Papa B finishing a trail race with his little supporter.
It’s ten past five in the morning, the streets glisten, still wet from last night’s rain. The air is warm already, and the faintest breeze stirs the trees. Four hundred people stand gathered in a loose circle, and in the middle a lone man is shouting. “…Right into Gloucester, left into Cadogan, up Cadogan and right into Beachway, all the way through, then left into Clarendon…” The lone man is commanding, precise, in control, the people who gather around him hang off every word. He is the route caller, and the flock are runners.
What? Runners? Wait, what?
Yep, that’s right, here in Durban it’s totally normal for four hundred-plus people to converge on a street corner, listen to the route, and then run en masse blocking traffic, setting off neighbourhood dogs, and chatting at the tops of their voices for ten kilometers. And this happens four times a week. And how do I know this?
Because I am one of them.
I wake up at 4:30AM four times a week and run ten kilometers at a not-too-shabby pace of around an hour give or take a minute or two. Papa B and I are trail runners at heart, and there is nothing better than running along single track paths in the bush or on the beach as the sun comes up. So I’m a runner right?
Sort of.
In Durban my 40kms a week don’t mean a whole lot. I am less than a speck of dirt on a real runner’s shoe. I am less than the mold growing on the speck of dirt of a real runner’s shoe. I am less than…OK you get the point. Because here in Durban, in the whole country actually, people don’t just run, they RUN.
This is a normal conversation between runners here in Durban:
“Hey, howzit going? “
“Ja, good man. You?”
“Not too shabby. You running Comrades?”
“Ja for sure. You”
“Ja, I’m actually going for my 10th hey”
“Serious! Nice bru”
“Thanks man. How ‘bout you?”
“Ja it’s my 18th hey”
And that’s the thing about running in Durban, and in SA in general…you think you’re cool, but there’s always someone cooler than you. The Comrades Marathon is a South African institution. But it’s not just any old marathon, it’s about 87 kilometers (54 miles). 87. That’s a double marathon, plus a bit. The route runs between Durban on the coast and Pietermaritzburg 87 kilometers inland, and the start and finish alternate every year, so one year they start in Durban, the next year they start in Pietermaritzburg. This year Comrades starts in Durban, which means it’s an ‘up’ run. 87 kilometers. Uphill. Sign me up.
Actually, no don’t, because I’m not insane. But I can tell you that this year 22639 people are. Their enthusiasm is incredible, their commitment enviable, their camaraderie truly inspiring. Because to finish Comrades within the 12 hour time limit is to push yourself beyond what you ever thought you could, to probe the depths of super-human capability. As G-Mama D (my mum) says, “Once you’ve done Comrades you can face anything in life.” And she should know, she ran three: one of them with a broken wrist. And what she says really sums Comrades up: it’s the run of your life, and in a way it’s a run for your life too. And so on the 31st May 2015, 22639 runners will put their toes to the starting line, absorb the electric atmosphere, try to quell their nerves, and with Chariots of Fire echoing through the darkness they will set off, one step at a time towards the fulfillment of their dreams.
The Comrades Marathon is a South African institution. Pic courtesy of Bruce Ungersbock
Papa B will be amongst them. He is running Comrades for the first time. It’s an auspicious year because it’s the marathon’s 90th anniversary. I think he is totally off his rocker, but I am so proud of him. We went to a Comrades presentation the other day where seasoned veterans dispensed training advice, healthy eating tips, and reality checks, and someone commented that only in South Africa do people who have never run before jump off the couch and declare, “I’m going to run Comrades!” Some of them make it, most don’t because the training is grueling and you need commitment to see it through. The top runners finish Comrades in around five and a half hours. The record stands at 5:20:49 for the down run, and 5:24:49 for the up run. The rest have up to twelve hours to finish, but there are cut off points along the way, and if you don’t make them, you’re out. Watching the end of the race is exhilarating and heart breaking all at the same time. You see runners limping over the finish line, some are held up by their stronger team-mates, some supported by strangers, others finish and collapse in tears of disbelief at what they have just accomplished. After eighty-seven kilometers differences melt away, strangers become brothers, and men become heroes (women too, obviously). When the twelve-hour gun goes off signaling the end of the race, there are some runners who are literally two meters from the finish line, and it’s heart breaking to know that they came so close. But they are no less heroic.
And then, just when you find yourself caught up in awe at Comrades runners, you meet a guy from your running club who did the trail run up to Pietermaritzburg the day before Comrades, slept a few hours, then ran Comrades back down to Durban the next morning. That’s a round trip of over 200 kilometers, or 124 miles. Yet again, perspective gives you a good slap in the face, and you are reminded that in SA ordinary people do extraordinary things. Going about their daily lives they may look normal, but like Superman their superhero kit lies just below the surface, ready for action at the drop of a hat.
Running is endemic to South African culture. They start the kids off young. We see hordes of them hurtling around the established routes, eight, nine, ten year olds, full of bounding energy, their red faced teachers puffing after them clearly regretting signing up for the running roster. These kids are the future of running in SA. I’m sure many of them will complete a Comrades Marathon in their lifetimes.
In a few days we are off to Cape Town to run the Two Oceans, known the world’s most beautiful marathon. The route takes in breathtaking sea and mountain views, although this year the devastating fires of a few weeks ago mean that the route has been altered slightly for safety reasons. I’m doing the very sensible 21km half marathon; Papa B is doing the full 56km ultra marathon, which really is just a walk in the park…right?