89. COMRADES MARATHON 2014 – By BRIAN WEBBER

By GRR 0

Sunday 1st June 2014 had been a date locked in my mind since I registered for the Comrades Marathon back in September. I had been persuaded to enter by dear friends from South Africa who were veterans of over 30 Comrades races between them and promised that it would be an experience like no other.

Luckily for me, a fellow member of my local running club decided to take on the same challenge and we trained together for the next eight months, scheduling in various races to add variety and interest to a programme which looked incredibly daunting to two old guys approaching their 67th birthdays.

From 1st December onwards, I carefully logged every distance we covered in training and can report that we did a total of 1327 km (824 miles) up to but not including race day.

Race Day started with a wake-up call at 1.45am and breakfast at 2.15 before boarding a bus taking us from our Durban hotel to Pietermaritzburg, so that we could have the pleasure of running back again. We had been warned about not viewing the very hilly course before the race, so I closed my eyes for much of the journey but the sound of the ancient bus struggling in low gear for parts of the journey – and racing at high speeds downhill for the rest of the way – hardly helped pre-race nerves.

Although his faster time in the Pisa Marathon had qualified him for a better starting position than me, my friend decided that he would run with me, at least for as long as I could keep up, and we both agreed that it made sense to go with the slowest pace group (or "bus" as they call it in South Africa) to gain from the experience of Comrades veterans and to be sure of giving ourselves the best chance of finishing within the twelve hour time limit. This meant starting right at the back of the field and taking nine minutes to cross the start line, a significant handicap since, in this race, everyone's stopwatch starts when the gun goes off at 5.30am.

There was an expectant, emotional atmosphere in the build-up to the start, with runners and spectators lustily singing the South African national anthem as well as a Zulu song called "Shosholoza." Tradition demanded that the start itself was marked by a recording of a cock crowing followed by the gun itself.

My wife was at the start to see me off and when I spotted them, I waved my cap to catch their attention. In so doing, the sunglasses which were lodged on top of my cap (it was dark at that time of the morning) flew off and were never seen again – what a great start!

Our pace group leader was a Comrades legend, Vlam Pieterse, a larger-than-life character in every sense. His strategy soon became clear as we jogged steadily along fairly flat roads out of the city and soon started walking when the first hill appeared. This run/walk strategy continued the whole way, ensuring energy was conserved as much as possible and hills were broken down into bite-size pieces.

During each walk Vlam's booming voice encouraged to raise both arms in the air and take deep breaths. There were also US marine boot camp chants and responses to take our minds off the relentless series of hills – "I don't know but I've been told, Comrades runners are made of gold" was a particular favourite. Plenty of mental distractions coupled with good practices like breathing, stretching and varying pace.

Although this was the "Down Run", we knew from the course relief map that we faced 1000 metres of ascent in fourteen uphill sections including the notorious Big Five. Three of these were in the first half but, for me, they blurred into one another as the overall impression was that there was barely a flat section on the whole route! In any event, my friend and I were both in pretty good shape by the time we reached half way – 44.5km completed in 5 hours 53 minutes.

All runners had been advised in advance that cut-off times would be strictly observed, with anyone not making the cut being compelled to take a ride on a real, motorised bus to the finish. So we were relieved and a little proud to be 27 minutes inside the official cut-off for half way. To put our athletic achievement in context though, some 25 minutes earlier, Bongmusa Mthembi had completed the full 89.2km to win the race!

Soon after half-way we saw some friends, who had generously come out to cheer us on. We were able to report feeling strong and knew the message would be phoned through to our wives at the finish. We focussed on staying with the "bus" and watching the kilometres tick past until the next cut-off point at 14.00, making that landmark with 45 minutes to spare. We were lucky that the promised bright sunshine had shown only brief glimpses through a largely overcast sky, but it still felt very warm and I was conscious of pouring more water over myself than I had ever done in a race before.

By now, I had started to get the first signs of what would turn into a major problem. My calves were tightening and even cramping a little. I spotted a sign saying "Physiotherapy" like a hungry man spots a restaurant sign from half a mile away. It turned out to be no more than young volunteers rubbing ice cubes against your calf muscles but it was better than nothing and we both took advantage.

Despite trying to take on more liquid – water and Energade were available in 150ml sachets and Coca Cola in paper cups every 2kms – the calf cramping got worse and I again took advantage of some ice cube therapy. This time my friend pressed on without me, though I was able to catch him and the bus again about 3km further on by jogging through some of the walking sessions conducted by the "bus driver."

However, the cramps were getting stronger and more frequent and I had to let my friend and the bus leave without me at the next physio stop. By the time I met my friends again, the calves were locked tight and my right thigh was cramping too. It was clear to me that any prospect of beating the twelve-hour time limit was fading fast and it would now require a huge effort to get to the final cut-off point in time to be allowed to finish, even though there would be no medal. My sole objective became to cover the distance and to hell with the medal.

First, though, I had to make the 15.30 cut-off with legs that were refusing to co-operate. One friend massaged my calves while the other dashed off for medical assistance, which arrived in the form of two small tablets. Unquestioningly, I took one and stored the other in my bum bag in case I needed it later. I got going again, inventing my own jog/walk strategy, focussing on mini targets to shuffle towards and then walking until ready to set another objective in the near distance.

This technique got me to the 15:30 cut-off with 33 minutes to spare. Now for the big one – getting to the final cut-off point at 82km. I had written the cut-off times on a piece of paper stored in my bum bag but, with all the sweat and water flying around, the writing had become illegible. I had 16:40 locked in my brain and kept that as my focus as my legs struggled to keep me moving. Despite drinking a lot of the various fluids available, the calves started cramping again so I stopped at a gazebo manned by a running club and asked for ice.

The wonderful people there supplied ice and a proper leg massage while putting a cold towel over my head to lower my soaring body temperature. I probably lost five minutes while all this went on but I felt so much better, took the second tablet and felt ready to soldier on – and on and on.

Eventually, the final cut-off boards came in sight and I got to the marker point at 16:36. To my surprise, the boards read 16:50 not 16:40, so I realised that I was not just 4 minutes inside the deadline but 14 minutes. OK, hang on, I've got 54 minutes to cover the last 7km. That's about seven and a half minutes per km. In reality that was faster than I had covered any section of the course thus far, but my tired brain was not working logically at that point. Instead, it started to think that maybe, just maybe, with good luck and a following wind, it might be possible after all.

Once I had climbed the last rise, the relief map suggested that it would be gently downhill all the way now. I'd adopted a different running/shuffling style to ease the pressure on the cramped calves and it was starting to take me past other runners who had slowed even more than me. Time checks at each km post confirmed that I was meeting the required pace! Soon I got two more huge mental boosts when, first, the city of Durban came into sight and then, from nowhere, a good breeze got up behind me and pushed me along. Good grief, I might just do this – keep going you old fool!

Three kms to go and 24 minutes left. Excellent, keep shuffling. But where's the 2km point? I never did see it, but in the city I was delighted to see my friends who were leaping up and down and waving me urgently onwards. Round the corner and there was the 1km to go board. It was 17:21. Nine minutes to go, surely I could do it now. I could see the floodlights of the Kingsmead cricket stadium and the crowds were screaming at us all to keep going.

Then the entrance to the stadium and a wall of noise. A runner near me lost his balance as I went past him and barged me into to a fence cutting my arm, but luckily I kept my balance – if I had fallen then I definitely would have struggled to get up again. There was almost a full lap of the stadium on the grass and the finish gantry clock seemed set in fast forward mode. But it read 17:28:28 as I crossed the line.

Somehow, I'd not only finished but done so inside the cut-off.

My left calf cramped again immediately after crossing the line so I slumped into a plastic chair and listened to the stadium commentator urging runners to beat the 12 hour deadline; by now the noise from the spectators was deafening. I dragged myself towards the marshals and got the medal I'd worked so hard for.

Instead of dissolving into the expected tears, I burst out laughing – the medal was so small and the ribbon so tatty that it would be frowned at as a reward for a 5km fun run back home! Tradition is all-important in this race, though, and I fully understand why the medal has remained unchanged over the years.

My running friend was waiting for me and looking remarkably chipper, though he said he was a little tired too! He'd finished more than four minutes earlier, still on the "bus". Congratulations, Comrade! I found out later that my pace was faster for those last 7 km than at any stage in the race and that I had passed 143 runners during my desperate chase to the finish.

Emotional reunions with our wives and friends soon followed but my legs soon reminded me of the efforts they had gone through and of how I had obviously not taken on enough liquid during the past twelve hours.

Cramp set in, medics were called, and the next hour was spent painfully as physios battled to get my seized-up calves working again. After a shower and some food, I wondered what could have been in those tablets which contributed to my being able to finish. Lorraine burst out laughing as she told me that the only tablets she'd been able to find among the roadside spectators were for period pains!

Was it all worth it?

Well, for me the answer is undoubtedly yes. It was an event I'd heard about during every time we visited South Africa and our friends were not exaggerating at all when they told us how very important the Comrades Marathon is within their country. There were crowds all along the 89km route, and the encouragement we got was truly inspiring.

The event's slogans are "The Ultimate Human Race" and "Hard is what makes it great." It was certainly hard, the hardest thing I have ever done. However, we had a plan for the training and terrific support from a lot of lovely people. We also had a plan for the race itself and that worked too, apart from a problem or too with cramp. So it's amazing what the body (even an old one) can do if the mind is willing.

What next, I hear you ask. Well, that's the last ultra marathon that I will attempt. I would love to try the "Up Run" next year and complete back-to-back Comrades, but that would be stretching the body and the goodwill of loved ones too far, so that's enough.

Perhaps I'll try to run a little faster or rather a little less slowly. It would be great to help, nudge or cajole one or two others to achieve whatever running goal they decide to set themselves.

Who knows, there may even be another "ordinary" marathon or two in these old legs yet….

BRIAN WEBBER