Comrades Marathon 2011

It has been called the ultimate human race. World famous and notorious, the Comrades Marathon The race began in 1921 and has run since, with the exception of 1941-45 when the 2nd World War took precedence. Starting with 34 runners who ventured out in homage to fallen countrymen in the first World War, now thousands run in fraternal steps. Comrades has a legacy rivaling any major world marathon, Boston, New York, and London included. But what makes Comrades unique cannot be captured in words. It is the combination of exceptional circumstances that make this South Africa’s Gem and world famous. The course winds the road from Durban to Pietermaritzburg (or vice versa) and while every major race defines itself to an accurate distance, say 26 miles, 385 yards, Comrades doesn’t care. Could be 87 or 89k. Doesn’t matter. It’s Comrades. And to make it more ambiguous, let’s run it one way this year then flip the course the next. The whole nation respects this event with 20,000 contending for a spot to run and the other millions watching the race on television; all 12 hours of it are broadcast nationally. And everyone knows it. While the marathon in most places is for skinny people with something wrong with their cranium, Comrades is expected in South Africa. No one thinks you are odd for wanting to run it because thousands of others go for it each May and many more resolve to one day mark it off their life list.

The race has a 12-hour time limit. Given the hills and heat, this can be viewed as a strict ending. But to add insult to injury, if you don’t finish within the time, you don’t get in the official records, and you don’t get a medal. You literally are turned away when the clock strikes 12:00:00. But hey, with 20,000 starting, you have some extra time to complete the course right? Wrong. There is not chip time at Comrades. In fact, a man in a suit walks to the line, turns his back on the course, and silently watches the clock expire. The thousands of fans chant the remaining seconds, urging every single brother and sister who trained for months, years, to sprint if they can, to crawl, to pick up that runner who has fallen and cannot summit the energy to make it the final meters. And then, without compassion or emotion, the man fires the gun into the air, and the Comrades Marathon is finished, be you a mile short or mere inches. There are four people who receive extreme attention each year at this race: the male winner, the female winner, the last person to officially finish, and the first to not. In no other race does the person who fails to be records, the person who cannot do what was asked of them, receive so much fame. At airports and in malls, the first non-finisher of the Comrades each year is recognized by passersby due to the overwhelming media coverage of this tragic tale. But I will tell you this: no runner who wears that glorious number bib and grinds the 55-miles for 12 hours would ever trade the notoriety of the first non-finisher for that coveted Comrades Marathon medal. Not one.

Want a taste of what this race means to people? Check out this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mLYxVL_qpl0

It is amongst the masses in the starting coral I am reminded of the famous speech in Shakespeare’s Henry the V called St. Crispen’s Day. The king begins by denying the need for more participants. “The fewer men, the greater the share of honor.” I look around and care little about the number that are here. Whereas about 600 people run the largest 50-mile race in the US, nearly 18,000 toe this line, 99.9% of them not to steal my glory, but to find their own. Even though there are six medal/award categories and we all hope to get one, the fact is, nearly every runner wants to finish this race, and only the bold, genetically gifted few will risk failure of completion to go for the win. So I heed these words:

From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

And I know that together we each will bleed today for our victory, that no man nor woman who shall leave this course in under the cutoff time that did not consider themselves blessed to finish, and that we all survivors of this day will go forth as brothers, united as finishers of the 86th Comrades Marathon, and that those without our medal will feel, if even just a tinge, envious of that feat.

From the Comrades Marathon site:
The Comrades Marathon medal has remained true in size and design since its inception in 1921. There are some that speak slightingly of its size and general appearance as being insignificant, but as Morris Alexander wrote in his book ' The Comrades Marathon Story':
'No sports medals have ever been so dearly won and cherished as the Comrades Marathon medals. It was surely an original stroke of genius on the part of Comrades founder Vic Clapham to reward with these medals the efforts of all those who completed the course within the prescribed time.'
The medal is 29mm in diameter and depicts the words 'COMRADES MARATHON' and 'MARITZBURG - DURBAN' encircling a striding figure of Hermes with winged feet and helmet. It would seem that the figure of Hermes was chosen as the emblem of Comrades Marathon on the basis of his renown as the messenger of the gods according to Greek mythology. He was also the god of land travel and the patron of roads and his relevance to Comrades can perhaps be drawn from this connection.

Medals Currently Awarded  

       Gold Medals                          First 10 men and first 10 women

Wally Hayward Medals           Position 11 to sub 6hrs 00min
Silver Medals                          6hrs 00min to sub 7hrs 30min
Bill Rowan Medals                  7hrs 30min to sub 9hrs 00min
Bronze Medals                          9hrs 00min to sub 11hrs 00min
Vic Clapham                              11hrs 00min to sub 12hrs 00min

The small Silver medal is no joke. While there are 6 medal classes available, only the most elite of all can get gold, and those amazingly close to the win take the Wally Hayward (since the winner goes about 5:35, after 10 Golds have been awarded, there aren’t many left under 6 for the next medal – less tend to get the WH than the Gold). Only 5% of the field will walk away with a Silver medal or better. And with an amazingly low DNF rate (about 1%), it is no wonder you wear this medal proudly. But from the moment I started looking at doing Comrades, I wanted the Silver. It is the best I can hope for with my training and ability.

The South African Idols (yes, I can hear your giggling) arrived to sing the South African national anthem, a rousing tune incorporating the many languages of this country. Upon conclusion, the sea of runners and spectators near the line broke into a chorus of Shosholoza, the Zulu-adopted Zimbabwean song meaning roughly go forward, make way for the next man, and is a fitting anthem for this race. Though I only knew the title word, I still sung with them, united in anticipation. This is followed by a chilling portrayal of the Chariots of Fire song.  Upon completion, Max Trimborn’s rooster crow filled the speakers. Back in 1944, Max belted out a crow on the starting line, a tradition he repeated for 32 years and is still played today at the start on a recording. After the cackling ceased and the cheers subsided, the pristine silence was broken only by the starting signal. Though no one really spoke, the lack of silence was deafening. The starting cannon was nowhere near as loud in comparison. After this I knew it was going to be a great day.

It wasn’t. Now listen close because I am going to make 65k seem really short. I just wasn’t in it from the gun. My A seeding meant nothing as I was overtaken by B and C runners early. It made no difference as I knew how few people would make it as this pace (sub-7 hours). But something just wasn’t right. I don’t know why but it was difficult for me. The Big 5 hills (Cowies Hill, Field's Hill, Botha's Hill, Inchanga, and finally, Polly Shortts) started with Cowies which was nothing spectacular. By the bottom of Field’s I caught the top runners in my club and joined with them. We worked up Field’s with one preemptive walk break, and two of the big ones were down. But I just didn’t feel solid. The legs were sore (probably my shoes) and the heart was racing. Inchanga posed a bigger problem as it climbed into the sky across a valley. We took several 1 minute breaks to walk and maintained an excellent pace. Crossing the marathon in about 3:20, I was a bit worried about the early pace being too fast. We hit halfway in 3:31:30, translating to a 7:03 time pace having the hillier first half behind us. My plan was closer to 3:35-3:40 and although this doesn’t seem like much, it felt too fast.

We grabbed a rose to leave for Arthur at the top. Arthur Newton (5 time winner), trained on the course and stopped frequently on his training runs at this point. He is immortalized at Arthur’s Seat where runners leave a flower in hopes of good luck in the 2nd half of the race. I needed it, but caught up in the people, I didn’t realize I missed it and threw it to the side of the road. I had missed his seat, but I figured Arthur would appreciate the sentiment. He didn’t.

Somewhere about halfway I passed Bruce Fordyce, 9 time winner of this race. He was on a quest for Silver having not run a fast time in recent years. Meanwhile, I had been yo-yoing off the back of my clubmates for some time. They were running consistent, but consistently too fast for either my training or the way I was feeling. I let them go with about 30k to go when I ran into Sarah. Grabbing Hammer Gel I confessed that I had to start running my own race or I would not end well. There was time in the bank. 10k later I arrived at the 67K mark and, admitted to Sarah my race was done. I knew that with the way I was feeling I would not make my time, though I would be oh so close. But with Little and Big Polly’s to come, I was going to lose just enough to miss it. I had been running in the red zone for about the last 2.5 hours, on the brink, and it wasn’t my day. Even with 10 miles left, if I had just been able to run 8 min miles, I would have got silver. The problem was, I just couldn’t.

Polly Shortts kicked my ass. It was a long climb, steep, but no monster. The crux is that it summits at about 80k into the race, and on dead legs and crap stomach, this is a killer. I walk/ran the thing but was humbled. Near the top were photographers and I posed with another guy for a picture but we were still too far away from them so they told us to keep coming. I jokingly said they could paint us we were going that slow. Language barrier aside, I don’t think he understood my joke. Like all good derailing, the down run is worse than the up, and the final 5 miles were painful. My stomach was tight and all gusto had been zapped. I even walked briefly on the descent from Polly’s!! That was how bad I hurt. But I wanted to leave it all on the course so I kept running, albeit slow. I had pushed and pushed my body (not smart) till it wouldn’t yield times anymore, and then I pushed more. The final 2.5k hurt more than any other section, but I wanted to finish vertically. I sprinted (sorta) into the stadium and finished shaking the hand of an African man in support of his 10th finish and green number (a permanent bib number awarded to those upon their 10 finish). I ran 7:45, just shy of my Silver goal, but pleased nonetheless. They say a novice silver is rare, and an American novice silver unheard of. So I know I can do it. 616th place out of many thousands.

Maybe I didn’t train well enough (isn’t 35 miles per week with an occasional marathon good for a 54 mile effort?), or maybe I “tapered” too much in the final days and was flat. Perhaps I should not have worn racing flats (my legs hurt from early on and I wasn’t used to my shoes. My foot strike could have used muscles that I wasn’t training and more cushioning would have been nice. That was in my head the whole time.). But I finished the Comrades Marathon and that is worth writing about.

Click below to see footage of me on the course (note – this link will not load so you have to go to the web address it takes you to and add the = sign to the end of what is there. Hit enter and it should load my videos).

http://media.comrades.com/mysports/?e=CO11M&n=Justin+Walker&r=12597&nt_s1=00:00:00&ct_s1=05:30:35&nt_s2=01:22:48&ct_s2=06:53:23&nt_s3=03:31:26&ct_s3=09:02:01&nt_s4=05:01:51&ct_s4=10:32:26&nt_s5=07:01:07&ct_s5=12:31:42&nt_s6=&ct_s6=&nt_s7=&ct_s7=&nt_s8=&ct_s8=&nt_s9=&ct_s9=&nt_s10=&ct_s10=&nt_s11=&ct_s11=&nt_f=07:45:39&ct_f=13:16:14&l=EN&tp_f=

Glad to be done!

Starting to feel the effects

Props to my true running club!

Walker 2nd at Two Oceans!

I wish. But Sarah did in the 5K fun run amongst a slew of local children, many of them shoeless, and was the 2nd woman in the untimed event. Her chaotic race just fell in the middle of a crazy trip. Our flight to Cape Town was rough as Taelyn had a cold and her ears hurt the whole way. The yelling was bad enough but the snot and coughing all over me was insane considering I didn’t want to get sick pre-race. On arrival we were upgraded to an apartment rather than a room and I finally grabbed some pizza and pasta at 9pm.

We woke early to head to Boulders Beach and a walk with penguins. Too bad the car ride there was filled with screaming children. Hauled ass back to Cape Town, picked up my race packet, tore into a café for a muffin and bagel, and a quick change of clothes before we squealed into the lot of the race venue. While Sarah sprinted to the registration, I threw the car into a parking spot, loaded one kid in the stroller and picked up the other, and started running to the line. A stairwell of 4 flights of stairs slowed me but I got Taelyn to the line on time. If Sarah’s race was chaotic (held two hours later), Taelyn’s was a nightmare. Though no parents were supposed to be on the course of the 56m Nappy Dash, hundreds ran with their kids or stood on the finish line only to walk out as soon as the gun sounded. Taelyn finished well, running with her hand on her number the whole way. Since it was Good Friday, we ate seafood, and went to bed early. Luckily I had my race goodie bag complete with a full box of Honey Cheerios, 5 packages of M&M’s, and a can of sardines. Bizarre.

While I am going to give props to Two Oceans for several things – beauty of course and support- I am going to knock parking. I waited on the highway in a line for 20 minutes to exit. A guy literally beat me there by walking. When I finally got to the parking area, it was full and I was directed down and to the right. Well, that was a one-way and full of runners. So I flipped it and threw it on the first side street from the start line. No parking spot, but not choice. Luckily I was in the “A” corral and walked right to the line. Unfortunately, when they released the corral barriers, people from the “B” section felt they needed to elbow their way past me to be 1-inch closer to the line. I started standing tougher to stop them all from coming through.

It made no difference. On the gun, people sprinted away like a 5K. I was shocked by the number of people hauling down the road. It looked like Boston. The first 10K rolled out the city streets and I kept it well under control, and although I was “under” my pre-selected pace, I was getting passed like crazy. To get a B seed meant that you did not break 3:20 for a marathon prior to the race. Not that many of these guys couldn’t, but I found it interesting that hundreds of people that slow wanted to go out that fast. It was a long day, and the 2nd half of the race was far harder than the first. I soon learned more about the guy who had been running on my shoulder for 45 minutes. He had run this race three years ago. Not last year or the year before because he was sick. When I asked with what, he told me he was HIV positive. I was shocked (which I shouldn’t be since South Africa has the highest number of people infected in the world and I was bound to meet one of them). I slowed a little, not out of fear but a little of me was zapped at that news.

The sun rose along the water after about an hour and a beautiful beach lined the course. We popped over a hill at 17K and it grew instantly chilly. A white sand beach was shroud in fog while the “Chariots of Fire” theme belted from the aid station. Even crossing the half marathon mark was uneventful and although the course was beautiful, it wasn’t particularly hard. At the pace I was running, I felt great. I thi the halfway point of the race in 2:09:11, well under the 2:20 pace I had planned. But then again, the 2nd half was a killer.

Up. Here we go. A nice, steady, curving road rises from the town up the side of the mountain but when it relented over the ocean I learned that this section was called “Little Chappy.” Rounding a corner I saw it, and instantly understood why “Chapman’s Peak” had a lesser distinction. For the next several miles a road was etched in the side of the rock over the shear face of the mountain that lead to the sea. It was no joke and has taken many out. I ran well up it and found myself passing many runners without pushing. I crested the summit some 5K later proud to have gotten that finished without suffering. But we all know up isn’t what kills you. It is down that does you in.

And down Chapman’s goes, for a good 5K from peak to sea. Many people told me to be smart coming off this thing because the downhill section from 35-40k before the final climbs will do you in. I held back as much as possible but it is ridiculously steep and you can only do so much. By 1K left in the descent, I was crying for it to end. We would round a corner and see it drop and people would grunt or yell, “Come on!” I hated the downs and wanted to get on flats or even an up. Anything to make it stop.

My rest was short lived. After hitting the beach we started up again back out of the town of Hout Bay. Although pretty, the downs of the peak were setting in. The exposure to the sun was starting to get tough but I pulled through the marathon mark in 3:16 flat. Respectable. But the last serious work was starting to come. The climb up to Constantia was not exactly subtle but not overly daunting. I decided to go at it by pushing up the climb and push I did past many struggling runners. I was pleased to take down a lot of people and since my name was on my bib, got lots of encouragement from the support staff and spectators. I reached the summit and knew the last of my challenges were over.

Instantly my hamstring pulled and stopped to stretch it. While it helped temporarily, I knew it wouldn’t release on its own, so I tried to run on the low side of the road and chug some Powerade. Surprisingly, it never got any worse. Unfortunately, from the 50km mark on, it was mostly downhill and while my legs were holding up, I was feeling like I was done. The recent Powerade slugs were starting to make the stomach sour and when it goes south, the motivation to run hard goes with it. While it felt like the hills would never end, the road soon panned out and it was pretty smooth on in. I hit the last K and tried to pass a few more people, bringing it home in about the same as my first K.

Although I was quite tired at the end and glad to be done, I knew that I had kept it in the bag. They say it is the toughest silver medal in South Africa (sub-4 hours). I think it is obtainable on the surface since I ran a 4:23 fairly reserved. However, there is only so much that can be done in the far more difficult 2nd half and going too fast in the beginning can kill you. But no matter. My splits for 5Ks were: 45:50 (for 10K); 23:11; 22:53; 23:07; 23:47; 24:44 (up Chapman’s); 22:29 (down Chapman’s); 24:06; 24:54 (up Constantia); 23:46; and a 4:34 to close.

Pleased that I ran relatively even splints (in the sense that I didn’t tank), I decided to walk from the finish back to my car. It was 2K away but I started down a very steep, San Francisco-like hill for the next 10 minutes, stopping once to grab a drink. Directed by spectators left and right, I finally became too exhausted to carry on. I stopped and asked where the start line was to a guy. He said that is was the way I had come. No, I told him, I was told this way. How far back? He said, “Not too far,” then looked me up and down and said, “Far for you.” 3K. I sunk. There was no way. It would take me an hour. He tried to give me money for a cab which I refused, but just then his ride arrived and he gave me a lift. There are still good people in the world. I turned up the street from the start and there were no cars. Hours before, this street was packed. I suddenly realized that they probably had long since ticketed and towed my rental car. I was screwed. But as I rounded the corner and saw the blue piece of crap, I knew the sun was still shinning on me.

Mitchell's beer well deserved post-race

German brewhouse on Easter. Good times.

Fool In the Rain

There are some great stories where someone finishes a race with a broken bone. Well now I have mine but it isn’t going to be that cool.

One week out from Two Oceans, I ran the Slow Mag Marathon. But the Friday of, I broke my finger in the staff/student volleyball game. Google “Mallet Finger” for a taste of the pain.


Winter came early with gray skies, cold rain, and lower moods. The race was one of my best in the sense that it was a solid negative split with a relatively easy effort. I had planned to run about 8/min miles (goal pace for Comrades) at this race and at Two Oceans. However, from the gun, it was too hard to run that slow and I just locked in to something faster yet comfortable. I ran with a guy the whole first half and although he slowed toward the end, it was easy, crossing in about 1:38 or so. It was as close to a jog as I have ever “raced.” I then got back on the early pace and continued to catch and pass people for the next 21K. I felt very strong as the cool rain started to pick up and despite the wind, ran a 3:13:38 which felt like nothing. It was only after I realized that Two Oceans was the next Saturday, leaving only 5 recovery days after a quicker marathon effort.

Going in to Two Oceans I am strong, relatively fast, and training through. I am going to look to hit Comrades goal pace for the marathon mark, survive the suicide climb, and bring it in faster if possible. That should set me up for Comrades just dandy.

One Year From Now

One year from now, the 2012 Ironman South Africa will be concluding. It will mean months of training and sacrifice. I'll have to clean up the diet and reduce the extra-curricular. I need to improve technique and get tougher/stronger. My goals: A PR? Yes. Under 10 hours? That's the plan. Hawaii qualifier? The dream.

Whatever happens, the most important outcome is to hear that announcer say, "Justin Walker, you are an Ironman!"

Luck O’ the Irish and the Holy Trinity

This is the tale of victory and humility. This is a long tale but the hits just keep coming. From a 5k to 3 marathons in one week, this is my story.

The 5K
The annual AISJ 5K fell on the morning of March 17 this year, and in addition to being my favorite day of the year, I had another reason to smile. Confident that this would be a walk in the park, Sarah threw me for a loop on race eve by telling me that all her students believed I would not upset Piet, the reigning champion, a student. I knew I would win and that he couldn’t touch me, but for some reason I was nervous like never before. It was just a 5K and yet I slept for a total of 4 hours the night before in fitful 2 hour bursts.

Piet went out like a madman for the first 400m and within seconds I knew the race was mine. After starting slower and working through a few ambitious high school students, I had Piet caught by 500m and did all I could to try to keep him with me for the next half a K but by the marker, he had faded fast. He would keep going backwards. I ran relatively conservative till 4K and tried to bring it home stronger. I felt that the mud, hills, and lack of opposition slowed me up and I crossed in 18:49. It was 2 minutes to the next finisher, a high school student, and on his heals was Sarah with the champ fading to 6th. I was pretty pleased with the time considering the relaxed effort (and in spite of the high anxiety).

Pre-Race

Post Race

Sarah rocks 3rd place (1st female) at 9 months post baby.

The 1st Marathon
After a good holiday, we split for a vacation and the start of three marathons in one week. On the way to Clarens, we pulled into Standerton for a Monday morning marathon. The night before was a challenge in itself – finding good food in a sleepy town on a holiday weekend. After an hour of driving the streets, the best we could find was Spur (the equivalent of a Big Boy). The race itself was uneventful save the benefit of running with a 25 time -straight Comrades finisher who gave me some insight on the coming race. They asked jokingly in Afrikaans if I had a ticket for this bus, thinking I was latched on to the group. I just laughed knowing that by the end, they would benefit from me pulling the pace. They had a first timer and a girl who was a month past her debut. I hung with them as the pace gradually slowed. My knees and feet hurt from the slower pace and I wondered which was harder: pacing or racing. I ran in for a 3:28; felt fine but still a marathon. The normal knee aches and dehydration left me worried about the double coming the next weekend.

Seeing my girls on the run.

"T run like daddy!"

          

The Worst Friday Ever

A quick shower, lunch, and a 3-hour drive later we hit Clarens for a few days of mountain relaxation. I can't say my short runs in the hilly town were comfortable. Come Friday, we had a 4-hour drive to Newcastle. Narrow roads were made even more nerve-racking by the large potholes, and not your run-of-the-mill bump in the road. We are talking huge holes in the road, some the size of a car hood and nearly 3 feet deep. It was like a video game dodging them at 65mph. I shuddered each time my wheels tagged a smaller one and prayed that I never would hit one of those car killers. Then the police came.

I popped over the hill and saw the cop car ahead and the police officers standing in the middle of the road. I pulled over to the side and was asked to come look at the radar. 126 in an 80kph. Bugger. It was the first hint of speed control in almost 300k of wide-open driving. No stop signs, no speed limits, nobody going to slow me down. Then this. They told me that if I had been going 124, it was a 2500 rand fine (about $400). But since I was over, it was arrest only. They said I had to go with them to the jail, wait 4 hours, Sarah would bail me out for 500 rand, and then Monday I would have to return for sentencing, which was 6 months in jail. They went to tell Sarah this while I played along. I started with the usual banter and told them I couldn’t possibly return on Monday because I was from another province. They said, yes, this was a problem (let’s ignore the problem 6 months in jail would pose and focus on my province of origin). I asked if there was another way to pay a fine now. They asked me what fine I would like to pay (as if there was a menu). So I checked my wallet and not wanting to undercut them and have them search me, I took 600 rand. I gave it to the cop who took it and walked me to my car and then gave me 300 rand back. “I’ll only take 300 because you still have more vacation to do.” Nice, a partial refund on my bribe. I was on my way, $40 lighter but with no jail time.

I registered for race #2 in a jail cell; not because of my previous encounter with the law but because this race was in a township and the police station was the venue. It wasn’t until later that I realized when they took my license for a copy, they never gave it back. Without ID, we stopped for groceries a la my Maritzberg experience and went to the ATM which promptly ate my card. After hitting buttons, punching it, and swearing more times than I care to admit, I called the number on the machine. They canceled my card and as a solution to my madness, kicked me over to telephone banking. Forty minutes later, still standing in the rain, they finally came to the conclusion that I could not enroll in phone banking without an ATM card (which they had canceled). I felt like I was trying to explain the situation to a monkey with down syndrome. I couldn’t have told them enough that the card was canceled, by them but still they couldn’t make this happen. After forty minutes of ID numbers, complaints about no money on vacation, and being told to set this up, my phone ran out of airtime, and soaking wet we left.


WHACK!!! ________ (Insert your foulest swear words here). I was on the bed clutching my leg and looking at the inch-long hole in my shin after I ran smack into the extra cot in our hotel room. Blood started down my leg and I knew that I was going to need stitches to save this one. Two hours later and after repeated arguments about insurance numbers with the receptionist, I had two fresh stitches in leg. A nice chicken curry on my hotel bed and kissed this horrid day goodbye. My only hope was that the next morning’s marathon didn’t carry the same crappy luck.

Late in the evening with stitches in my leg, but at least I wasn't in jail.

Post-marathon leg

The 2nd Marathon
I think everyone wanted to play a joke on me. I am in the back of a police paddy wagon, a short-bed pickup with a cab over it. Seven others are there with me and each has their own game. Two women are screaming in conversation even though no one else’s head is more than a foot from her mouth. The guy to my left is gently scooting closer seeing if he can take half the bench while the other three of us split the other half. The girl on my right keeps touching my leg which I let go because it is close. I draw the line when she lays her entire arm on my leg like an armrest in a car. The guy across keeps coughing into my face. Each bump sends us into the roof or against the fence that cover the windows. We hurtle down the pothole stricken roads at 70 mph, butt bones slamming down on the hard, wooden bench, and I consider it a miracle to tumble out the back of the truck 45 min later under a cool mist at the start line. Ever launched into a marathon right out of a car? Try doing it out of the back of a packed police wagon.

My plan was to over drink and excessively fuel on the Saturday race in order to be ready for Sunday. Unfortunately, or typical for this weekend, I lost my 2ndGu at the start and there was only three water stops for the 26.2 miles, so chuck that plan out the window. The 30 or so of us rolled down the country road for a few Ks then ran the remaining 23 miles on a rocky highway. There weren’t many people in the race; support crew and police easily doubled the number of participants. I enjoyed the many cheers, few high fives, giggles, and I am sure a few taunts from the locals as I hustled by. Everything held together well, minus the lack of water, and I crossed in 3:23:55, a negative split and good for 13th place, and the first white guy. Hit up the Spur for breakfast, a 4 hour drive home, and rested for race number three.

The 3rd Marathon
Why wouldn’t the baby wake up screaming at 2:30am? And why wouldn’t she go back to sleep at all? Oh, that’s right, because I had a marathon to run in a few hours. The tough part about running so much is being extremely exhausted. I have no comparison for the deep rooted tiredness and the aches and pains of the knees and back. These problems are exacerbated by steep uphills and sharp downhills. The Springbok Jackie Gibson Marathon had both. Dawning cool and wet again, a ridiculous first 10k of hills marked the first portion of the course. Never have I encountered such difficult hills in outside of an ultra. From the gun, the legs felt like I was at mile 20. By halfway, the legs felt like I had run a marathon. Every piece of my body cried for this endeavor to be over.

From the half on, the race really began. An already fast pace (well, relative to what I wanted to do) was met with even more pain over the comparatively easier 2nd half. The humidity left me drenched by 5k and although there was actually water this time, I had run out of GU by the last race. So going on no calories was the plan today. So proud of my body for the first 20 miles, I had moments of dizziness and fatigue ebbing and flowing in the final miles. As much as I wanted to stop, the pace was quick and the faster you run, the quicker you are done. Who did I pace off of from near beginning to end? A 61-year-old man. That’s right. I struggled at times to catch up to this machine after water stops; he was relentless. With 2K to go, he bonked and told me to go ahead, but why run that far with him only to leave at the end? Everybody knew this guy and we got lots of shouts on the way in.  We slowed dramatically but I didn’t care, crossing the finish line in God only knows what place at 3:16:18. I lay on the ground and a tremendous amount of pain swept over me. It was over. I may have been beaten solidly but in my mind, today was a victory.

Since I don't have a bedpost here, I use my lamp. Here hang the three in a week till the next race.

PMB Comes Up Short

Pietermaritzburg isn’t the nicest of towns and I wasn’t lodging in the most up market of neighborhoods. You want a challenge? Try to eat well in a poor neighborhood. Go on, next time you head to a major sporting event, turn down a street into the ghetto and try to find a meal without sugar, loaded in fat, and bouncing with cholesterol. It could be a task on the Amazing Race. I came away with a chicken lasagna that was actually pretty decent. But not before I swung into the grocery store to pick up some food and drink. This place was slammed with 20 checkout lanes stocked 15-20 people deep. In this sea of humanity, I was the only white person in there. It was very sobering to see such a large amount of people, many of whom don’t make much money, all fighting for food. It smelled like a gym bag and spilled milk and other liquids coated the floor. The whites of eyes were dyed yellow with malaria, each cough shouted tuberculosis, and the silent killer of HIV shopped. It was odd, but you know how from time to time you will get to the check out and you see an odd item discarded there? Here there were hundreds of items stacked on the floor and in baskets. I found it odd to see many of the items. Like do you really get up to the front and say, “I don’t really want this 2 liter of Coke, or these shrimp, or that 6-pack of yogurt?” Could people not afford them and discarded them at the last second, another dream dashed?

So you know by reading the previous posts that I haven’t been in good shape the last few weeks. Why not roll the dice? I grabbed some naan and chicken curry from the Indian place next door which I would never normally do, but there weren’t a whole lot of fine cuisine options. Finished up a season of Prison Break and concluded a day and a half of sitting on foam dorm beds. I can’t complain because I got the whole dorm to myself for about $18 and I needed the rest. Since everyone at the hostel was racing, I was up at 3:45am ready to rock. After squirting last night’s dinner a few times, I headed out. The best thing about my ghetto fabulous lodging was that it sat smack dab in the middle of the start/finish line street with a 100m walk to either. I pushed toward the start line but ended up at about 10 rows back. The START banner came down so low that anyone over 5’9” would tag it on the gun. The music started and in typical African fashion, the people started moving and grooving, seemingly oblivious to the 42k ahead. It was humid but the 5am gun and cloud cover would keep the sun away.

This course profile is billed as mostly uphill first half (per loop) and mostly downhill second, which it was. The problem was that it is horribly deceiving as the profile is smooth but the course is not. There were some monster hills in the second part of the course that just made it impossible to take full advantage of the long downhills. Still, the course was a perfect mirror to my weekly club runs – uphill first half, downhill second with some stingers in there. I was prepared.

You know what is interesting? In South Africa, they hand out sachets of water and Powerade instead of cups. So there are all these plastic baggies all over the road. On the plus side, they don’t spill when you grab them from volunteers and these kind folk don’t get soaked. You do, however, when you have to tear them open with your teeth mid stride. Even more interesting is the large amount of runners who grab these and don’t drink them right away. Instead, they carry them for 2+ kilometers and drink them just before the next aid station. Seems unusual to me.

Planned on a 1:26 half, followed by a 1:24. Couldn’t afford to get out too fast with my recent illness and fatigue. First few K were a struggle as the pace was too slow and felt hard. Then I found a guy and we started clicking. We hammered in and I crossed in 1:26:00. Perfect. But he fading. I did some good work for the next few K but no one would go with me. There were lots of people to catch but I was alone. The hills started to hurt and by 29K I knew it would be tough. At 32K, I had to run 4:00/K plus find an extra 30 seconds in there. But the legs were tired and I just couldn’t get the time back. By 37K, I was still 30sec slow for 2:50. I was cooked. In the final 3K I gave up 2.5 minutes. I have to admit I ran like a Virginia (yep, that is the word I am using) the last K. Something happened that never does – people passed me. I think 4 crept by and I finished 54th. My time was about 2:53:10. Given my recent luck, I was thrilled to run this time, my 2nd best ever. There is a part of me disappointed not to PR and go sub 2:50, but I can, and there are other races.

Moment of Surrender

So I am accepting fate. A PR is probably not in the cards this weekend. Sometimes you just have to listen to reason. But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. Sure, my mileage has been pretty low. But I have been consistent and fast – working out and getting in some faster-paced runs most weeks which is something I haven’t done in years. But it just hasn’t come together.

A few weeks ago I ran a 20 mile race. It went well – I averaged under 3:00 pace for the 20 miles. But it just didn’t seem right. I was about 7+ min/mile for the first half and then dropped down, only later to realize that I dropped only to 6:30/mile which is not even my goal race pace. That sucked. Then I came back later that week with a 5K in sub 6min/mile which is decent except I run that pace for 8K. I could say the course is hard, which it is, but still, with no jump in the legs I can’t see how this is going to happen for me.

Then I had a nasty bout with the U2 concert. A lack of better judgment derailed me for a day and when I took off for school camp a day later, I was not myself. A cold had been creeping in and although my nose wasn’t running, neither was I. I felt completely ill without the symptoms and was sleeping all the time which never seemed to be enough. I got in one run at camp, just pathetic. I set off to do 10x800 and after ½ mile of warm up on a dirt road uphill, I knew the workout wasn’t going to happen. I ran 5 miles and called it good. The next morning I got up for about 6-7 but a rash that had been spreading stopped me 2 minutes into the jog. The next day was off to work on issues at the camp. I returned for the weekend and got in 7 at a decent pace, but too much effort. Then Sunday, a week out from the race, I tried to do 10. By 3 miles I was gassed and turned to go toward home and ended up walking up the hill for 10 min. That’s right, walking. I took Monday off since there was no reason to continue this ridiculous cycle.

I am very frustrated after having been focused on this race for much of the last 6 months. I want a PR – to go under 2:50 and be that guy. But I seriously doubt I have the energy to get the pace where it needs to be (6:28/mile or about 4:00/K) nor the miles under me to maintain it for 26.2. I am curious if I will struggle from the gun or hold it and tank towards then end. Is it overtraining? Hard to imagine that I have done too much work, although when you run so very little anything could be too much. I fear something worse, that I am sick, and that scares me.