Intro
For our next adventure, we decided to go to South Africa. And by we, I mean that I picked it, and Sai gamely went along. For some reason, she trusted me with the planning for this trip. That was her mistake, and likely the last time she would make that mistake again. Prepare yourself for a lengthy report of this two week vacation. You might learn something new, seeing as I learned a lot, but be warned, I have a tendency to take facts and screw them up.
I came to Africa to bag a big one. But unlike a rich Minnesotan dentist, I didn’t plan to butcher a beloved lion (my mother would roll over in her grave, and my Buddhist wife would karmically curse me in my next life, or give me hell in this one). Instead, my trophy would (hopefully) be a finishers medal from Comrades, the 56 mile +/- footrace featuring a field capped at 20,000 people, who I assume like me would rather hurt themselves than an innocent lion. The stated goal for this trip was to run the Comrades Marathon. However, that was just one part of the package. We planned to do as much as we could in our two weeks. Starting with a flight from DC on May 20th, we’d arrive in Johannesburg on May 21st, I’d run the race from Pietermaritzburg to Durban on May 29th, and we’d fly back from Cape Town on June 4th, arriving back in DC on June 5th, with in-between stops to safari, sight-see, wine and dine, and whatever else I could come up with, though Sai nixed my suggestion for her to go swimming with the sharks (chicken).
This is my running diary from our trip. But it’s not just about running. And hopefully it won’t have much about diarrhea, though my verbosity may be diagnosed as diarrhea of the pen (or printer). There will be a fair number of footnotes, and probably a note or two about my feet (may God have mercy on their soles). And plenty of bad puns. Enjoy or ignore.
Comrades
Comrades is the oldest and largest ultramarathon in the world. It runs through the Valley of a Thousand Hills, though the website didn’t warn me that there would be that many when I signed up for it last fall. It goes between Pietermaritzburg and Durban, alternating directions each year, with 2016 being a “down” run to the Durban destination. Of the 20,000 entrants, we’ll see how many actually start, and how many of us hopefully finish. It’s Vic Clapham’s fault, as he founded the race to commemorate fallen brothers in arms after the first World War, with the first running in 1921, continuing every year since except for a hiatus during World War II[1]. I figured 2016 was a good chance for me to try my hand and feet at it, since there’s a scary possibility that crazy Donald may soon come to power and inadvertently (or advertently?) start WWIII, impacting future runnings.
Drugs
To begin, we needed vaccinations for typhoid and malaria pills (we are both current on Hepatitis vaccinations, and we weren’t entering any yellow fever areas). I worried a bit about typhoid, as some symptoms include lethargy, poor appetite, headache, generalized aches and pains, fever, diarrhea, chest congestion and abdominal pain. Most of my ultramarathons have led to most of those symptoms, so how would I know if the vaccination worked? Likewise, malaria symptoms can include fever, chills, headache, sweats, fatigue, nausea and vomiting, dry cough, muscle or back pain (or both), and an enlarged spleen. Again, (except for the spleen part), these all sound like running induced ailments. So, by the end of this trip, I may be carrying typhoid and malaria, or I may just be a wimp from my run. Either way, you should probably keep your distance.
I didn’t think the typhoid shot or malaria pills were enough, so prior to the trip, I found a bunch of additional drugs to take. My chest cold and cough did not respond to the first course of antibiotics, so the doctor gave me cough medicine, stronger antibiotics, and steroids, so I could really be ready to run! Before you flag my race report with an asterisk, know this: cheaters never win (except for Lance, and he only won seven times), and I’ll spare you the suspense, I didn’t win, nor did I cheat, which doesn’t seem right either.
Now for more medical jargon than you’d ever care to know: Prednisone (my prescribed juice) is a glucocorticosteroid on the banned “in competition” list. This means that you cannot take it from 12 hours before the start through the end of the competition. According to the WADA (World Anti-Doping Agency), its appearance on the prohibited list is “more due to dangerous side effects than performance enhancing effects.” Large doses increase cardiac output, cause mood elevation, euphoria, and increased motor activity. Personally, I think this sounds great. I recommend Prednisone to everyone. It’s like ecstasy, but to treat bronchitis. Oh, those side effects: hyperglycemia, reduced bone density, adrenal insufficiency, weight gain, muscle breakdown and anovulation (menstrual irregularities). Since I was trying to get healthy enough to run 55+ miles, I wasn’t too worried about the weight gain, I knew I’d experience plenty of muscle breakdown anyway, and I leave the ovulating to Sai. The other side effects, well, I guess I’d have to roll the dice.
And there are always Therapeutic Use Exemptions (TUEs), but a little info on that front: The application should be filed at least 30 days before the event (and I hadn’t planned to get sick that far in advance). In exceptional cases, TUEs may be approved retroactively, but apparently if you are not very competitive, no one really cares what you take. So while I thought it might be cool to join the ranks of Salazar’s athletes, I’m not ranked, and WADA has better things to worry about.[2]
So my Prednisone prescription was scaled to run out by 5/25, with the run out of Pietermarizburg scheduled on 5/29. This meant that I would be without the benefit of a bigger heart and better mood on race morning, but I would be compliant with the official drug policies. Alternatively, what if I saved up and popped the magic pills like S-caps or Swedish fish during the run, attaining euphoria and racing like a Russian, just hoping that my heart doesn’t explode?![3]
Some eerie similarities to blow your mind (coincidence – you bet!) before this report really gets started. In 1922, Sir Arthur Newton[4] at the age of 39 ran his first Comrades. He managed to edge out 88 people. Arthur Newton has 12 letters. So does Ben Apfelbaum. Guess how old I am, heading into my first Comrades? Now if I can manage to beat 88 people, maybe I’ll end up a Comrades legend still regaled 94 years from now. Okay, Sir Arthur won his race, and while I trust I’ll beat the same number of competitors, I also expect several thousand to finish in front of me. Newton went on to win the race four more times, running considerably faster over a tougher course (predating paved roads, crowd support and aid stations). Another interesting fact – Newtie (I feel like I know him well enough now to call him that) ran his first race as a form of protest against some unfair taxes on his farm (or something)[5]; imagine if Teabaggers Tea Party people followed this same strategy – Paul Ryan might really run his 3 hour marathon![6]
Day 8 – Saturday, May 28th – Calm Before the Storm
Not sure that calm is the right word for it, more like resigned to my fate at this point. My measly mile morning run (cut short for need of a toilet, not by need to taper) told me three things. 1) Durban has a beautiful downtown stadium and Indian Ocean coastline that I didn’t see driving in the dark the night before. 2) Durban has a lot of big hills! And 3) Hopefully with better luck finding bathrooms along the way, I’d only need to repeat this slow, less than pleasant effort ~55 more times the next day.
At breakfast, Sai and I spoke with a nice French woman working for the UN in Tanzania. According to Elle (not her real name, but I couldn’t pronounce or spell her real name, so Elle it is), living in Tanzania, there’s not much to do but to take up running, at least in her case. We agreed to try to coordinate the ride to the start. She told us that the last bus to Pietermaritzburg would be leaving at 3:30 a.m.
During the twenty minute drive from the hotel to the race expo, Sai decided that she wanted no part of Durban driving, and would not be following this same route to drop Elle and me off for our bus eighteen hours later. Durban’s a big city (third largest in SA, behind Jozi and Cape Town), and driving in a foreign city is a little scary, but I was pretty sure Sai would have survived. Besides, she had nothing better to do at 3 a.m. Oh well, minor details, with plenty of time to figure out how I would get to the start. We reached the race expo, and it was a spectacular spectacle (if you like those sorts of things like I do). Next to the Boston Marathon, Comrades had probably the next best pre-race exposition of any race I’ve been to. Tons of booths showcasing all kinds of gear, gadgets, goods and goos, regional race registrations, food stalls, plus everything Comrades-labeled you can think of at their main sponsor New Balance store. After I picked up my race bibs, pins, timing chip, tee shirt, visor, and Comrades bag, we wandered around, picking up a couple of Comrades shirts, and Sai tried some shock treatment[7]. I bought a one-way bus ticket to a faraway town, and we exited the convention center in under an hour. I could have easily spent much more time (and money) there, but it’s not for everyone, and I’d get enough Comrades stuff the next day, in a long road trek.
Next, we drove up to Pietermaritzburg so I could get the lay of the land. It would be dark when I’d see it again pre-dawn the next day, so I figured we’d get it in all its daylight glory today. And it was glorious. Okay, maybe glorious is a bit strong (by an exponential factor), but it was amply okay (a hell of a lot nicer than Jo’Burg). We saw the City Hall that would start it all, with plenty of runners in town to pick up their numbers and to enjoy a couple hours of extra sleep versus those of us coming from Durban in the morning. (You can stay in Durban, but then have to make your way to Pietermaritzburg for the start, or you can stay in Pietermaritzburg, but then have to make your way back after the finish; Durban is bigger and had more to offer for Sai, so I opted to stay there). We popped into a local museum where displayed animals were a lot less exciting than the living creatures in the wild (though much easier to spot), and hit up Nando’s for some tasty peri peri chicken for lunch. According to the fast food restaurant’s history, the peri peri sauces are the only positives from the original Portuguese visitors.
My biggest takeaway was that it didn’t seem too far or even particularly hilly on the main highway drive out. Sure, the real course would follow a more serpentine route, (which should also promise better scenery and fewer vehicles), with an extra hill or two, but the direct drive gave me a little more confidence that I could make it from Point B to A.
On the return journey, my Thai navigator navigated like a Portuguese pro, taking us onto the back roads that traversed the Valley of a Thousand Hills, and followed a good portion of the course. And damn it all, it took a hell of a lot longer and revealed so many hills otherwise hidden from the highway! My confidence from just a paragraph ago quickly evaporated. Still, the quiet drive was a nice way of scoping out what I thought could be my final resting place. If I dropped dead there, those background hills would make a nice backdrop for my broken body. It was very scenic, winding its way through little towns with vistas of rolling hills all around. We stopped at a quaint little bohemian village selling handmade specialties. We stopped at the Comrades Wall of Honour (their spelling), where I picked out some legends I knew about from my pre-race studies[8] and from generally following the sport (Arthur Newton, Bill Rowan, Wally Hayward, Alberto Salazar, Ann Trason, to name just a few). I won’t be joining their ranks in this lifetime, but next time, who knows? Maybe I’ll be born with more talent and a better work ethic. Doubtful, I’ll more likely come back as a cockroach (if you believe in Karma), or be too busy burning (if you buy into those hellish doctrines), so this passing visit to the Wall of Honour was probably the closest I’ll ever get.
Enough depressing thoughts about running and mortality and eternal damnation, so we went to the beach. Nice beaches, though nothing to compare to the beauty of the Thai islands (I’ve been spoiled). Pasta dinner and early back to the B&B, where our very helpful host Vincent assured me that he’d already figured out race transportation for me (and Elle) from the hotel. We would meet at 2:45 in the lobby. Sai could sleep in. Despite the nerves that had me feeling nauseated most of the day, with the looming doom and gloom of a long, painful run hanging over my head, I somehow managed to get a little sleep that night.
Day 9 – Sunday, May 29th – COMRADES!!
Izokuthoba – It will humble you. This was the message for the 91st Comrades Marathon. Well consider me humbled. And hobbled. And happy! Sure, that took a lot longer than I thought it would, but a week ago, I was worried that I wouldn’t make it to the start of the 2016 race, let alone to the finish of the 2.1 marathon long “marathon”. The official measurement relayed to us at the start of this down run was 89.2 km, or 55.4 miles for the metrically challenged.
The down run covers the original route from 1921, going from Pietermaritzburg down to Durban. Next year will be an up run, generally reversing the course, except it starts at City Hall of the first city and ends in a stadium at the destination, such that the routes are a little different (the up run is usually about a mile shorter, those slackers). To the South African purists[9], only partial credit is given for completing one of the runs; you need both an up and a down (in either order) to have truly experienced the full fury of Comrades. But why stop there, when you can run it over and over and over… Vic Boston completed his 40th consecutive race on the day that I completed my first. The old man breezed past me sometime after 80 km, adding another humbling moment to a day full of them. I was five months old when Vic ran his first Comrades in 1977. Mr. Boston was just one (extremely impressive) example, and not even the longest running. South Africans revere this race, to the point where 95% of the 20,000 entrants are domestic, and roughly 2/3rds of all runners are repeaters.
Comrades is the oldest and largest ultramarathon in the world. It is South Africa’s equivalent premier running event to the US’ Boston Marathon. Having now done both[10], I feel qualified enough to offer some comparisons. If you’ve likewise done both, feel free to skip past the next several paragraphs, as you’ve likely come to your own conclusions. Or, if you read and disagree, you’re welcome to write your own report or publish a paper entitled “Ben is an Idiot,” but that won’t surprise many people. For those who have only done one or the other or neither, feel free to trust me, but as always, caveat emptor (Latin loosely for “Ben is an idiot”).
Both B and C (need to find a big A race to fill the ABCs of running) are old runs. Boston dates back to 1897, Comrades to 1921. Both are point to point, passing through a bunch of different towns along the way. Both started meagerly, with the first Boston consisting of 10 finishers, while Comrades managed 16. Neither allowed women to officially run until much later, Boston in 1972, Comrades in 1975[11]. Both have since grown to preeminent bucket list races for many people, with entry requirements and capped fields limited only by the logistical demands of the streets and organizers (in other words, if there were no caps, the fields would continue to grow). Both have large prize purses and attract the world’s best elite runners at the front. But those are the boring facts. These are not what make the runs special.
Boston is traditionally run on Patriots Day, a Monday in April when most offices are closed for their local fake holiday. This means that people can stay home and hang out, and spend hours on their curbs eating and drinking, and pointing and laughing at the pained expressions on the masochistic men and women running (or wheeling) past. Of course, no one admits this. They cover it up with enthusiastic “looking great” cheers of encouragement, but that’s a lie. I have photographic proof from every race I’ve ever done that I am never “looking great”. Comrades has changed its date over the years, but is now on a Sunday in late May, and features the same fanfare as Boston along the route. While driving the course on Saturday, we heard the race director predicting a crowd of 400,000 to be lining the way, (plus another 5 million people watching on TV). It’s these people who make these races so much “fun”.
The carnival atmosphere and supportive crowds (even if they are secretly laughing at us) are what really set these races apart from any others in my humble opinion. And since I’ve been humbled, I can offer that opinion freely. It is an addictive rush to run past the screaming hordes, like you’re part of something big. It’s a synergistic effect, runners, crowd and race all combining into an “event”. In both cases, people gear their year towards it. You don’t just jump in either. You plan for, register early, train, qualify, train some more (not necessarily in that order), and hope to be handed a metal medal to reward your mettle at the end of it. You can also pick up your trophy race clothes (tees, hats, long sleeves, jackets, etc.) to show others that you were part of it (though I didn’t buy too much at the expo, since I was afraid I’d have to give away the goods if I didn’t finish. Also, I’m cheap.).
The runners are so different in so many ways, but the similarities are striking. You see Boston Marathoners who run the race religiously, year after year, just like the Comrades veterans who keep returning and reuniting with previous pals on the long trek between towns. In both events, unless you’re in the top tier, you can see a sea of bodies stretching out in front and behind for miles, showing how many others are going through the same thing.
My first Boston (back in ’97) was one of the coolest running experiences of my life. Comrades may not have matched it, mainly because I was not feeling as strong as I was in that Boston run, but it was pretty darn cool too. (I’d rank Comrades above my ’03 and ’14 Bostons). Some differences though, to prevent any Boston vets from feeling like there’s no need to travel to South Africa, or vice versa, because there are some big separators between the two runs, not just an extra 29 miles in SA (though that is probably the scariest factor).
People swear by ultramarathons as being such a tighter knit community, where a low-key crowd is pulling together and pulling for each other, as opposed to a cutthroat road competition. There is usually some merit to this stereotype, as most ultras are more laidback, with almost always less than a 1000 runners (JFK being the closest I’ve run to that count, most are closer to 100), whereas most of the road races I typically run have ten or twenty times that count. When you’re running for half a day or more, there’s no rush to get in and out of aid stations, and the pace is more conversational. You’re seeing many of the same people over and over again, as you yo-yo back and forth, or pass back on the out and back sections, or loop around to catch each other. You often recognize familiar faces from previous races as well, as there are only so many ultra nuts in a given region. In the bigger races, there is much more anonymity, and I wouldn’t say animosity, but rather indifference to those around you. So for Comrades to combine the ultra distance with the big road race size, I wasn’t sure how it would play out, whether it would be the community experience or the road rage competition. I needn’t have worried, as the field epitomized the camaraderie of the race name. Many times when I felt defeated, random strangers would offer support, telling me to come along and run with them, or asking what was ailing me and suggesting this or that to help alleviate the suffering. In other big races, it’s not uncommon to offer a quick “hang in there” or “almost there” or other simple pick me up, but Comrades makes it more personal, via their brilliant bib system.
If there’s one thing I’d like Boston to plagiarize from Comrades (reversing the course and ending in Hopkinton not being a good idea), it would be the race bibs. The CMA[12] gives runners two bibs, one for front and the other for your back. These bibs tell your whole story, more or less. While it might mean something to hear someone shout out “Go Number 19647!”, having them instead say “Good job Ben, welcome to South Africa, how are you enjoying your first Comrades?” is a bit more personal. I won’t cover the entire bib system because it’s too complicated for me, but some basics are as follows: Foreign runners wear blue bibs, while locals wear white. If you’ve run ten or more (or won three times) you get a green bib, regardless of where you’re from. If you’ve run nine (or nineteen, or twenty nine, etc.) and are going for a milestone #10, 20, 30 or 40, you wear a yellow bib, so people around you instantly recognize the accomplishment you’re after. If you’re going for your second straight (a back to back), your bib is outlined accordingly. So, you can tell a lot about a runner just from the color of their bib. The tag also gives your first name prominently, and lists the number of completed runs as well. From this, my blue bib with the number 0 and my name told the people around me that I was a long way from home without a clue as to what I was doing. It is a great conversation starter! During the run, a very friendly complete stranger saw me struggling, and said “Come on Ben. You can do this!” I immediately spotted his yellow bib, and asked which milestone he was running for, #10 or 20? He said “let me surprise you” and pointed out the number 29, telling me that he was on his way to his 30th completion. I shook his hand, congratulated him on being a young-looking badass, and proceeded to eat his dust. Likewise, as we approached the stadium, I was celebrating with the zeroes around me by shouting “come on _____ (names unimportant), let’s go collect our first medals!” It’s such a simple system, but it says so much about the runners. BAA[13], if you’re reading this, steal Comrades’ bib system!
Anyway, enough preamble, history, preaching, ado; I’ll get on with my specific humbling experience[14]. The day started with a 2:15 a.m. alarm, and I was quickly up and showered and dressed, then busily dowsing myself in sunscreen in the hotel lobby while waiting for my ride to downtown Durban, where I’d hop on a bus to Pietermaritzburg, where I’d hop off that bus and try to return to Durban on foot, where I’d hopefully find my wife waiting in the Kingsmead Cricket Stadium, from which we’d figure out how to get back to the hotel so I could shower again and get back into bed. Sounds kind of pointless, to wake up so early to go so far out of the way just to circle back to the same initial prone position, but the same can be said for getting out of bed every day.
Our international carload of one American (me), one French woman living in Tanzania (Elle), and two South Africans (Sam and her mother, our driver) drove to Pietermaritzburg (sorry, that joke-sounding intro deserves a better punchline), which was a pleasant surprise to Elle and me, as we thought we were only being dropped off in Durban to board the bus to Pietermaritzburg. In these things, things often don’t go according to plan, but now and then, they go better. The ride consisted of Elle fretting that she’d lost her international wrist band, Sam’s mom complaining that the American pop / hip hop music Sam was playing was crap, Sam telling me that I’d have no problem earning a silver medal, and me, stupidly believing Sam’s over-confidence in my abilities.
Seven weeks ago, I felt pretty good about my training and fitness; since then, I’d missed as many days as I’d run, and the few runs were of minimal quality. From December through early April, I’d averaged around 60 miles per week, with long runs of 46 in February, a solid qualifying marathon in March, and a decent 50 miler in April. After that 50, I suffered a type of shin splints to my extensor halluces longus tendon, which extends from my left big toe up the front of my shin. That sucked. But a desperate round of physical therapy including cupping and dry needling[15], a separate acupuncture and moxibustion treatment, rest, ice, compression sock and elevation (RICE), and I was able to overcome the shin-kick feeling after a couple of weeks. Then, when I was getting ready to re-up the miles again, I ran through a sore throat (neck up symptoms), but the cold spread downward into a chest cold, cough and congestion, which got progressively worse until I could ignore it no longer and backed off again. Two courses of antibiotics later (plus cough medicine, cough drops, some non-performance enhancing steroids (out of competition), neti-potting, and rest), and I was feeling nowhere near as good as before, but at least healthy enough to line up at the start.
I’d done a lot of research[16] and planning for this race, as South Africa is a long way from DC, and I didn’t want to go this distance only to not be able to go the distance, as the cornfield voice would say. From this research, I realized that although the record for this race was faster than the world record pace for 50 miles, this would not be an easy road run. This was going to be tough. Comrades was the main purpose of the trip for me (not as much a priority for Sai), so I had to finish first and foremost. A secondary goal would be to break 9 hours and earn a Bill Rowan medal. Anything beyond this would be bonus. So, when Sam started telling me that a silver medal was a sure thing, of course I instinctively disregarded my own expectations and knowledge and bought into her expertise, since she had once run the race in the opposite direction a few years prior and knew my capabilities from one qualifying marathon. We’ve previously established that I am an idiot, so you probably know where this is going.
I’ll explain the medal system now. Top 10 men and Top 10 women each earn gold medals. Positions 11 through 6:00:00 earn Wally Hayward medals, named after the winner from 1930, 50, 51, 53, and 1954. Wally tarnished his perfect record by not winning when he returned in 1988 and 1989, though he further distinguished himself as the oldest finisher at the age of 80 in that last run. After Wally, silver medals are given for running between 6:00 and 7:30:00, then Bill Rowan medals for 7:30 to 9:00:00. Bill Rowan won the first Comrades in 1921 in a time of 8:59. Bronze medals are awarded for 9:00 to 11:00:00, and Vic Clapham medals are given for 11:00 to 12:00:00. Vic Clapham founded the event. After 12:00, no medals are given. All times are based on the gun, not chip times.
For some perspective on these medals, in 2016, there were 20,000 entrants (the capped max), with 16,808 starting, and 14,603 finishing. Of these, 20 earned Gold medals. 16 earned Wally Haywards. 607 earned Silvers. 2,248 earned Bill Rowans. 11,541 earned Bronze and Vic Claphams[17]. 171 finished after the 12 hour cutoff.
In other words, I had no business even thinking about silver.
We arrived in P-Diddy-Burg just after 4 a.m., with almost 90 minutes to chill before go time. Temps were in the mid-40s Fahrenheit, maybe 7-8 degrees Celsius, say 280 degrees Kelvin to cover all the bases. Perfect running weather, though it wouldn’t stay that cool, and it was chilly for standing around. Locals were freezing. I supplemented my racing singlet with arm sleeves that I later removed before the start. Hours later, baking under the African sun, I couldn’t believe that some people were still wearing long sleeves and/or gloves. Upon arrival, I was accosted by a local who said something to me in I believe was a Bantu language (it wasn’t English, beyond that, I confess ignorance), so I played the dumb tourist that I am by smiling and saying thank you. “Why do you say thank you?” was his immediate challenging reply, to which my sleep-deprived, addled mind could not come up with a satisfactory answer. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure he had cursed me with a tribal incantation to bring the solar burn of a thousand suns upon my sorry white epidermis, and the muscular burn of a thousand hills upon my sorry weak muscles that day. Fool that I am, I gratefully accepted his curse. (Some might argue that I brought both of these burdens upon myself, but I blame that random mystic).
Skipping forward an hour, I was in the B Corral shoulder to shoulder with thousands of South Africans and far fewer foreigners. This meant that the enthusiastic chorus to the national anthem was so much more impressive than the usual tepid response to the Star Spangled Banner before US races (where most people respectfully quiet down and take off their hats, but only a few weirdos sing along). No offense F.S. Key, but their tune sounded a lot better. Then, Shosholoza was played, and the crowd really ramps it up to an eleven. I’d read about this pre-race ritual, but hadn’t paid it much thought. In the trenches, it is stirring. From the helpful Comrades USA newsletter, I knew the lyrics meant something about running forward from the mountains, but I felt it more powerful not knowing the full meaning. Like Red said in the Shawshank Redemption: “I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don’t want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I’d like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can’t be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it.” Shosholoza was stuck in my head for the first couple of hours of the run[18].
Following Shosholoza, they played the song from the legendary race between Chevy Chase and Anthony Michael Hall in National Lampoon’s Vacation (not Holiday Road; the Chariots of Fire theme), and everyone proceeded to fall asleep. Okay, that’s unfair, it’s a great race song, just a boring (albeit classic) movie (C of F, not NL’s V). Some aside irony – Chariots of Fire is about a devout Christian runner who was willing to forego his chance at Olympic glory because his God would not want him to compete on a Sunday. Here we were, thousands of runners deep, getting ready to spend all day Sunday running a race kicked off by the theme song from that same movie. Eric Liddell would not approve. And three film references for two songs? Maybe I should spend more time training and less time watching TV.
Anyway, after the inspiring Shosholoza (SA’s version of IM’s Run To the Hills), and Chariots of Fire, I was fired up, a cannon was fired, and I took off as if fired from a cannon. Just kidding, but I did of course start out too fast. Old habits (particularly bad ones) die hard, as would I in a few short hours (not literally). It took me maybe 40 seconds to get from my position in Corral B across the starting line, so the gun time versus chip time medal cutoff would not be any kind of excuse. Kudos again to South African efficiency (from flights to expo pickup to race start, everything ran smoothly. If only I had some South African blood, maybe I would too). I hit the first 5k in around 27 minutes, 10k in 52, 20k at 1:42, half marathon (just over 21k) at 1:47, and was feeling fine cardiovascularly (not hacking up a lung from the old chest cold, to my great relief). I maintained this same pace through 30k, reached in 2:32, which meant that I was generally on pace for a 7:30 type effort (at roughly 1/3rd into the run), so maybe Sam was right!
I backed off a bit in the next third, at first intentionally, and then automatically. I downed the first “marathon[19]” in around 3:45, so I had fallen off the silver line, but I still had plenty of time banked for reaching a Rowan, right? Then, with less than thirty miles to go, things got interesting. And by interesting, I mean ugly. The course traverses the Valley of a Thousand Hills, but this is poorly named because I’m pretty sure they missed a few in that count. While this was a down run, it was not lacking in nice uphill climbs either. After a few hours on these rollercoaster roads, my legs were ruined. Calf cramping became a constant (unwelcome) companion for the second half of the race, and the quads were similarly stricken. At least I was not alone in these ailments, as the “physiotherapy” tents at select aid stations were staffed with attendees ready to rub down our spasming muscles, cold spray us, or ice our aching limbs. I lost track of how many times I took advantage of this service, but each time it would get me back on track towards Durban until the next set of cramps would stop me in my tracks again[20]. The worst was the dreaded double cramp, when both calves would seize at the same time, and I’d spring forward and nearly face plant. There were only a few of these synchronized lockdowns and I somehow managed never to hit the ground.
My second half strategy was to run the uphills for as long as I could, then walk when the running became too tough. I’d follow a similar plan for the downs. And for the flats, I never found any, so it didn’t matter. I walked a lot. Each time, someone would come up from behind, read my name, and personally encourage me to push on. And it usually worked. There was one part somewhere before the midway where I had to wave off my helpful comrades because I wanted to walk as much to enjoy the view as to rest the legs. Though brutal, it really is a scenic course when you look around, rather than looking down (or up) at the road and mass of bodies in front of you or just seeking out aid. The most impressive stretches were between the towns, where surrounding hillsides showcased vast vistas of green countryside for miles, speckled with occasional homes, with a lengthening snake of runners winding down its middle in the longest, sweatiest parade you can imagine. These peaceful moments of reflection at the course beauty would then be interrupted by my profanities at the next set of cramps.
In between these quiet moments of pain, we were treated to towns of screaming supporters. I had countless shouts of USA! USA! as I passed by. One of my better decisions was to go with the USA Comrades singlet ordered through the aforementioned Comrades USA newsletter, though in hindsight, I probably should have opted for the sleeved version, as back, shoulder, and under arm sunburns are the pits. Many locals welcomed me to their country or thanked me for visiting. It was nice to be in a foreign land where they didn’t look at me like the ugly American that I am. Many also yelled out references to the Donald, most unflatteringly, such as “Please don’t vote for Trump.” Perhaps they see similarities to their shameful recent past with a Nationalist Party acting for the pure benefit of a wealthy, white upper class, exploiting immigrants and non-whites in an isolationist (pariah), screw the rest of the world approach, and feel that such a person wouldn’t make America great again. Or maybe they just don’t like his small hands and big hair[21]. But I didn’t instigate discussions of politics!
Everyone was incredibly friendly and supportive, except for one guy (besides me. Everyone knows I’m an asshole.). Somewhere with around 20 miles to go (or 32 km), I was overtaken by a bus of runners (their term for a group running together) while walking through an aid station. I didn’t know they were coming, and I was practically stampeded. I also apparently offensively impeded one of the runners in this bus, as he shouted something at me (I yelled an apology), then continued to turn around and glare at me for the next couple of hundred meters or so. I thought he wanted to come back to fight me, but he ultimately realized that I probably wouldn’t put up much of a fight, so he continued on with his run. Anyway, everyone else was great, but that one guy sucks.
One of the sponsored aid stations had an announcer who called me out as I approached. “Here comes Ben from the USA, working towards his first Comrades!”, to which I proudly waved to the crowds, before he suddenly announced “Ben, you’re about to be passed by a girl”, to which I shamefully shouted “Thanks Tania” as she ran away from me. We passed rural schools of young African children holding out their hands for us to high five on our way. We passed an older prep school of boys in ties and jackets, somehow not melting in that brutal sun[22].
As the KM to go signs continued to go down in number, my confidence in being able to complete the “run” continued to grow. 21 km to go meant a simple (not so simple) half marathon stood in my way from being able to get off my feet. Somewhere in this range, I found a second wind and started to regroup, perhaps inspired by a stunning blonde sunning herself and cheering us on. She shouted “Go Ben!” or “Way to go Ben!” or maybe it was “Go away Ben!”, but whatever it was, it included my name, and it was special. I really hope her boyfriend doesn’t shoot her in the toilet on Valentine’s Day[23].
My second wind had me running strong again, passing back some of the many who had earlier left me for dead. New life! Until Cowies Hill, one of the last big climbs, somewhere around 17 km from the finish, which killed my momentum again. I was resigned to bronze glory by this point, with Rowan long since having left the building, and was busily doing mental math to figure out how slow could I go before I’d be running for a Vic Clapham medal. With 16 km to go, ten miles left, if I’m at 7:40, eight minute miles = 9 hours, which is impossible; 200 minutes = 20 minutes per mile = 11 hours, I’m golden bronzen. I hit 50 miles at around 8:35, which is consistent with most of my trail efforts for that distance. Although I thought I’d surely be able to run much faster than that on the roads, not on this day. 10k to go – 6 miles; 8k to go – 5 miles; 5k to go – 3 miles; 4k – 2.5 miles; 3k – less than 2 miles; simple math to keep myself heading for the light at the end of this tunnel of pain. 2k – 1 ¼ miles; 1k – just over half a mile to go![24]
With under a km to go, some people chose to walk it in to bask in the moment. That thought never crossed my mind. I was determined to run it in, as long as I could. Approaching and entering the stadium is like running down Copley Plaza, with a mass of humanity enveloping you in a rapturous roar. Twice during this stretch, I kind of zoned out and lost myself in the experience. Both times, it only lasted a few steps, but I’d find myself suddenly back again, wondering what the hell just happened, and how did I not fall over? Was this an out of body experience or just a momentary lapse of reason? I don’t know; it’s never happened before, so I’ll just chalk it up to some special Comrades juju.
Then we entered the Kingsmead Cricket Stadium, and proceeded with a counter-clockwise procession around the infield. The stands held thousands of supporters (including my wife), but they blended into background blurs and noise, as I was too focused on completing the semi-circuit to the finish line. I wouldn’t call it a sprint, but there was extra pep in my step and I was passing a few people during this final push. I heard the speaker system announcing me in, as an American completing my first Comrades and challenging me to come back for more, but I had no interest in considering the suggestion at this time. I just wanted to celebrate the end of this one.
Final time was 9 hours 41 minutes and 30 seconds (gun time), putting me in 4,215th place. For this, I received a small bronze medal. Not to sound ungrateful, but I had expected a Flavor Flav sized neck ornament for the effort, not the little lanyard and coin-sized decoration they gave me. Oh well, it’ll have to do. This was one of the toughest runs I’ve ever done. Izokuthoba – Comrades parlance for “you’re an idiot.[25]”
[1] I read John Cameron-Dow’s “Comrades Marathon: The Ultimate Human Race”. This chronicled every run from 1921 through 2010, so a lot of my Comrades facts use this source. Ibids abound. Thanks JCD (don’t confuse him with JCVD – Jean Claude Van Damme doesn’t know shit about Comrades).
[2] Did you know that Alberto Salazar is the only American man to win Comrades? He was victorious in 1994. Ann Trason (badass that she is) won the women’s race twice in 1996 and 1997. That’s it for USA. And if you didn’t know this, now you learned something!
[3] Just kidding. There’s no proof the Russians cheated during their reign of dominance at Comrades. Their victories were more likely the result of Commie pride, not Prednisone. Still, if I happen to die under mysterious circumstances, Vladimir Putin is my #1 suspect. Dude can’t take a joke (kind of like Trump). #2 suspect is the pharmaceutical cocktail party running through my veins for this trip. #3 suspect is my loving wife, though why, I cannot understand, since I am awesome and her favorite (first) husband and my life insurance is not a lot…
[4] So I am not sure if Arthur Newton was ever knighted, but Sir Isaac Newton was (no relation, that I know of). Isaac may have defined gravity, but Artie defied it on the hills between these two South African towns, so I’ll call him Sir too.
[5] JCD ibid, bitch.
[6] Not a good sign. First couple of pages, and I’ve already come out against Trump, teased the Tea Party, and taken an anti-hunting position; while my mother would be pleased, any red state readers will likely be pissed. I apologize for the politicizing, though I know it won’t end that quickly. Maybe I can visit the Cradle of Humankind (near Johannesburg) and I’ll look for Obama’s real birth certificate. Just kidding. We all know he’s from Kenya. I’ll also not pick on any elephants we see in Kruger for their association with the Republican Party.[7] Electrical muscle stimulation (E-Stim).
[8] Mainly JCD.
[9] Is this because South Africa loves double jeopardy? I’d ask Oscar P, but don’t want to get shot.
[10] Admittedly, I’ve only done the down Comrades, but Boston is a net downhill course, and the down direction seems more comparable anyway, so just bear with me.
[11] Thanks Wikipedia.
[12] Comrades Marathon Association, not to be confused with the Country Music Awards.
[13] Boston Athletic Association, not to be confused with sheep talk.
[14] Note that this race report is just one day in the two week tale of my and Sai’s trip to South Africa. The full trip report is available for those interested, but be warned, it’s a long-winded mix of interesting excursions and uninteresting spousal spats. It’s also really, really long.
[15] Regenerative Orthopedics & Sports Medicine did a great job of getting me back on my feet quickly. They even tried to fix my f$#ked up form, which they believe caused the injury, but I’m too stubborn to listen.
[16] Reading John Cameron-Dow’s complete history of the race was a lot of work (but interesting)!
[17] Scrolling through nearly 15,000 finishers took too long to figure out the split between bronze and Clapham medalists.
[18] A day later, as Sai and I were eating dinner in Cape Town, an a cappella group started singing African folk music before hawking their CDs. I asked if they played Shosholoza, he flipped CD #2 and pointed to song #5, and they had a sale.
[19] As far as I know, only South Africa calls non-traditional distances “marathons.” Everywhere else, marathon means 26.2 miles (or 42.2 km). In SA, it can mean 56 km (Two Oceans) or 87-90 km (Comrades), or other random distances. So if someone tells you they are getting ready to run a marathon, unless it’s in South Africa, don’t ask how long this one is.
[20] Somewhere around 83 km in, I received my final rubdown, to patch me back for the final run-in. I thanked the trainer profusely, told her that she was my savior and my new best friend. None of my friends have ever given me a rubdown like that! She was unimpressed and quickly onto the next set of legs as I set off for the finish.
[21] Comrades says that “it will humble you.” Trump is the least humble person imaginable. See where I’m going with this?
[22] From the Boston comparison, unfortunately there is nothing in Comrades that can hold a candle to the testosterone boost that is running past Wellesley College though. Unless you’re Jerry Sandusky.
[23] Sorry, that was a little forced, but I have a Pistorius quota to fill. Be glad I haven’t joked that blades would have made the run a lot easier.
[24] Minor complaint, CMA. About a mile out from the finish, we ran under a highway overpass where the urine stench was overwhelming. That part stunk. Throughout the race, there were plenty of portapots available, though I often saw runners peeing on the side of the road with portapots within pissing distance. Is there some African fear of blue boxes? I also saw some runners peeing right next to distance markers. Not sure if this was a territorial pissing to assert ownership of this course?
[25] Final literal footnote – Balega socks kept me blister-free. I didn’t even lose any new toenails from the effort. The feet felt like they were bludgeoned with hammers from all the pounding (perhaps I should work on my bad running form after all), but it could have been much worse. I did see a couple of people carrying their shoes (or tekkies) in the latter stages. That couldn’t have been fun.
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 