant few minutes with Ingrid who I know is an amazing trail runner and was struggling at the end of her first road marathon. I was so inspired by her finish on Saturday. Truly inspired. I was also inspired by my own race. I managed a sub-5, just as I had planned….to the minute! I am less broken now than in previous post Kaapsemoer years.

Buddha says that when the student is ready, the master teacher will arrive. We sometimes like that master teacher. We more often dislike that teacher intensely. I now know why I’ve kept going back to my little box of knives in Nelspruit. Make no mistake, this marathon is almost beyond compare in it’s beauty. It is also almost beyond compare in it’s physical brutality and it’s mental torture in the last 8km. I have loved and hated this marathon and now I know why. I am the student and I was not ready.

Thank You for my box of knives. Thank you, Kaapsehoop Marathon, my favourite knife in the box.

Yours in the love of the gift that is running


P.S. On our annual detour home from Kaapsehoop this year we met this amazing family who I know are just another little gift I get from running. Nice to meet you, Buxy and Mohammed!

Forteeee Twoooooo! Yor! Yor! Yor!

I woke up yesterday with the stark realisation that I had run a marathon for no reason other than it was there. I had a private school education. I was a clever child. Prone to bouts of laziness (boredom/apathy) and daydreaming so I never amounted to much at school, but everyone knew I was one of the clever kids in the class. It seems, however, that as my forties have dwindled away from me, I have become a stupid person who would voluntarily run 42.2kms on the most anorexic training regime for no reason whatsoever.

Look, I’m not going to bore you with the details of Kaapsemoer again. The route was similar to the one I described here. I’m also not going to bore you with the details of how I’m feeling right now, because, interestingly enough, even though I have run two Comrades Marathons and several other stupid distance races, i feel exactly the same as I did two years ago when I wrote this. I’ll tell you a bit about the few peculiarities of this race compared to that one two years ago.

  1. I didn’t train much for this marathon. I have been injured for a while and I’ve been racing short trail runs. I managed to squeeze in a 21km about five weeks ago and an 18km about a month ago. Other than that, I’ve been patiently waiting for my knee to stop swelling and I’ve been racing these silly little trail runs. (I should just tell you that I’ve been getting podium places on said trail runs, but they’re very short and not too difficult mostly, so not exceptionally good marathon training.)
  2. I had entered the 42.2km in March when entries opened, but two weeks ago had resigned myself to doing the 21.1km…my being so undertrained and all. I was doing a brutal training session 10 days before the marathon and I was coping maginificently so an aneurism set in and I decided, hey! If I can do this 16km training session without dying and I managed an 18km long run the other day, why don’t I just do the marathon? What a fucking great idea! Devoid of any scientific reference or evolutionary process whatsoever, I resigned myself to doing the marathon. I am such an idiot!
  3. In my defence, however, the start of the 21.1km race at Kaapsehoop is not that inspiring. The start of the marathon has occasion to be really beautiful. This year was no exception. Because the race has grown so much (I like to think since I wrote a blog telling everyone how it totally fucked my body up for over a week) that they can no longer start it in the tiny town of Kaapsehoop. So we started in the “peerboord” up the road from Kaapsehoop. It’s about 800m up the main road. The nice thing (for me and one or two others only) about this start is that the first kilometre was all trail running. Everybody whined and bleated and complained. I was skipping along having a merry time. I really love running trails. The start was also very congested and the congestion generated a substantial amount of dust which made people complain. Runners are such complainers. About 1.5km into the race, a herd of wild horses crossed the road and ran through the herd of runners. It was a very cool thing to witness. All of this, I would have missed if I’d done the 21.1km.
  4. There were people that recognised me as SlowCoach and greeted me. A nice lady told me that I was the reason she was running the marathon. I felt like I should apologise. She must not have understood my English when I wrote about it!
  5. The road into the forest at about 5km has been resurfaced and is much easier to navigate. However, the congestion is still chaos at the entrance and exit to the forest. They really should have  fences or cones or something there to force everyone in on the left and out on the right. The poor elite runners nearly got injured slamming into a few lost back markers where Siobhan (Chev) and I were. Actually, Chev and I weren’t doing too badly as we turned to come back out the forest. We were probably in the middle of the pack somewhere.
  6. At 10kms I felt a twinge in my calf which escalated into a rugby ball growing out of my leg by 13kms. I told Chev and Joseph, who had caught up with us, to go ahead because my calf was blown. 29kms to go and my calf had blown up. It literally felt like a rugby ball was hanging off the back of my leg. It also felt like it was holding onto my achilles by a small very irritated nerve. Just as I was about to complain about it, I passed a lady from CSIR who was taking a walk. A man ran up behind her and told her, “Come on CSIR. This is early on. Pain is temporary.” And to those words I clung for the next 29kms and to which I continue to cling today as I type this.
  7. Ringmaster Dave had recommended that I take a run walk approach to the race because I was so drastically undertrained for a marathon. Run 5kms, walk for 3 minutes. I decided that 3 minutes would leave me bored (lazy) and so told him I would take 2 minutes instead. It’s quite a tough strategy to maintain and there were times when I cried because I wanted to walk but it wasn’t time yet and there were times when I cried because my two minutes was up and I wanted to carry on walking. But I was very disciplined, stopping twice only; once during a running lap to get a hug from Willy Jay at a water station and once on an uphill to get a hug from Justine. She stopped her car next to me and called out as I was trudging hunched over like Quasimodo, up a hill. She asked, “Are you okay?” I stared back through vacant eyes and asked, “Compared to what?” “Can I get you anything?” “Just a hug please.” She was quite surprised by that, but kindly got out of her car and gave me a hug. Love tank filled, I motored up the rest of the hill. Thanks Willy Jay and Justine.
  8. I had the lowest moment in my running to date at the 23km mark. At 21kms, I wanted to give up running. At 22kms, I wondered out loud why I had entered this Godforsaken race again and at 23kms, I wept, “Why didn’t you just let me die in my sleep last night?” At 26kms I realised that I had experienced my lowest moment in running 3 kms back and it could only get better from then onwards.
  9. I ran the whole last 5kms. I stopped briefly at 42kms to put my hand on my knees because I thought the race was finished as there was a man shouting out times as we passed him. Very strange. But I did. I ran the last 5kms, even the hellish hill that I gave up on last time, where I cried big ploppy tears onto my pink running shoes. I ran all the way up that hill this time and then I sprinted down the last kilometre mostly because I just wanted it to be over.
  10. My legs collapsed. I’ve never experienced that. It was very weird. I felt fine. I was knackered, but I felt fine. It was just my legs that wouldn’t obey my brain. It was such a silly feeling. I ended up in the medical tent because I kept falling over, but I felt fine. I was quite amused by this new running experience. Afterwards when we were all sitting on the grass chilling and relaxing, I would stand up and ready, aim, walk but my legs would go off in a different direction, much like a drunk person.
  11. After the race, someone said to me, “Did you qualify?” I stared at them for a moment, not knowing what they were talking about and then it ocurred to me that they were asking if I had run under 5 hours. I had, but I hadn’t done that in order to qualify for anything. I’m never running a race that requires a marathon to qualify. Again. That’s just insanity. Let me run a race for which, in order to prove you can run that distance, you have to run a distance that no other normal people would attempt. Just insane!

Having taken the remainder of the week off, knowing what i knew, we did a bit of sight seeing around Mpumalanga. We’ve got a really beautiful country. Erica made me hike for hours on end because she did the 21km and so wasn’t acutely aware of every single muscle in her legs and she merrily skipped from rock to stair to rock to hill to bony outcrop to all manner of naturally occurring instruments of torture, but I endured them for her. What a great, patient, tolerant friend I am! We saw some truly magnificent views, however. I am now securely perched at my laptop with my feet up and ice packs under my calves. No-one has been allowed to touch me yet. I’m still waiting to find out exactly what “temporary” means.

Oh yeah, one other really funny thing happened on the way back from the race. We stopped to eat at the Spur. As I was leaving (I was still dressed in my running kit and I was wearing my medal) a man stopped me and asked, “Are you a runner? I am also an athlete. I run too, but I come from Pretoria.” “I come from Jo’burg, but I was here for a race today.” “Oh! What race?” “Kaapsehoop marathon.” “A MARATHON? Yor! Yor! Yor!” he exclaimed hitting his forehead with his palms on every Yor! “Forteeeeee twoooooo! Heh banna! Take a picture of us athletes. Yor!  This lady! Forteeeee twooooo!” What an awesome moment! He usually runs 21kms races in Pretoria. I don’t think he would have been as impressed had he seen my Quasimodo impression for most of the forteeeeee twoooooo.

Yor!s in the love of running and temporary things

Slow Coach

The Reason

What does this mean? What does any of this really mean?

What does this mean? What does any of this really mean?

Our Running Junkies coach, Ringmaster Dave, has a new white board. He thinks he’s very snazzy with his white board. He has the same affliction as me in that his handwriting is illegible. I’ve typed it up very nicely for you up there, but it didn’t look like that when I returned from the warm up which felt more like a sprint to the finish. This is what I imagined in my head:

Each type of running junkie would get either 1. , 2. or 3. as their session which they would have to do 3 times. I figured, ag, I’m a SlowCoach, but there’s that whole Comrades Marathon runner thing which immediately puts me in a different league to other idiots who arrive at track sessions. So I reckoned I’d get the 3 x 300m which I could manage. Turns out I didn’t understand quite correctly.  Turns out that 1., 2. and 3. are the 3 sets. I was going to have to do all of those.

Dave asked, merely to hear the sound of his own voice, if we knew what “R pace”, “I pace” and “F pace” are. He started by describing R pace which is “a relaxed fast pace”. So the Illuminati would be running the 300s at 38km per hour and I would be running them at 4.6km per hour.  Dave told us to focus on our form during the 300s. I did for the first 300m and then I focussed on not dying and not vomiting up my own aorta. I had left my watch at home today which always puts me in an instant bad mood. So I found myself running with a B-teamer Suzanne. She was hellishly fast over the 300s and I clung on by freshly clipped toenails so that I would have a proper 2 minute break. Oh mein God! Just three three hundred metres. It seems simple enough, doesn’t it? Those three three hundred metres may as well have been a marathon. Then we had to jog. Slow jog. Its tough to slow jog with vomit blocking your wind pipe. And then we started the two hundreds.

I just couldn’t come up with a good enough reason tonight. Why the fuck was I doing this? Suzanne asked me if I was going to run another Comrades. I laughed. I told her she should have asked me that 5 minutes before I started the warm up. As I stood there at the end of the third 200m, I just didn’t know. I didn’t know if I wanted to keep doing this to myself. And it’s so weird because it’s not like my legs get sore. It’s not like my chest gets sore. It’s some stupid emotional response I have to lactic acid build up. I just want to give up. I just want to stop and trudge to my car with my middle finger in the air to everyone at track. They’re all such fantastic athletes and I just suck




It’s kinda like the mining strikes. Why should I work as hard as the CEO if I only end up with a fraction of the salary? Okay, the miners have a different view: Why should I only get a fraction of the CEO’s salary if I perceive myself to be working as hard as him/her?

I really couldn’t think of a good enough reason for me to carry on….and yet I carried on. I must be a very stupid person. Thankfully, Suzanne has a reasonably near-term goal. She wants to run Kaapsehoop. I told her not to read my blog about Kaapsehoop before she runs it but to take recovery shakes for 3 weeks before and to beware of the last 3 kilometres and the road camber. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth about my Kaapsehoop or the aftermath. She was also struggling tonight and so we muddled along together. I didn’t give up tonight partly because I knew that my misery had company and I knew that Suzanne has a goal. I have a goal but it’s only a year away and it’s just another Comrades Marathon so what’s the big deal?

At the end of the two hundreds, Suzanne and I embarked on our 4 minute slow jog which started as a slow amble but then Ringmaster Dave made us run. So we jogged. It was not unlike trudging through a Cambodian rice paddy, but it must have looked like a jog because Dave stopped stalking us.

What is “F pace”? I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. “Fucking fast!” said Suzanne. Dave tempered it with, “It’s almost almost flat out pace.” I think he only said that because with Illuminati and the SlowCoach in front of him, it was difficult to define it as fast or slow. There is such a vast cavernous divide between Illuminati fast and my fast. As far as Suzanne and I were concerned, we knew we had to run the one hundreds fucking fast. “How fast is fucking fast for a one hundred metre by a SlowCoach?” You might be asking. I think at our best, Suzanne and I managed about 21 seconds. That is more than double the time the Olympic champions take. The would run 100m, turn around and come back and we’d finish at the same time. How humiliating. But I swear, I felt like I was running Olympic times on some of those 100m sprints. I nearly vomited twice. I had an asthma attack once (it felt like an asthma attack). I had angina at least twice.

And then right at the end, the Ringmaster barked at us to do push ups immediately. His exact words were, “You can catch your breath later, right now do push ups immediately!” He tried to make it better by telling Suzanne and I that we had done very well and it was an excellent session. But then he proceeded to make me cry. Admittedly, I had been on the verge of tears since three hundred metres back, but Dave just opened the tap up. He told Suzanne and I that the only thing that would come between us and our being great is ….well….us, of course.

I cried because I know this all too well. It is very difficult to every single day fight the demon inside me, that saboteur of saboteurs. “Give up!” it shouts. “You’ll never be good enough! You’re a failure! You will always suck at this so you may as well just give up!” And the saboteur doesn’t only shout that about running. It’s everything.  There’s stuff that I’m very good at, but the saboteur finds shitty stuff to say to me even about the stuff that I’m very good at. “Give up! You’re a failure! You’re lazy! You’re just wasting your life here! Go back to bed.” And the saboteur is very clever. “Give up! You’re too clever for this gig! Time to move on because you’re bored, frustrated. You deserve better than this! JUST! GIVE! UP!”  Sometimes its quite difficult to fight that saboteur because its often a very persistant and very persuasive and very pervasive voice in my head. But tonight I did. Mostly. I didn’t do the cool down run, but I don’t care. I did those three fucking terrible sets and I did so mostly without losing my sense of humour.

Am I going to run Comrades next year? Ask me tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll have the reason.

Yours in not giving up.


Shady Aftermath

Dear Diary

It is now the third day of my incarceration in this quadriplegic’s body. Yea, though I ran in the valley of the shadow of death, I did not suspect this would happen to me. And the valley of the shadow of death certainly didn’t look like a valley of a shadow of death while I was running in it. In fact, it looked quite pretty for the most part. The last 4 kms were definitely akin to a valley of a shadow of death, their being born from the fiery depths of hell and all!

Today, however, I resorted to mixing my Futurelife with vodka instead of the usual water because I can’t cope. I have not been able to walk since Sunday and I can’t cope. Painkillers have not worked. Stretching exercises have not worked. Sitting has not worked. Walking has not worked. Lying down has not worked. Yesterday, walking around in my pool helped temporarily, but now I am back to my incarceration in this other person’s body. Of little comfort to me is that those runners who were in the A-team of that race down the mine shaft from Kaapsehoop (Kaapsemoer more likely!) are also suffering like me. At least my misery has company. Why the fuck would anyone want to do that race twice? I have friends who go back year after year to do this to themselves. They are mentally retarded!

The humiliation I have had to suffer as a result of the painful aftermath of that race is certainly not worth repeating. I don’t give a shit how fast that course is. It’s just not worth it. Do you know that yesterday I went to church and I prayed for God to let the litres of 32GI recovery shake I had been ingesting, work faster? What a shameful waste of a prayer token! That’s how much pain I’m in! I never ask for stuff from God. I’m always very grateful and sometimes very angry, but I never ask God for anything more than I have already. But yesterday, brought literally to my knees in church (and then unable to get up again without assistance from other parishioners), I begged God to let the 32GI work and work fast. Screw poverty and malaria and war! I asked God for 32GI to work quicker than the money back guarantee on the packaging. I can’t imagine how awful the last 2 days would have been if I hadn’t taken the 32GI. I may have committed suicide if I hadn’t taken it. I bet they’ll never put that on their money back guarantee. Helps to prevent suicide! What kind of clinical tests would they have to perform in order to prove that claim?

I couldn’t go to the toilet on Sunday. I managed to roll out of my bed, but then I couldn’t get up from the floor to get to the bathroom. My son had to help me off the floor. How humiliating! Then, when I got to the actual toilet seat, I couldn’t sit down. When, after 10 minutes of groaning and levering, I managed to get to sit on the toilet seat and I was done, I couldn’t put my pants back on. So I decided to take a bath because I could lean…almost….to the taps from the toilet seat and, of course, that was something I could do naked without embarrassing myself or my family or the paramedics. I thought the warm water would improve my situation. After the torture of having to lift my legs into the bath, I think I broke my coccyx plonking my body into the water because I couldn’t lower myself. The broken coccyx is still not as painful as the rest of me.

Can you feel, let’s say, your pancreas? Can you feel your pancreas? No! of course you can’t! No-one can feel their pancreas. You’re not supposed to be able to feel the stuff that just makes your body work. I’m telling you that I can feel every single thing labelled on this diagram! Every single thing.

I know I'm not missing any of this stuff

Stuff you’re not supposed to be able to feel

Not only can I feel them all, but they’re all in pain! No-one is supposed to be able to feel these things. My forearms hurt. Did anyone see me acting like a gorilla in the mist and dragging my forearms on the ground to propel me forward? No, because I didn’t! So why the hell do my forearms hurt? I run so that I limit the amount of stuff that can hurt. Evan says his fingers hurt. He claims that may be from having to clamber up the hill in the forest which I almost had to do, but I’m not sure one’s fingers are supposed to hurt after a marathon. Nor one’s forearms.

I am such a long way from the high that I was feeling on Saturday night at Melissa’s 40th birthday party. My brother even congratulated me in his speech. He told everyone about my abysmal sporting past. He said, “My sister, whose only attempt at sport in her life was to do drum majorettes at school (is that even a sport?), has decided to do the Comrades marathon and today she qualified to do that, so we’re very proud of her.” What a high! You’d think that any one of the overachiever sportsmen in my family would have warned me about this. By the way, I should tell you that I come from phenomenal sporting stock. Everyone has some or other sporting colour. I’m just a total adoption case. I can spell diarrhoea and use the word serendipity correctly in a sentence, but I’m in the shallow end of the sporting gene pool! So you’d think that one of these sporting geniuses might have warned me of what was to come. Not one of them. I’m sure they hate me!

Kaapsehoop is not my first marathon, you know. I have actually run other marathons. This year, even. I have run marathons and walked the next day. It’s not like I got off the couch on Friday night in a drunken haze and promised my mates I’d run a marathon with them the next day with no training whatsoever. I’m a runner dammit! I’ve done this kind of thing before. Never before have I suffered like this. This marathon has my gastrocnemius muscles with their hands up waiting to be counted. And they refuse to put their hands down again. I only expect to feel like this after running the actual Comrades marathon. In fact, I only expect to feel this shit after having won the Comrades marathon because I would expect to receive a very large sum of money to ever feel this awful again.

I don’t know what else to tell you, dear diary. My paraplegia from Saturday has been upgraded to a quadriplegia and I can’t go to the toilet on my own. I’ve come to realise how fortunate I was before Saturday. It’s the little things that count, really. Like being able to turn in bed and being able to put on shoes that can’t slide themselves onto your feet. Like pulling on pants. Like answering a phone which you dropped 6 hours ago and upon which many friends have been calling. Like being able to dodge Christmas beetles as they hurtle towards your head. Like getting up from the table and walking up two stairs to go to bed instead of sleeping on said table. Like being able to go up said stairs without the assistance of your otherwise totally delinquent dog. Like being able to walk down a slope forwards instead of sideways. Like being able to step off the kitchen step without having to plan first. You know, the small things in life. These are the things that matter.

I promise to be a better person, God. I promise to not yell at you in front of others again. Please can I have my life back? Please can I be a normal, functional human being again. Please.

Yours in the love of running, but not so much the shady aftermath.

Slow (stopped) Coach

P.S. I am unable to leave the table upon which this laptop is perched and I dropped my phone 6 hours ago so if you’re trying to contact me, I apologise, but I will not be available until further notice. Those of you who are posting jovial things about running that you’re about to do, keep it to yourself. And no, I’m not letting a masseuse touch me. If they’re not about helping me up from the bed, toilet, chair, bath or church pew, I’m not interested in other humans touching me right now, thanks.

My Hope for Kaapsehoop

While I’m still doing a very convincing impression of a paraplegic and my son is driving us back to Jozi (a place I really love), I thought I’d write this blog about my latest marathon on my road to the Comrades Marathon.

“So are you hoping to qualify for Comrades on Saturday at Kaapsehoop?” wrote Mike.
“Nah! Probably just same as usual: Don’t die! Don’t come last!”

On the one hand, I’m a realist. My personal best time for a marathon is 5:47:54. Yes, the lying runners I know all spoke about the fast downhill route that is Kaapsehoop Marathon, but 47 minutes is a shed load to take off a time over 42kms. More than a minute per km faster for the entire race. In addition, my shoes are not quite right yet. I’ve had abominable pain in my hip since April and, now that I’ve taken the orthotics out, my ankle pain and ITBS are back. So the realist in me recognises that I’m still broken and I’m still quite slow. On the other hand, the optimist and eternal romantic in me (you tell anyone about this quality and I’ll kick your teeth in) hopes, wishes, dreams that all those frikken glute and hamstring exercises done at 4am and the yoga schmoga are miraculously turning me into a runner. So every marathon is an opportunity to perform a miracle and run a sub-5 hour. The realist me is actually laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of that romantic dream.

I’ve really been looking forward to this marathon. I registered for it the day entries opened. The lying runners I know told me that Kaapsehoop is an awesome race: wild horses, beautiful forests, long fast downhill route. So oooh wow! What a great marathon to run! I asked my son, Frantz and his beautiful Bronwen if they wanted to come with for a nice weekend out in a pretty place and support me at the same time. They were keen and so we booked some accommodation and were good to go.

I’m not entirely sure why I want to run the Comrades Marathon. I’ve watched it every year since I can remember it being televised. Yes, I’m old enough to remember a time before TV. (Just cried a little there.) I’m always amazed by the magnitude of the race. It’s a very stupid undertaking, but every year, more and more stupid people descend en masse on kwa-Zulu Natal to run and walk in the footprints of people who used to run the 91kms between Pietermaritzburg and Durban in nothing more than a pair of Tommy takkies or All Stars! But two years ago, almost to the day, I had a mid-life crisis and announced my intention to run this Ultimate Human Race. The sceptical looks I got only made me more determined. And now I find myself on an emotional journey which far outweighs the physical one.

Today’s race was not lacking one atom of emotion!

Yesterday we took a drive up….and I do mean up….to the start of the race at Kaapsehoop Town because that’s where I had to collect my race pack. (Nah nah nah! I got a T-shirt cause I entered on day 1 and I got race number 99. Aren’t you consumed by jealousy?) Lol! I was aware, while we were driving UP, as I’m always aware, that downhill runs are not all downhill and uphill runs are not all uphill. I was aware that there were some pretty repulsive uphills in store for me. Just how repulsive was sneakily hidden from me in the beautiful forests! There were wild horses, one of which stuck his head in my open car window, gave my entire steering wheel a healthy lick and then turned his very smelly tongue towards my face. Listen horsey! No kissing on the first date! In addition to the very friendly wild horses, there were also wildly shagging dogs. Just a delightfully quaint wild and raw little place. It really is a delightful little village.

We also visited the finish at Mbombela stadium which was a very amusing sojourn. We weren’t allowed on the grass. Ever! Even today at the finish, we ran in, along the concrete in front of the stands and out the other side. A very burly Puma rugby dude yelled at us when we walked onto the pitch. Harumph! The change in altitude between Kaapsehoop and Nelspruit? 812 metres! This was bound to be a lot of downhill notwithstanding what I know about downhills.

Bronwen and I outside Mbombela Stadium - No Giraffes

Bronwen and I outside Mbombela Stadium – No Giraffes

Is that a Giraffe behind you?

All 3 of us outside Mbombela with Giraffe in the background

Frantz and Bronwen inside the Mbombela Stadium. Stay off the grass!

Frantz and Bronwen inside the Mbombela Stadium. Stay off the grass!

Let me tell you a bit about Evan. Evan has now, as I type this, run 107 marathons in his life. He’s in the 45+ age category (which makes him very old). He ran his first 25km race at the ripe old age of 13. WTF? I hear you say. Today he ran his 95th sub-3 hour marathon. So, essentially, when the majority of people are approaching the halfway mark, he’s finishing a marathon. The world record for a marathon is 2:03. So he’s not far off that ever! He has run 13 Comrades and says that’s enough. I think he’s also a lying runner, because these multiple Comrades runners can’t give up. They always swear blind this is their last and they’re NEVER EVER doing that to themselves again. At worst they take a year off and then they’re back again for the whole torturous affair! Evan is coach to many great runners. A real coach, certainly not a slow coach.

Evan slept on top of me last night. Wait! Did I just say that? What I meant to say was: I met Evan in the dining room of our accommodation (I will not openly advertise them here because they have these infernal birds which shriek day and night unabated!!) And it serendipitously turned out that Evan had the room directly above mine. So he slept in the room on top of mine last night. We joked about what a funny story it would make if he fell through his floor and my roof during the night, but, alas, it was not to be…the funny story I’d hoped to have. Evan and I were kept awake not by falling floors or ceilings or anything nearly as exciting. We were kept awake by peacocks in mating season. They sat on the roof of his room and every five minutes belted out this screeching sound which ripped us from any dream we might have managed to be having. So at 3.30am, Evan and I got up and were incredibly grumpy going to the start. Bronwen and Frantz kindly offered to drive the two grumps because their room was on the ground floor and they’d heard nothing the whole night. And so we headed off.

Brigadoon is what I was reminded of. I swear! I started a race in Brigadoon today. It was simply delightful. We sat in the car for a bit because it was rainy. Not rainy like Joburgers know rainy. It was a fine misty rain that kind of made you wet but not really. There was a thick mist that, although thick, did not feel heavy. How do I explain this? It was misty. It was great running weather because the mist didn’t lift for almost 2 hours and then, when it eventually lifted, it was overcast and cool. We got to the start a little early because I’m neurotic about being late and there appeared to be only one road in and out of Kaapsehoop. Evan joked in the car like he was a pleb runner like me. I just want to reiterate: 95 sub-3 hour marathons!! We’re in different leagues. If he’s in the A-team (which he would be), I’m in the M-team (which I would have been in in school had I got off the couch back then!). I dropped him off at the start in the front row and I squeezed my way into the back part of the crowd. Just enough to be sheltered from the nippy breeze, but not squashed enough to be trampled at the start. And would you know it, the start started us going further up that bloody hill!! The first 2km of the race were sheer uphill. But I’m good on the ups so no complaining there. I know that all those liars runners had told me that this was a downhill race so I was sure to get some downhills soon. There wasn’t a damn wild horse in sight. The whole way. I saw and had to dodge a whole lot of horse shit, but no horses. Frantz and Bronwen claim they were around, but I never saw them. I made a point, this race, to look up and enjoy the scenery, but no horses. The scenery in this race is particularly beautiful. We contemplated our fortune for having been born in South Africa several times during our run. For the first hour or so, there was just mist. I chuckled to myself every time I saw someone dashing off into the forest for a toilet break (don’t you people do this at home?) I couldn’t help thinking “Gorillas in the Mist”.

We went up the hill, turned around and came back down the hill. The advantage of that kind of thing in the beginning of the race is you get to see the leaders and see who, from your band of mates, is in front of you. Evan passed by. He wasn’t the first-placed RAC runner but he was very near the front. We ran past the village and I heard someone call my name. I didn’t look back, thinking that all the mythical mistiness had me hallucinating, but then I heard it again. “Brenda, is that you?” I turned around and there appearing out of the mist, like the angel she was before, was Sponono. What an immense joy to see her! You’ll be reminded of our first meeting at my first official marathon here. She is waaaaay faster than me, having already run two Comrades marathons, but she was waiting for a friend who had also done a Gorillas in the Mist stop to catch up so she was just trundling along next to me.

Before too long, we veered off the downhill into the forest. I may have met God in person on that detour. That was an absurd uphill and it was another one of those detours like the start, up the one side and down the other. There was a bit of chaos with front runners almost running us over as they crossed the road to go back to the downhill main road. This uphill was ridiculous and I cursed the liars. I cursed them. I yelled out loud. You know who you are: Justin and Megan and Chrissie. You’re liars! We just went up and up and up and then just when I thought we’d reached a plateau, my dear sweet angel, Sponono, advised that there was another upper up just ahead. Evan says that he had to stop on that uphill and rub his calves. Let me tell you that, for a runner to actually stop moving forward, there’s trouble. At worst, most people walk when they’re in pain, but to have to stop and stretch or rub pain, there’s a problem. And we were at most 9km into the race. He wasn’t the only one. Many people stopped there and stretched or rubbed their legs. I didn’t cry or stop. I shouted out to God and I shouted at the liars (I hope your ears were burning), but I didn’t cry and I didn’t stop. And then we were going downhill. It was steep, I tell you. Steep steep. We actually had to be quite cautious. Running cautiously is hell on your legs. As opposed to other running which is dead easy.

Me, Doctor and Sponono emerging from the mist, probably around 15km

Me, Doctor and Sponono emerging from the mist, probably around 15km

My brain reacts strangely to running. The emotion and philosophy centres get all the oxygen and the arithmetic and logic get sweet bugger all. 2kms into any race, I can’t add. I’m so irritated at races where they have the “kms to go” number instead of the “kms run” number because then I can’t figure out how far I’ve run and pat myself on my back. I really pride myself on being able to add and subtract and multiply and divide swiftly in my head, but 2kms into a run, boom! All functionality switched off. But I can consider the magnitude of the undertaking or I can contemplate the meaning of the “We Are One” written on another runner’s shirt and I can make a direct link between the shirt and the poignant meaning of it in terms of life and running and of course, I can weep with joy and fear and love and guilt and anger and disappointment and excitement and pride and and and. Whilst that is really lovely and probably makes this a decent piece of writing, it doesn’t help much when you’re trying to figure out if you’re going to blow a gasket at the 32km mark. And so God had sent me my angel, Sponono. She rocks! She had it all figured out as we ran along. Her friend, Doctor, eventually caught us and we all raced along at breakneck speed, up the hills and down the hills. I was getting worried. We went through the 10km mark at 1:03 which was a personal best for me and then Sponono and Doctor hurried me to half way by 2:16 which was another PB. I was worried that I was going to blow a gasket before the end at this pace. But I kept up with them. I walked more than they did, but I utilised the downhills better than they did and caught up with them whenever I’d walked. Sponono was holding back for me, but still watching the clock. She was amazing. Doc eventually hurried off because he was having to fetch someone or something and Sponono and I trundled along at a pace which she said would help us qualify, and we could work on our seeding at other events. What an angel she was. I struggled from 18km to 23km and she struggled from 24km to 25km where we met Frantz and Bronwen. Frantz came out and ran with me for a while. He is so lovely. I am so proud of my son. He is such a good human being. Everyone should strive to be like him.

Sponono kept checking in with me and checking on the times. There were times when we got quiet because it was getting tough. The uphills were long and dreary. The downhills were steep and long and the road camber was very steep from right to left which had you not only hurtling forward pounding your knees, but your ankles and knees were having to adjust all the time to correct your balance. It was very tough on us. There were times when you could hear our biting down. But whenever we were feeling down, we looked up and the forested scenery cheered us up. Sponono regularly spoke out loud to God which comforted me somewhat. She’s way more reverent and gracious than me. I generally yell “Why?” to God when I’m running. She’s not as petulant. The difficult maths km markers gradually became lower and lower numbers and, before we knew it, the 15km to go mark appeared below our feet. Sponono very factually told me that we were now at 15 to go and that had taken us 3 hours exactly which left us 2 hours to complete 15km. Could we do it? I had no response. I considered her words for at least a minute. She kept glancing at me, but I kept looking forward. Could this be a reality for me? Could Sponono have led me to a point where I could qualify for Comrades? I started to cry. She waited for a response, but all I could do was cry. What if a dream came true for me? What if I got what I wanted? What if I achieved something great? What if I qualified for Comrades? There would be no more excuses. What if I qualified for Comrades? What if I ran a sub-5 hour marathon? What if I didn’t fail? For 200 metres, tears fell from my eyes. I nodded and choked out quietly, “We can do it!”

With 10km to go, we had 1 hour and 20 minutes left. That seems like a lot for 10kms, but at the tail end of a marathon, it’s tough going. We both realised it, but our legs were finished. We did a bit of fartlek running and counting paces. But I was hurting. My heart and lungs were still in great shape, but every inch of my legs were hurting. My hip flexors were shrieking like those peacocks at the lodge and my calves….my calves. With 4km to go and 40 minutes to qualify, we hit an uphill straight from the fiery depths of hell. I tried not to look up, but Evan’s words from a Comrades talk last year echoed in my ears as they do on every uphill, don’t bend over when you’re running uphill because you’ll starve your body of oxygen and you’ll limit your lungs’ ability to help you. So I was running upright and the sun still wasn’t shining so I hadn’t needed to put my glasses on. All I saw in front of me was a steep hill. It was so demoralising. We were running less and walking slower. As we rounded the corner at about the 3km to go mark, I gave up. I told Sponono to go ahead and I’d catch her. I didn’t want my giving up to affect her ability to qualify because I knew she still had some meat in her fridge, but I was all out.

I began to trudge. That hill was so steep and it still went on for 2kms. at about 2.5kms to go, I could see Frantz and Bronwen waiting for me. I looked down. I said “Fuck what Evan says! Fuck what Sponono just spent the last 4 hours doing! Fuck everyone! And everything! Fuck this Comrades rubbish!” I bent over and trudged up that hill, crying big tears onto my running shoes that aren’t right yet. I knew I now had to go at 9 minutes per km to get to the stadium in time to qualify. I was walking at 11min/km and I just couldn’t run. I also knew that I would get into the stadium at 5:02 or something equally as cruel which would mean I just wouldn’t qualify and I would have to do this all over again some time before 1 May next year when the last qualifier is run. I just cried and cried. And the sight of my son didn’t help. How disappointed he must be to see me walking. Each time he’d seen me before on the road, I’d been running and mostly smiling. Here I was so close to achieving something great and I’d given up. I must be such a disappointment to him. He got out the car and ran over to me. “What’s with the walking?” he asked cheerfully, “Don’t make me take off my belt!” he joked. I laughed. I laughed away my tears and told him I was done. I just couldn’t run any more. “Yes you can! You’re nearly done. Don’t give up now.” And we ran together. Him in his flipflops and me in my shoes that aren’t quite right yet. Bronwen drove the car ahead a bit and Frantz and I chatted. I shouted at God one more time. “Why do I have to finish this?” I apologised to Frantz and told him he shouldn’t talk to God like that. He laughed. I’m sure God laughed too. Frantz had watched as Sponono and I caught up to and overtook other runners and he said there was a lady in a green shirt that I should be able to overtake if I hurried a little. Hurry? You’re kidding right? We’re talking about survival here and you’re saying hurry? I had to hurry, though. With 2kms to go, I was 17 minutes away from the stadium finish. It seemed like an impossible task, but Frantz kept going with me. Finally, with 1km to go, the uphill ended and a downhill to the stadium unfolded before me. That 1km still seemed like an insurmountable task, but my child was next to me. Then many little school kids were running beside me. I love young people. I love their positive spirits. I love their joy. I love the endless possibilities that they represent. I love the potential greatness that lies within each one of them. And I realise that my brief interaction with them may change their world. So I try to interact with them meaningfully and with love when I encounter them in life. I sprayed them with a water sachet I had in my hand and I laughed at them when they gasped. It passed the time but I was running at 6.15min/km with them at my side and we were happy. Frantz had taken his flipflops off (because now we were speeding! Kind of.) and he was running barefoot on the tar. Ouch! But he didn’t stop. He just kept with me, encouraging and laughing. And then we got into the gate of the stadium. He asked if I was okay or if I still needed him. Time was 4:46:45. I told him I’d be fine and thanked him with a kiss. As I approached the stadium entrance, my heart sank. It looked like I still had to do a lap on the grass and I just knew my legs wouldn’t get me there in under 5 hours. But then, because of the big burly Puma guy not wanting us runners running on his pristine grass, it wasn’t like that and I crossed the finish line in 4:47:18. I was overwhelmed with emotion. I had qualified for Comrades. I don’t know how to explain how this feels. It seems such a silly thing to get emotional about, but I know I can run Comrades. I know I have the mental will power to run Comrades, but I just never thought I’d be able to qualify because I’m just too slow. Just last week I got so depressed because I believed I’d never be fast enough and so all this running would never amount to a Comrades marathon. I believed that I just didn’t have the musculoskeletal system to support a sub-5 hour marathon.

Many people who had been part of my race as I made my way from Brigadoon to that place where thou shalt not run on the grass, greeted me and congratulated me at the finish, but all I did was cry and nod my gratitude to them. I searched for Sponono who had come in about 2 minutes ahead of me and I thanked her through my crying. I’m still crying, by the way.

We’re nearly home now and Frantz just broke about 70 traffic laws to get us out of a traffic jam on the highway because we have my sister’s black tie 40th birthday celebration to attend. I’m not crying because we’re breaking the law or because I have to put on a dress and high heels shortly. I’m getting a horrible fever because we’re breaking the law and I have to put on a dress and high heels shortly. I’m crying because the pressure is off for now. The constant berating myself for not being fast enough is gone for now. The resignation that Comrades will forever remain something I watch other people do is gone for now. The saboteur in me who wants me to fail so that I can believe that I’m a loser is back in her box. Those monsters are always there, voicing their incorrect opinion, but for now they’ve been silenced. I’ve qualified for Comrades. Piep piep! In addition to that, I’ve improved on my marathon time by 50 minutes in just 7 months. Granted it is alleged that it’s a fast downhill course and the weather was ridiculously perfect for runners so I could have expected a 30 minute improvement at best because of course conditions, but I’ve improved. I can feel how my muscles and bones have changed. I can feel how much stronger I’m getting. It’s amazing what you can achieve when you take and then acutally implement the advice of an expert like my physio, Clare-Anne.

I suspect that my paraplegia might be slightly worse tomorrow, but I’ve taken all the recovery stuff and I’m drinking loads of water so holding thumbs.

Yours in the love of running and overcoming.
The Slow Coach

Stolen with no permission whatsoever from Graham Baird Photography. Click the pic to visit his website.

Wild Horses in the Kaapsehoop mist

Also shamelessly stolen from Sharon Senior's website. Click on the pic to visit her site.

Kaapsehoop Village