Mandela Day Marathon

The Mandela Day Marathon commemorates South Africa’s first black president by running a race from a site in Pietermaritzburg where he gave his last political speech before imprisonment to the site where he was ultimately captured in the hills beyond Howick.

There were many indications that I was in an African race. I parked in the stadium near my hotel and boarded a minibus. The experience gave me a true appreciation for all of the people who daily queue up for rides home every day. After a long wait, we finally filled up and rolled off toward the start line which happened to be in a township.

Time to Starting Gun (1:00=1 hour, :58=58 min, etc.)

1:00 – People are warming up by doing plyos and sprints in the corral. That is with an hour to go.

:58 – People mob the corals reenacting what I can only assume are moves from Dance, Dance Revolution. Recognizing I have no rhythm, my butt remains on the cold concrete.

:48 – The first round of Shosholuza echoes through the crowd. I sing.

:44 – The barriers between the corals are removed causing the crowd to surge forward and initiating the steady flow of people pushing and cutting their way to the front. With three-quarters of an hour to go everyone is jammed up. I am at the very back having stepped out to take a pee at the moment this happens.

:38 – A taxi bus, carrying what I can only assume are elite athletes or dignitaries of the race, has made its way up through the corral toward the start. It is now 100m from the line and progress has halted. Immediately rivers of urine begin to flow past my feet.

:36 – Bus is moving again. I have tucked in behind it to move closer to the front. Looking at my reflection in the back window I notice the large stripe of toothpaste residue on my chin from brushing. It has only been 2 hours and a couple of hundred people since that happened. Classy.

:24 – Violence is breaking out. Runners refuse to move. The bus honks its horn. Runners revolt and pound on the bus. Race organizers plead for compromise over the loud speaker. I wonder if this is what Mandela would have wanted.

:18 – Sanity prevails and the car pushes through. People relax as a man hangs from the start line scaffolding and screams into the crowd. I am reminded of the ride in as we moved past shebeens (shebeens are most often located in black townships as an alternative to pubs and bars, where under apartheid and the Rhodesian era, black Africans could not enter a pub or bar reserved for whites – illegal alcohol was usually sold). I think maybe he was there recently.

:14 – Round 2 of Shosholuza breaks out. The national anthem follows, fists pump in the air. I notice some people sing parts of the song but not others (like the Afrikaans verse). I think it is not what Mandela would have wanted.

:05 - Round 3 of Shosholuza begins.

:03 – Dance party 2 breaks out and lasts until the gun.

Immediately I am 1000 people back and facing a monster of a hill. My first K is in 5:34 and I enjoy the slower pace. The next 5 km is a series of bombing downhills alternating with steep uphills but the paces settles to under 5:00/K (8min/mile). Hundreds of people make their way to the street’s edge in the soft dawn light to spectate. It isn’t long before we are on a main road, groups of people pack the shoulder of the road while cars and taxis race by in the other lane, inches away from the participants. To confuse matters two cows munch grass in the median of the 4-lane highway. At the next turn a cab barrels up onto the grass and over the berm, narrow missing oncoming commuters and the police officer there directing traffic, who don't even flinch. To my left a competitor blasts a snot rocket, the mist glistening in the morning sun. To my right, another runner coughs and blows his nose in his hand, then offers me a water sachet – I politely decline. I mosey on, a smile on my face with the recognition that this is Africa.

Never have I found a race that simulated the big 2 (Comrades and Two Oceans). I could have sworn I was climbing in the trees of Constantia forest or huffing over the Valley of 1000 Hills. The images of hyperactive locals emerging from shacks overlooking deep valleys and rolling hills reminded me of my favorite races in South Africa. However, the 6.5km climb starting at 6 miles proved to be both longer and steeper than either Chapman’s Peak or Inchanga. For nearly 40 min we climbed very slowly up and up, winding along the hillsides only to look across a valley to see the climb continuing far on the neighboring hills. Dead dogs lay in the ditch creating a significant stink. Finally cresting the top we returned to a normal running pace but in crossing the halfway point in 1:51, I knew there was no real chance of cracking 3:30 on the day.

I had built a nice little bus behind me and we started unloading 4:30/kilometer after halfway. However, this proved to be a bit stiff for these guys and I was soon alone. Having only run about 3 weeks at 30 miles a week since the ultra, I wanted to be conservative. With time out the window I was free to just run. I begin to focus on just passing people, catching large numbers as the race goes on. In fact, I snatch 87 people in the last 6K when people are strung out and I am tired. I was gobbling up 15-30 runners per K in the last half without being passed. From 14K in to the end I passed almost 300 people, and many more before that.

Sign marking the capture site sits below the finish line.

Discomfort, which had been benign until now, encroached in the final 2 K. This was very positive as I expected a struggle before this but was lucky. A final dirty climb pulled runners up into the field near the Nelson Mandela capture site. Instantly I walked out of the corrals and into nothing. I had no idea where to go. Eventually I made my way about 500m down the hill and into a field where buses (cabs) were waiting. I boarded one heading back to where my car was parked but we sat for 30 minutes until it was full. A bouncing, back roads journey took more than an hour to bring us back to the stadium as people kept requesting to be dropped at various stops along the way. When it was finally over, I started my 5 hour drive back to Joburg.  The best part was when I stopped for the obligatory post-race milkshake and a woman started miming running and pointing at me.  Since I was wearing a Comrades shirt, I thought she was just being silly, but then the woman next to her said, "We saw you on tv today."  I was the 4th white finisher so despite not being a hero in any form, I must have stood out on television.

Burning River 100

 I was being eaten alive. The pain was unbearable while sweat and tears dripped down my face, attracting more of the swamp dwellers already feasting on my prone body. Locked in a v-sit position in a rigor mortis state, it was time to assess my options.

In the summer of 2008, I went for a stroll in the Ohio woods. 50 miles later, I was hunched over on a trail, throwing up, one of many bouts of vomit that day. After 30 miles of decent running, my stomach churned, food no longer was an option and I did not want to do anything other than slog on, and even that was a far cry from fun. An emergency call to my crew had them meet me in time to blow several gallons of liquid all over the road, and after limping 5 miles to the aid station, I called it quits after stiff legs and more puke determined that 50 more miles would be an awful way to spend the next night and day. Later that night while resting in a hotel room, I had a seizure from the lack of electrolytes.

Wouldnt it be nice to feel as good at  50 miles as you look at 0 miles?

Five years later I stood in front of Squire’s Castle again in the hopes of redeeming myself against this race. Coming off the best training I had ever done, I started with thoughts of a recent disappointing Comrades finish on my mind. After a 10k in the woods, all was well, though the crew would later say that I didn’t look happy and free. Something about this race from the first steps wasn’t right, a feeling I would never shake that day. The following 10K and subsequent 8k sections were full or running and road. I walked as much as I could in the attempt to reach my pacer at 55miles with lots of running left in me. At 17 miles I would never know just how impossible that would turn out to be.

Feeling decent at 26.2miles

The stretch from 17 miles to 41 (the next crew point) had many trails and the rain, which started after a couple of hours into the race, would not let up for the better part of the next 9 hours. A course that had seen record rains for the month was getting on its final weekend, another dousing. We navigated the mud, glad the sun was held back and temps were cool, a stark contrast to the 80 degrees the course normally sees. Humidity was still high due to the dampness but it would have been a lot worse if it had been hotter. Little did we know as we uttered those words, many would opt for the heat in comparison to the alternative.

By 41 miles, soaked and sour from the Heed energy drink at the aid stations, I mentioned to my crew, “I just wish I felt better at this point.” Nothing was wrong. I was making great time and had been fueling very well. But something was just not right. Over the next 5 miles I could not seem to work out what it was and when I arrived at 46.4 mi, I sat down and tried to really go deep with the fuel, eating lots of soup and other things to settle the stomach and fuel the body for the remaining 55 miles to the finish. Within 1 mile, all bets were off.

The section to Snowhill, 50 miles and halfway, was perhaps the worst section of running I have ever endured. The trail, if there was one, was a soupy mess of water and mud, dug deep with pockets from the shoes of runners and the hooves of horses. There was not a dry step in the house, and the amount of physical exhaustion to keep my balance in this area was rivaled only by the mental anguish of negotiating every single solitary step of the trail. Not one stride was wasted glancing around and enjoying the scenery. If an ultrarunner’s talent is to zone out to make the distance pass, we were in runner hell. A few twinges in my calf muscles earlier had prompted me to try and beat the cramps with food and salt at the previous aid station. But on the trail between a mud bog and a high log, they hit, and hit hard.

First my right leg seized. I looked down, watching the tendon that connects my ankle to my knee on the right side bulge in slow motion, like a scene from some WWII epic – grey skin, mud, no sound, but a grotesque view nonetheless. As I slowly bent and stretched my hand out to correct this muscular anomaly, the left leg shot pain up into my core and it too locked unresponsively. I hobbled club-footed for a few steps from left to right, sliding in the mud, before yelling out a feeble cry and tumbling headlong into the waist-high overgrowth. I cringed and lunged halfway to my feet, stuck in a bent over position, unable to move.

While waiting for the pain to subside, a guy came up on the trail but didn’t see me. Just as he reached my outstretched feet, he shouted in surprise, “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” and on he ran. Thanks, pal. Luckily, an elite woman who was having an off day came up on me. She asked if she needed someone to be sent back from the next aid station. Thankfully I denied her request as I ultimately would beat her there. But she did kneel and give me salt tablets and a pull from her water bottle, which was filled with coconut water. After slapping more bugs from my skin, I inched into a sitting then standing position, cramping the whole way. Soon I was walking, though the cramps threatened with every lift of the leg over mud or fallen tree. We walked and chatted for a while, surviving the leg, which never improved.

Between the bogged out mud sections I would attempt to run for a minute or two behind those that passed me. It never lasted very long but I made progress. Just when I thought it would never end, I emerged to the Snowville aid station and the 50.4 mile mark, halfway. Defeated, I sat in a chair attempting to eat and drink whatever possible. My watch read 9:30, which was a decent split despite the horrific last 4 miles. As I staggered down the road past the point where I had thrown up in 2008, I remembered just how long I had to limp before Boston store. Most people around me were now walking substantial portions of the course and I continued to attempt to run small sections as long as my cramps abated and energy sustained. This continued for a few miles, but soon it would become evident that this was no way to complete the day. I was slowly crashing and there was nothing that could be done about it. For the final two miles, I could no longer run, and I began to think of how I would handle meeting my pacer, struggling on for 10 miles, and finally admitting defeat to Sarah.

I pushed with all I had to jog down the road to Boston store but after 80m, it was a waste of energy. I stumbled to the curb and just started walking. Just ahead, Sarah stood on the sidewalk, calling me in. Immediately the tears came to my eyes and a feeling of disappointment washed through me. She wasn’t 10 miles ahead as planned. She was here, and she knew I was in trouble.

I plopped in the grass exasperated and began to tell Mike and Sarah my troubles. Mostly, I contemplated what was wrong with me – why was I continuing to have trouble feeling good even after fueling and pacing well? Like a good crew, they pulled me up and said to just walk on. Just see what happens. Reluctantly, I ate some food and began to walk out with Mike. We had about 3.9 miles to the next aid station and I was agreeable to try and see if things would improve, even though I was persistent that they would not. We walked for a bit and I tried to show him my problem. Amazingly, no cramps came, but the sitting and walking had left my quads shot and heavy. A mile-long hill allowed us to walk uninterrupted before gingerly jogging into the trail. We continued to chat and walk, running very brief spurts of trail when I could, which was infrequently and never longer than 30 seconds or so. While the cramps had vanished, my legs now proved to be empty. Gu and Gatorade went in but the sugars were now turning the stomach and I knew that my time was limited. We arrived at the next aid station and ate some more. Like the best crew that they are, the push was to go on. My stance was this: I can keep walking. I might be able to walk to the finish from here (I had 17 hours). But did I want to? Was that how I wanted to spend my day, walking on the trail? Plus, my concern was that eventually, the body would quit, and I would not be able to walk the prerequisite 2.5 miles per hour, making the day worthless. Can you imagine walking 55 miles only to miss some cutoff by minutes? Kill me now.

But leave we did and negotiated a mile of trail before hitting a road. While a road sounds nice, the pavement pounding on tired legs was more torture, not to mention the beauty of the trail was now gone. We could see a long way and it never seemed to end. Even the short bursts of “running” (which were now sad shuffles at about 16 min/mile) left me completely winded on the flat road. Mike later said he knew this was where it would end, watching my eyes roll back in my head with the effort. But we struggled on, down a horribly monotonous bike and hike trail, with people walking ahead and people walking behind. My feet started to feel like I was walking on sandpaper. It had stopped raining hours ago. After several miles, the feeling changed from one of scraping and rawness to a dull, almost painless throb that resembled walking with blocks of ice strapped to the bottom of my feet. None of these are good signs, and I knew that even if my body held up, my feet were on a rapid demise. As we got closer to the aid station, I put in all I had left. I led a run of about 300m around a field and parking lot, the most I had run continuously in about 4 hours. Then, with only one stretch of trail to go, I gave it a go, letting all worry and pain go and just ran. This was the best I had felt in about 25 miles, and it seems like I could have gone on another section. But I could not. The effort left me completely finished – there would be no more running that day. After nearly 15 hours, most of the last 7 hours at a walk or sloppy jog, I determined that my day was done. Another DNF.

When reflecting on it, I am not disappointed or sad. Sure, I wanted to finish the race. But not like that. I have a Leadville and Western State buckle, I know I can do this. But hiking all afternoon and night to possibly struggle in, no, I have been in the hospital enough to know that isn’t worth it. That limp, that isn’t why I run. I am not some endurance junkie that loves to go longer and harder than before. I run ultras because I love to run, and ultras let you run more. But ask me if I enjoyed this race? No. I did not love the 10 hours of rain. I hated the swampy, slick, and dangerous trail. And while pain and slowing is inevitable in any long race, to be slashed at 47 miles and have to walk the rest, that isn’t my idea of enjoyment, in any sense of the word. I let my crew push me on from 55 miles. They wanted to know it wasn’t a low point – they wanted to know I did what I could. And did I at 55? No. I couldn’t be happier to have left and completed those next couple of segments. I left it all on the trail, 100%, there was no question that I had my day and my day was done. And that is a result I can live with.



A little glimpse of the feet after dropping out.  The deep ridges represent blisters folded under other skin.





Is the 100 miler right for me? I am at a serious crossroads where I do not know if it is. I am becoming more and more interested in exploring other (shorter) distances and potentially other events, depending on where I end up living in this world. My immediate plans are to recover, build into shape, and take advantage of great weather and running partners in South Africa. I will do a bunch of marathons and go back to Comrades, possibly for Silver, but more just because I love the event. I might go to Boston this year. I will use my qualifier from WSER to enter Hardrock lottery, and if I get in, I will be ecstatic at the prospect of attempting and hopefully completing the toughest of the major races. Plus, I have completed those in the mountains while failing elsewhere. There will be no preconceived notions of time or place – it will be a finishing attempt, bar none. If not, well, let’s see how this all pans out.

Comrades 2013

Did you ever have something go so well, only to watch it crumble before your eyes? That is the way it goes sometimes. My Comrades 2013 was the culmination of a year of hard work and 4 years of planning, but it didn’t end how I expected.

Michael and I got down to Durban, did the expo, and readied ourselves well before the girls joined. Dinner with Kirsten and some guys left us ready to rock. The morning was quick but we stood on the line for the obligatory national anthem, Shosholuza, and Chariots of Fire before we were off into the dark. It dawned hotter than anyone could want, and with sweat dripping off our bodies in the pre-dawn haze, it was a sign of things to come.

Michael, Kirsten, and I stayed together for a good 25k, up and over Cowies and Fields with no problems. I asked Michael how he was doing, and with a thumbs up he replied well, and I never saw him again. The next time I looked over he was out of sight and I was left to run with Kirsten, wondering all the while if Michael stopped to poop and would be coming back. He never did.

Kirsten and I rolled along through Hillcrest and up Botha’s Hill with ease. I felt extremely strong and confident. Kirsten looked in trouble. He kept quiet and complained that his glute was in poor shape. There were times when I thought he would abandon the race. Not that I would wish this on my training partner, but my confidence was high knowing that I was good and this great runner was not. That would change.

We hit halfway in a brisk 3:30:20, about 6.5 minutes ahead of the preset pace. While this was not a good move, I had everything going well for me. I was feeling perfect and had all my legs and body about me. But what looms directly after halfway is the mighty Inchanga. Normally, two walk breaks are warranted on this monster of a hill. But we cruised up it, and only near the very top could I convince Kirsten to talk a walk break. Soon after this walk we were out onto the infamous Harrison Flats. While moving along, I started to feel a bit dull. I though perhaps a gel and some calories just needed to kick in and I would be solid. But sadly, this just never happened. What began as a low point in the run continued downhill into a terrible spiral of pain and struggle.

After Camperdown I began to really have trouble feeling good. Kirsten stayed with me, both of us convinced it was just a nutrition problem, until Umlass Road, where I sent him on. Immediately I struggled. The cramps began at 19k to go and never let up. Groins and calf muscles would twinge on both ups and downs, and I rarely could manage more than a kilometer, but often about 200m, without a walk. And let’s not forget Polly Shorts lies in the stretch to the finish. I limped, hobbled, seized, and shuffled to the finish. Every time I felt a cramp I pulled up to a walk. As soon as I did, I immediately became dizzy and wobbled across the road, nearly passing out about 5 times. I made it into the stadium and across the line in 7:53, a terrible performance for my training and early pace.

Pale, dehydrated, and cramped up at the finish, short of Silver again.

Exhausted and fearing medical attention, I crashed down but soon rehydrated. I couldn’t have been more disappointed. Everything was for this race. Silver had been on my radar for 3 years and I put in so much work, so much sacrifice this year, all for one race, something I have never really done before. I laid it out all for one effort. Now, I am never going to be disappointed in finishing an ultra, I have learned that, and I am thankful for my 3rd Comrades Bill Rowan. However, I am truly saddened by this result and it has taken a lot to get back to it (I have a 100 miler coming up and I need the head back in the game). What happened? I must admit I probably went out too fast. However, this could not account for the sudden blow up. In 2011 I was out just as fast and was struggling throughout the race with that pace, slowing, and still finishing in 7:45. This time I cruised, with no issues, through halfway only to instantly blow up around 70K. Why? It was as if the nutrition wasn’t going it. It was one of the hottest races on record, with temps exceeding 90 degrees on the course. Perhaps that was the issue as I am repeatedly having difficulties in hot races. The body isn’t responding.

Comrades Looms

2 weeks to go.

What do you do for inspiration?  As I get ready for the big race, I need to pump myself up by reviewing all the awesome things this race has to offer. Sure, I will watch the obligatory movies in Remember the Titans, Prefontaine/Without Limits, and Invictus, but I need to draw some more race-specific motivation this week.

Above is a video I made to pump myself up for the big day.



For a really inspiring visual tribute to this great race, check out the YouTube video below.

Captured here is a telling reality of the UP run from Runners World and former elite Amby Burfoot.

In a 7-part Runner's World YouTube series you can see Bart Yasso take on the Comrades
Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.

I am even venturing out into the fiction realm, as long as it is Comrades related. On my Kindle is In the Long Run by George Stratford.
 
I have been reading throughout the year, a book on Comrades. It is called Comrades Marathon by John Cameron-Dow and covers the history of the race, year-by-year.  Inspiring to read about the greats, though not a through read as it is more of a coffee table book.


Check out this rousing performance of Shosholuza by the Drakensberg Boy's Choir.  This song is sung by the masses at the start of Comrades every year.

The race plan:
Step one: Eliminate mistakes from previous years. Prior to the race, jog and get out of the hotel room.  Last time was too much down time.
Next, wear the right shoes.  Every single person who knows about running will tell you to run in the shoes you have been wearing.  Then why did I wear flats last time without training in them?  Because I am a jackass, that is why.
No hero stuff:  It is supposed to feel easy at the start. Don't go faster than the plan, especially since the first 60% of the race is mostly uphill. I got hooked up with some fast guys last time and although they pulled me along and made time pass, I was through halfway in a bit over 7 hour pace and suffered from there, losing Silver. Get up and over the hills to half way, negotiate Inchanga, and use the next part to cruise.  Power through Camperdown and work to Pollys.  Let Pollys be what it will be and lock in for the ride to Maritzburg.  Don't ever give up.
I expect a half split in the neighborhood of 7:20 (overall time) pace and either hang on or push up for a negative split. I must negotiate maximizing my fitness (somewhere in the 7:00-7:15 range) with the best odds for a Silver (halfway in 3:44 or so).  It is hard to say.

All About the Numbers

 1 Month Until Comrades Marathon!!!

Coming off of the worse stomach bout yet, I absolutely destroyed the RAC Loooong Run. 57.3Ks of hilly Joburg action at 5am on a Sunday morning. Just me and a couple of thousand fellow runners joining up for a “fun” run, all of us Comrades bound. And do you know how I can tell they are all Comrades runners? Because who else in their right mind would be out there in the cold, crisp air that early in the morning?

A bit under 5 hours for the run had us through the marathon mark in 3:38 and at the Comrades “halfway” of 43.5K in 3:44, which is spot on Silver pace. While I can’t say every step was flawless, I was absolutely in control and enjoying the run through the streets. Just 3 days later I jumped in the Wally Hayward Marathon. While flat from Sunday and uninspired most of the way, we ran together as a training group in the most unaggressive run of the year. A simple 3:28:30 was my slowest of the year and just another notch in the belt. But when given an emergency day off for a burst water pipe, you have two options: sleep in or run a marathon. Which one gets you a Comrades Silver?

This year I have worked diligently to improve my overall training to be ready for Comrades. First, I have made Comrades my only goal. All I care about this year is finishing, and preferably with a Silver medal, the Comrades Marathon. Looking at my numbers, I have done that. Not including 2012, where the goal was Ironman, a comparison of 2011 and now shows the improvements. I have run over 400 miles more in the same time period (the equivalent of almost 2 months extra training). I have gone over 50K 3 times this year, but just once in 2011. I managed a high week of 91 compared to 84 in 2011, and that was in a week of 3 marathons and essentially no other running. In the 2011 season, I ran 6 marathons at an average effort (1-10) of a 7. This year I ran 11 and most of them a 4-5 in effort. This year I have run 6 days a week most of the time, and even a few 7s. Formally, I would skip runs as my schedule dictated. I take a day off after most marathons and hit it again. The negative effects are not compounding. In posted an average of 28.2 miles per week in 2011, 44 in 2013. I had may weeks in the 55-63 mile range and multiple 70+ weeks.

Stats (Sept-May)	2011	2012	2013
Number of Miles	1128	756	1541
Number of Ultras	1	0	3
Number of Marathons	6	4*	11
Highest MPW	84	40	91
Comrades time	7:45	8:21	????

* Plus 1 Ironman

But the real results are in the intangibles. I never dreamed I could cruise a 56k, then do a marathon days later. Each of my ultra distances have ranked among my easiest runs of the year by feel. I am not worried about a fast marathon or quick 8K. I just run solid and move on. In 2011 I was undertrained. I went out too fast and crossed halfway far too quickly, setting me up for failure. This year is different. I am a solid, mature runner who has the base and will pace correctly.

A Half Century and some Ultras

While it feels fantastic to put in some good work, I paid the price. After running many marathons and peaking at 91 miles, I shut down for 3 weeks for a trip to Kenya. My running was weak and motivation low. It took some doing but I got back, ramping up the runs. On Saturday at the end of the first week we did the Mini Tough One, a hilly 15.7 mile course. We kept it smart knowing there was a marathon the next day. I jumped into a marathon on Sunday. It was the hardest course in Joburg; when it wasn’t going up it was bombing down. I hit 77 miles for the week with a day off.

The stomach issues returned after the marathon. It was my worst yet. While spending most of the night sitting on the toilet dispensing disgustingness into the porcelain bowl, I also frequently reached for a garbage can to spew whatever was left into a bucket. It wasn’t a pretty site.

A week of recovering from the spell put me in Cape Town for the Two Oceans Marathon. 35 miles of gorgeous beaches, cliff sides, and forests. The wind was howling all of the way, often standing up straight when into the wind or being pushed along from behind. Despite my best efforts to go slow and hit a 5min/K pace (Comrades silver), I couldn’t slow that much. However, I kept it very easy and in total control. I tucked in a pack until halfway, broke away up Chapman’s Peak, eased off on the downhill, and rolled through town. I crossed the marathon in 3:21 and felt flawless. I moved up Constantia with authority but again conserved on the steep downhills until it leveled out. Then I saw the watch and smoked it in the last few K. 4hr 29min and felt like I barely ran 20 miles. I was ecstatic.

The problem I have when going big is a letdown in motivation, pace, and energy. This week was no exception. With a lingering calf pull that I have had since Ironman, I hacked through a week of running, just getting in what I could. And while there was no physical reason to back off, the mental one was large. You see, my training partners had devised the RAC Ultra Medley – a 35 mile tour of the most massive and amazing hills in Joburg strung together in a multi-hour torture-fest. Still, we rocked and rolled over the whole thing in about 4:51 (not including stops) which considering the harder course was a great time for a week after Oceans.

Again, the letdown came, and my week after was less than impressive. I tried sports massage, something I have never been a fan of, and my legs got worked. I was sorer after than before, but the nagging calf pull since summer has me trying new things. It was a little better. With the weather dropping I headed to Slo-Mag Marathon, my 50th open marathon.

After starting and running too fast for the first half, I settled in and cruised to a 3:05. No sense in blowing the doors off. Massage left me in pain again but the 4 weeks put up 2 marathons and 2 ultras and I will be back in a couple of weeks with another ultra effort. Still struggling with this stomach issue.

Putting in the Work

With my “A” qualifier out of the way and a training group not letting me off the hook easy, I embarked on a solid month of running. A canceled marathon disrupted my push for 7 marathons in 6 weeks, but I still got in some running. First I hooked up with Lindsey for a casual 3:17. A week later I cruised a nice, even split 3:12. Two marathons, 6 days apart in under 3:20, giving me confidence for the long race. Things were going well.

A year ago I ran the Deloitte marathon in Pretoria but missed the start by more than 8 minutes due to poor parking and inconvenient registration. Determined not to make the same mistake this year, I arrived 1 hour early. It didn’t help. After the obligatory 1 mile walk (past the start) to the registration, I stood in line for 40 minutes, inching forward to packet pick-up, past it, and into the end of a line. It never moved, so as I looked ahead I saw chaos. A guy was standing on the table shouting out names. Since only about 100 people of the many that entered could fit in the room, most of these didn’t get taken. Meanwhile, people started grabbing the boxes with numbers and flipping through them on their own. They would look then pass most into the crowd. This couldn’t end well and the people tightened around me. I squeezed out content to not have a number when an official traded me a sticker for my confirmation. At least I was in.

I staggered through the hills conserving as much energy as possible. After all, it was a double marathon weekend, and the first of the races was one of the hardest in the country. While I can’t say it was an enjoying experience, it was a great simulation for the climbs of Comrades. As the heat climbed, I pounded on, mostly alone, and ran 3:23, quite well for that course.

The next morning I was back at it. Thankfully it was a flatter course that wound throughout a township area of SOWETO. Content to go it alone, I ultimately hooked up with a triathlete in his first marathon. We held a good pace through the half and then decided to roll it in for his Comrades “B” qualifier. While I cannot say it was 100% easy, I did manage to run pretty smooth and put a 3:17 for my 2nd marathon of the weekend.

My week’s mileage was 91, my highest for a non-ultra week ever, and I had done a month worth of solid running. But I paid for it and my next week of running was very poor. Then I went to Kenya, and while there, took 3 days off on safari. When I could run, I did 4 days of 30-40 min on a beach or road in amazing humidity. Throw on all you can eat buffets, free drinks, and a respiratory tract infection, and you could say I was in bad shape. Then after traveling 13 hours home, I arrived at 1:30am, was asleep by 3am, and the alarm snapped me away at 4:00am with 90 min of shuteye for 42 hours. I had a race to run.

While I can say that I have felt loads better, my latest marathon was uneventful. Running with some club mates, we passed halfway easy. I had zero ambition to up the pace and ran continently with Cliff, a guy I ran with back in the 1st of the 4 marathon push. We ran 3:17 flat and I realized two things: first, I can run a marathon off of a week of damn near nothing, and second, it hurts like a bugger to do so.

Either way, I am doing plenty of work and after these two down weeks, and my plan is to have a very strong March and April. That way, I will feel that I have done ample work going into Comrades.

Turning a Corner

No one likes having the squirts. It makes you feel bad, is inconvenient, and in some circles, just not something you talk about. After 3.5 years of problems and 3 months of disaster, I pulled the trigger and did a colonoscopy. Results were inconclusive. A 30-day pill regimen brings me to early February.

The price I am paying

Post 2:55 marathon in Welkom, SA, I was tired. Sure, it was partly the fast race, partly the night of debauchery that followed, and mostly the colon cleansing and not eating for 2 days after a hard marathon. The next weekend I got in 43 miles but not feeling well. About mid-week this week I learned that the marathon I intended to do was canceled due to deaths in the community. Disappointed with this news, I resolved to do some good work anyway.

After my easy Tuesday and obligatory run-to-work 8-miler Wednesday, I joined Kirsten (goal at Comrades – sub-6:30) for a run. We hammered out 17Ks at a clip (crossing the half marathon mark in about 1:32). Then we jumped in the hilly club time trial 5K for a smooth 20-flat run and about 14 miles on the day. It was solid running for mid-week (especially for a guy who normally jogs most of the time). Just a day and a half later I was up early to bag about 7K before jumping into a half marathon with another guy. We chatted and rolled through a 1:36 for about 17 miles on the day. Why not back it up with Kirsten and Adrian for a hilly dirt road run of about 13.5 miles on Sunday? Three half marathons all in under 100 minutes in 4 days. Not too shabby for Justin.

I have turned a corner. My goal is a Silver at Comrades and I am going to do that by putting in a lot of solid work. There are no shortcuts to the top. I have to hit the roads and make it count.

A Qualifier and a Surgery

The most ideal preparation for a key race should not include massive stomach pain and bouts of diarrhea. But heading into the Mealie Marathon in the mining town of Welkom, there was little choice in diet. Liquids and abstaining from alcohol did the trick. After dodging heavy rains, the day dawned cloudy but without heat or rain. The course was amazingly flat and I had Kirsten ready to drag me to a sub-3, and my “A” qualifier for Comrades.

The first half was fine and we went through a little fast (1:27). The wind picked up and we had to manage some dirt roads. I wasn’t in the best shape after running only 10 miles that week. But things held together until about the last 5-7K. I started to struggle in the wind and my stomach tightened up. There just wasn’t much there to drive me through. And unfortunately, there were two guys within my reach, but I just couldn’t tell the body to go get them. I crossed the line in 7th place and in 2:54:57. Pleased.

We stayed at 3-time Comrades Gold Medalist's Trevor Parry's house.  The celebration of a good run was a braai and excessive amounts of Jack Daniels. To top it off, I had to return to my liquid diet Sunday and start the preparation for a colonoscopy. The doctor wanted to go in, make sure things looked right, and take a biopsy to see what bacteria were in there. The process wipes you out and I had more days of diarrhea after. I had one good day before starting my course of medicine for the next 30 days. It makes me feel exhausted and I hate every minute of it.

Originally I had planned a double marathon weekend but canceled the first as a combined result of my hard effort the week before and the recent stomach letdown. Saturday brought a slow 16.6 mile run with a friend and a day of expulsion of all liquids from my rear. I awoke Sunday morning in pain, empty, and perhaps the lowest motivation I have had. I did not want to run, and contemplated not starting. As is becoming the norm, the line to park took forever. I barely slapped on the lube and jogged the 1 mile to the start line. When I tried to pick up my number, they told me someone else had picked it up already. I took a replacement, pinned it on the walk, and started outside the corrals.

The first few Ks were a death march. Among the people I weaved and passed were an 80-year-old woman (running believe it or not), a 60-year-old woman in the walking category, and a girl who stopped to walk before the 2K mark, overcome by the blistering 10 min/mile pace. Once I found open pavement, I still felt dead and behind pace for 15K. It wasn’t until halfway (1:44:20) that I felt normal running. Each step felt the same as the last, and it was like starting the marathon with legs at mile 16. But they never got any worse. I cruised to a 3:27 and walked away quickly, glad to have survived. Marathon 43 completed. Two marathons done. Chipping away at my goal of 7 marathons in 6 weeks

3 time Comrades Gold medalist Tyler Parry shows us his many medals and tells stories of the race.

Best damn training group this side of the pond - L to R: Me, Adrian Lazar, Lindsey Parry, Trevor Parry, Campbell Nel (w/ baby), and Kirsten Leemans

My pacer Kirsten

Post-race drinks (about to turn sour)