Soweto Round 2

My intention was to include the 2011 Soweto Marathon in a longer blog of a month full of races. But this event was just too bizarre to exclude from its own write up.

After parking and peeing in the trees, just like last year, I got into the corrals, which were back loaded. I inched toward the start line and found myself pinched off to the left between the fence and road. Literally, I was standing in a rock garden. To my left, a fence. To the right, a road. Ahead of me, a tent and wall for the announcers. All around me, well, people, but intermixed within the sea of humanity where cacti. Many, many cacti, about 3 feet off the ground, and sharp. I looked all around, and no one else seemed perplexed by this. My mind jumped ahead 5 minutes to when the gun would go off and I saw myself plowed face first into this spiny monster. Just as I started to push and inch my way toward the road, the gun went off. Amazing, the first time overseas a race starts on time.

Since I am writing this, you can be sure I was not the victim of a deadly cactus accident, but within feet of crossing the starting line, I was tested with even more challenging obstacles. Because of the grotesque amount of questionably intelligent people who toe the line of a marathon only to walk the moment the gun sounds, I was forced to run on the median, which was cobbled brick and, really, more cacti. To add insult to injury, people had lined up in the wrong corral (10k’ers in the marathon corral and vice versa) and were now making a mad dash across the median, and across my path. Now, this would be semi-acceptable if the openings to the start line didn’t have big signs indicating which way people should head.

Once out of the mayhem of rocks and criss-crossing idiots, I pulled over for a quick pee. After all, I had taken about 3 minutes to cover the first quarter mile so now was as good as any for a break. Ankle rolls, being cut off, and jumping over 3-foot-deep channels of water runoff, I rejoined the road. Now, I am not kidding when I say this: I am nearly a mile into the race and the crowd parts ahead of me to reveal five bovine-like creatures coming straight at me. When I ran with the bulls in Pamplona I wasn’t as intimidated as this. How these large ladies managed to get this far down the road 1) ahead of me (even with the poor start and pee break) and 2) without realizing that they were supposed to be in the 10K (which was headed the other direction) was beyond me. I yelled. “Jesus Christ!” and leapt to the side of the road, into another rock garden, and into a tree. They mooed in response and the race went on.

I can’t stress enough how funny I find the water stations here. Again, they use sachets of water sealed in these plastic baggie-like things. But they are easily dropped by the volunteers when handing to runners. So each time you go through a water station the sachets end up on the ground. When they get stepped on, 8 oz. of water explode into the air, soaking the victim’s feet and showering others with liquid. D-day comes every few miles as it is like the beaches of Normandy which these bombs going off.

The highlight of my race was running a good portion of it with Lindsay Anne van Aswegen, 3rd at the recent IAAF 100km World Championships. Ironically, Andrew Henshaw, a guy I had run with in Colorado, finished 3rd for the men in the same race. It was almost a sign.

Despite the excitement and chaos, it was a really hard race. I would have to say it was one of the easier first halves – mostly downhill. I clicked off 5k splits around 21:00. But after a first half in 1:32:30 (and staying totally slow having run 3:07 here last year), it got tough. A combination of 11-30 miles per week of running going in with monster hills, rising heat, and a very casual approach to the day just about killed me. I lost interest, slowed to about 23:00-24:00 per 5K and luckily, hooked up with some guys who wanted a sub-3:20. I shine with I have people to pull to the line. So I backed them off on hills, held pace through water stations, and dragged two guys to the line in just over 3:16. This race is painful and not for greenhorns. But I made it, and kicked off my month of Sundays – Marathon, Olympic-distance Triathlon, and then the 100k bike ride. I toyed with a long ride over Thanksgiving, but at this point, I’ll be ready for a rest.

Scares on the African Highveld

Let me tell you about my ride. I roll down the first street, and within 3 miles from home I come to a stop light. I roll through and along comes a taxi cab on my right. Soon he is drifting left and I lock up the brakes, skidding all the while. Slowly the cab drops off the edge of the road into the shoulder. I am leaning like a cycle sprinter into the cab as it drags me off the road into the ditch. After glaring, I ride on.

Rolling past the Lion Park, I catch a glimpse of giraffe, ostrich, and zebra. My fun soon ends when I turn on the highway that is two lanes and a 3-foot drop off from asphalt to dirt. A semi roars up, honking at me. I scoot over. He honks. I ride the edge. He honks. I pray. He honks and blasts by, never moving over an inch, despite no oncoming cars and a whole road to work with. After swearing, I ride on.

By now my neck is getting sore. I put my chin to my chest to stretch out. It is a welcome relief. But riding like this is not very smart so my head lifts back to the more common position. When it returns upright, there is a large SUV in my lane, going about 65mph, and not more than a few yards away. The jackass just had to pass these cars in front of him and cared very little about who might be in the way. Panic sets in I yank the wheel left, sailing into space before landing in the dirt shoulder, thankfully without blowing a tire. My hatred and curses fly in the wind back toward a yuppie that will never hear them. Even more fortunately, after surveying the land ahead and behind me, I realize I have landed on the only 10 feet of rural South African shoulder that isn’t filled with large dirt mounds or raging canals of runoff. The adrenalin fades, feet clip back in, and I ride on.

Thus completes my 50 mile ride.

Several days prior to the ride, I did a time trial at the running club. After 2.8 miles there, I set out in front by more than a couple minutes. Running solo I held a decent pace for 4K. Then I really tired. The end was not impressive. But I crossed in 19:05 on a course that is so hilly I say it is worth 15-20 seconds over 5K. Then I jogged 2.8 miles home. It was a very good result for the time of year, total lack of intensity, and the miles per week (12-30) I have been doing. Two days later, I finished a 50 mile bike ride that neither felt long nor hard. I am getting there.

Where Are My Shoes??!?!?!

Last year I pulled off a sub-1:23 half marathon early in the training. I went back to the same race looking for a good performance. Unfortunately, the weather was crap, the course was just as hard as ever, and I struggled like never before. After about 5K, some stomach cramps hit and grew steadily worse for a while. Soon I was slouched over in a death shuffle. It has been a while since I have hurt this bad on a run. Yet when I crossed the line in 1:25:49 (6:32+/mile) I felt better.

My swimming has really picked up. Perhaps it is the previous experience in the water before or maybe it was all the videos and reading. At one point, this guy was coaching others at the pool and made a comment to one of them. Till that point, I never thought about the fact that my hand was 90° from the bottom of the pool. Once I turned my hand down, I gained more power. Even after the week off with the arm injury, I still had some good improvements. Not only am I finding it less than awful to be in the water, but my 2K time trial improved from 39:20 to 37:35 (a 1:45 improvement). That translates to a 1:11:30 Ironman swim. More work to do, but lots of time. My arm is at about 85%.

Now, to the good stuff. We are in Hermanus (near Cape Town) at a beach house. It is 2am. Sarah is saying, “What are you looking for?” I say, “What?” “What are you looking for?” she repeats. “Who are you talking to?” I ask in a purple haze worthy of Hendrix. Sarah points to the floor where there is a faint light and a black mass. Taelyn (2-year-old daughter) sometimes gets out of bed and lies on the floor. But no answer. Maybe it is my dad looking for my computer (by my bed). He has become obsessed with Burn Notice. No answer. I start to get up and the figure rises, definitely not Taelyn. Down the stairs it goes. I yell for my dad and there is no answer so I go to his room where he and my mom are in bed. Yep, someone was in our house. I shoot to the girls’ room and find them both, thankfully, asleep. My pops and I creep downstairs to find the house empty but the back door open with glass shattered on the ground.

After pulling the ADT alarm and greeting the security, we start to look around. My backpack was on the counter but is gone, along with my Comrades jacket, my mother’s REI fleece, and both ours and my parents’ digital cameras. My wallet with all credit cards, driver’s license, PADI card, and R1200 ($150) is gone and my phone too. Worst, in my backpack were my sunglasses, my computer mouse, my GPS watch, our family’s four passports, and our car keys. Why are missing the car keys a big deal? Because we only have one set, and they are the electronic kind that can only be ordered by the dealer from France, cost $300, and take three weeks to arrive. My car, our ride home, and my parent’s transport for the rest of the trip is sitting in the airport parking (at $11/day) with no way to move it.

Outside the broken window is a half-drank 40oz. of beer and on the ground a 5” knife. Thankfully, the dude did not bring the knife in the house. Security was cool, and told us this has been happening a lot, and that “squatters” break in, take stuff, and make off down the beach to their camp where they will sell the goods. Finally, the police arrive 45 minutes later and start to fill out a report. As realistic as the next guy, I know we aren’t going to find this burglar, but at least act like you care. These guys hardly say a word, take my statement with contempt, and one cop’s eyes are so bloodshot that he either was roused from a deep sleep or is drunk off his rocker (let’s not rule out both). They could not seem to understand that I do not live there. They keep asking if the house is insured and other questions, ignoring that I am renting the place! They are true to the task, though, as a call comes in about a stabbing and they tell someone else to do it. Their statement is on lined paper where the guy ad-libs what I say and he has me sign it. At the end, the last line say, “I agree this to be true, and hereby declare that I did not give permission for anyone to break into my house.” I think it is a joke. Who is in the house? Where is all my stuff? Call the cops! Someone broke in guys! What? Oh, yeah, I forgot. I did tell someone to break into my house, at night, and steal my items. Sorry for wasting your time.

Tallying up the damage, we were close to $2000 in loses. The cameras, jackets, watch, sunglasses, wallet, and cards could all be replaced. Sadly, we lost all of the pictures of our trip and our kids on the cameras. Some time on the internet could replace the credit cards and driver’s license. The passports required a trip to the consulate and a lot of money. What was worrisome was getting our work permits replaced in time to leave and return for our Tanzania trip in December. It was a major hassle (4 months) to get them originally so we hope this time will be better. The car key was a different problem as leaving a car in the airport for a month is costly, the key is costly, and being without a car in a place where you really can’t walk or bike to places is tough.

In the end, everyone was safe, and that was the main thing. These people don’t have much, so they commit crimes that get them cash or things that can be used for cash. I can understand that. I don’t blame them for what their life has become, but I am none too happy about it considering it was my items and safety in jeopardy. The feeling of having someone in your home, taking your stuff, and near your children is unnerving to say the least. But what really gets my blood boiling is that the guy took my running shoes. My used, dirty, smelly running shoes! I missed out on a run in a great place because of that. I hope they guy caught a foot fungus, and I hope it itches, bad.

You'll Have to Call Me Lefty

Sometimes when it rains, it pours. Training has been less than ideal with the staff retreat planning and starting work. The surprise volleyball appointment just made things tighter and I had to drop from focused training to a series of base work. I got smacked with a terrible cold and chest infection that hurt me for 10 days. Then I screwed up my arm.

I was playing volleyball with the high school team. After jumping in cold to serve repeatedly, we then did a hitting drill. For the remainder of the week, my arm was quite sore. Then on International Day, on the first play of a kickball game, I whipped the big red rubber ball at a 6th grader and heard a pop. My arm hurt like hell. The next day it was on fire. I went into the doctor who gave me a cortisone shot in the ass and sent me to the hospital where an ultrasound revealed no tear. However, even a week off volleyball, swimming, and lifting (with drugs) and it still hurts very bad.

Training through September 25^th.  Swimming and lifting have taken a hit with the arm injury.

	Cumulative Distance	Cumulative Time
Swim	13500m	6:19:20
Bike	359.7 mi	21:25:29
Run	167.82 mi	22:27:22
Core	N/A	4:30:00
Lift	N/A	3:30:00

It hasn’t been all illness and injury. I have been doing weekly time trials with the jogger. Four straight victories at 5k and 8K pushing two kids. Have some of that. My weight, which was a grotesque 158.5 lbs in late July, dropped to 154.3 by September 1st and by month’s end I am looking at 151.5 lbs. Again, I am not preoccupied by weight but I love to see the results of the work put in. I am stronger up top than I have been in years (likely the last Ironman) and shaving the fat will only make me more efficient.

The real satisfaction has been the bike. I don’t have the log from the last Ironman but Sarah confirms that I wasn’t on the bike that much. Not that I have been Team BMC or anything lately, but I am getting 1-2 shorter rides during the week and another “longer” ride of 30 miles or so on the weekend. This is a good start. I took this momentum to Clarens, a small mountain town to do a nice loop of the lovely Golden Gate Highlands National Park.

Rising early, the cold smacked me in the face like an underage partier mouthing off to a bouncer at a club. It was fricken freezing to say the least – my guess is 40 or slightly colder. Good thing I packed my arm warmers. After a couple of very steep kilometers, I hit my first turn, a dirt road. Whelp, that is over. I turned around to do an out-an-back in the park, forgoing the loop. The problem was my hands got too cold on the downhills. The body heat was generated well on the ups, but every time I got over 15mph (which is anything not a hill) my digits ached like in a Michigan winter. Several times in the first hour I could be found on the side of the road, hands shoved in pants, begging for my crotch to return warmth to my finger tips. When my hands weren’t the problem, it was my forehead and toes. Thankfully, the route was largely uphill on the way out.

My turnaround was at 28 miles out. After descending for several miles prior to this, I just laughed knowing what was coming. A monster category 3 climb awaited, yet it was probably the best 20 min of cycling I have ever had. Legs pumping, lungs heaving, blood boiling, I shot up this behemoth while Sarah grabbed some video (what you won’t catch on film are the screaming kids in the car). The final part of the route was predominately downhill, and I hit over 50mph on the bike, while riding 35+ on some of the “flatter” portions. It definitely made me see why the first half was so hard (see the profile below). But any ride where you see zebra, ostrich, antelope, and wild horses is a good one.

I also did some running there and was joined by three local men for over a mile. It still amazes me the people in other parts of the world who come out and run with a total strangers. If that doesn’t make you feel like you are in that scene in Rocky, nothing will.

So peep this video. It is the first in a series of documentation of the training I am doing for Ironman. Sarah asked why this song (Public Enemy’s He Got Game). I don’t know, maybe it was the beat, the mix of old school and “new” (1998) school. Maybe I just got game. So enjoy.

The profile for my 51.5 mile ride in Clarens, going over four Cat. 5 climbs, one Cat. 4, and two wicked Cat. 3 climbs. (or look here)

Tri Training - The First Month

Taking on a new training program can be pretty exciting. But I don’t recommend an Ironman plan without having adequate time. Time is something I have not had. Since moving back I have been very busy with work, going in sometimes 6 of 7 days. Not to mention a staff retreat outing that took many hours, was stressful, and made me miss some training. With that behind me I am on my way.

Thus far, I have been putting in about 2x/week of core to focus on the strength. A better core will help in the water and also on the run after hours of work. I have also been lifting about 2x/week. Nothing heavy; just the high rep/low weight for chest, shoulders, and back. I want to get stronger for the swim but I know the extra bulk will not be beneficial to lug with me on the bike and run. So balance is key. My bike has been about 2x/week on the trainer and once/week on the road for a longer ride of 20-25 miles or so. The trainer sucks as I pedal the whole time and at a much slower pace than the same effort would give me on the road. I am getting in 3 runs a week of about 4-7 miles each. It is a bit low but my first marathon isn’t until November, and I can manage pretty well on the run, so I am looking to use time an energy to build a base in the other two sports.

The bummer is that I had to take on coaching boys HS volleyball this term. So three nights per week I am staying late at school and missing out on some valuable training and rest time. I have accepted this and figure that a long base will work well for me.

After a few weeks in the pool, I am getting myself together. I started with 500m days and couldn’t do more than 250m in a shot. Then I got up to 1000m and was doing 500m at a time. My first time trial came after about a month of this and I did 2K straight after having not even gone half that far. I rocked out a 39:23, which is equivalent to a 1:15:00 swim for Ironman. I am stoked. I swam 1:13:00 my first Ironman and I am close to that pace already. I want to improve on it.

My bike hasn’t gone as well. Optimistically, I entered a 98K race. It was only just over twice as far as I had ridden so far, so why not do it? Well, first because I came down with nasty chest infection and spent the weekend in bed. I hauled my butt to the race and realized that I forgot my gloves. Gloves are sorely needed because South African roads are essentially gravel laid over glue. It hurt. I also forgot my Gu’s so I had no energy supplement. Not a good day. I couldn’t really stay with the pelotons that I wanted, but it was a decent effort. I held about 22.8mph over the first 27 miles and then faced with a turn I decided to head to the finish for the shorter race. The last 4 miles were killer and I ended the 50K ride in about 1:30:00. So it was a decent day despite the setbacks.

I have decided to keep a Cumulative training distance/time for the program. Here is my effort from August 1 to Sept. 4.

	Cumulative Distance	Cumulative Time
Swim	9000m	4:09:20
Bike	190.5 mi	11:20:34
Run	90.72 mi	12:07:22
Core	N/A	2:30:00
Lift	N/A	2:15:00

Insane Summer

After a week off running post-Comrades in South Africa, I landed in Michigan ready to train. But I didn’t just want to run. I wanted to be Insane! So I started doing the program called Insanity by Beachbody (the producers of P90X) that incorporates the total body workout without machines or weights. Just you and the ground to get ripped. On the first day I almost died. Day 2 was hell on Earth; my hamstrings were so tight I limped through a run. Day 3 got slightly better and soon I could do the workouts without crying (though still lost about a gallon of sweat per session). It was a super intense workout and coupled with the occasional run afterward I was molding into good shape quickly.

Just a taste of the 40 min daily program.

After a brief spell running, I missed several days of training due to a trip to Las Vegas where I took a good 5 years off of my liver. Then I headed out west to Eugene. There is little more in this great world that gets a runner wanting to train than visiting Track Town, USA. I jogged into the trails and hills of Hendrick’s Park, pausing briefly to visit Pre’s Rock. I also did a good loop of Pre’s Trail and, of course, kept up my Insanity. But the best part (aside from the plentiful Pacific Northwest microbrews) was the fact that USA Nationals were at Hayward Field. I had my seat in the East Grandstand, 5th row, 1500m start line. I witnessed some really excellent races, caught up with some old friends, and sat amongst some of the great coaches of the nation. It was a great trip, but it was not over until I headed to Seattle for a conference, with more Insanity, and more beer.

The trees and hills of Hendrick's Park

A bit of Pre's Trail

Pre's Rock

Enough said

On a whim, Sarah and I late-entered into the Volkslaufe race in Frankenmuth, a race she hadn’t run since early in college. 5K was just way too short for me, but the prizes in the age groups were Bavarian beer steins and how could I pass up the opportunity? A relatively quick first mile for me passed in 6:02 and a strange thing happened – I got faster. The second mile was rolling and I moved past some people and although I felt tired going into the final mile, I never felt sore. It was too fast for my lungs but the legs were solid. I rolled up on a college kid with half a mile to go but let him kick in as I had no other gears. Although I thought I could break 20 minutes, I crossed in 18:11, good for 11th overall and 1st in my age group. I don’t think that was all too bad considering the following: 1) It was my 2nd 5K of the year (and 2nd in the last 5 years), 2) I ran Comrades a little over a month prior, and 3) I ran 12 times since starting back running. No too shabby at all.

Two First Place Age-Groupers!

A wedding and a week in Costa Rica did nothing to help ramp up the mileage and come summer’s end I found myself consistently between 12 and 20 miles per week. Pretty impressive. But mileage isn’t going to save me coming into Ironman season. The training starts August 1. Wait for it!

A small departure from regular training to do some zip lines in Costa Rica!

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!