Sometimes you hear about a race or event and just know that it's something you have to do. I can't say for sure when I first read about Comrades, but I remember thinking, "yes, that sounds like a run I will do someday." Someday for me turned out to be May 30, 2010.
The alarm goes off at 2:00 am. My race kit is laid out from the night before and I shrug it on. I have a quick bite to eat, an Ensure I lugged out here from Oregon and a piece of toast with peanut butter and banana. Who doesn't want breakfast at that time in the night/morning? Our new friend Terence, a South African from Durban now living in Michigan, picks us up at 3:00. Terence's extremely accommodating brother in law Kevin drives us in the dark to Pietermarikzburg. I eat another piece of peanut butter banana toast and drink a second Ensure. Geof and Kevin head back to Durban in the dark, Terence and I follow the crowd of 20,000 +/- towards the starting area.
Some things are the same, race to race. You see the long, snaking port-a-potty lines and hop in. Nothing new here. Working our way towards the gates, there is a refreshment area. On the menu was coffee, tea and milk, and hot soup. OK, that's a little different. Hot milk before a run doesn't sound great even though it's chilly. I stick with plain, hot water. Also different is the singing. Runners link arms and sing. The crowd sings. I not only want my camera but a recording device. I guess there's no way to capture that emotion except now in my memory.
I say goodbye to Terence and enter my designated block, alphabetized by my qualification time. This, too is familiar. Nervous runners trying to stay warm and stretch their legs. Everybody is friendly beyond belief. This would be the start of many great conversations I had throughout the course of the day. Lots of people have flags of their home country strapped to their backs or tucked into their hats. The race encouraged all runners in 2010 for the 85th year of Comrades to bring a flag to the start to celebrate both the international flavor of the race as well as the World Cup. I have my US flag pinned to my back.
Approaching the start, the action picks up. South Africa's National Anthem is sung and all South Africans around me of all colors sing along. Then Chariots of Fire is played. Now the cock crows and immediately afterwards the cannon goes off. This is all part of the ritual and tradition of the race. We start to shuffle towards the mat and 5 minutes later we're running. Although we do have several timing mats along the race course, it is a gun start. Meaning that the time cut off begins at the gun and not when you cross the first mat. That would make a big difference in many runners' days.
We run in the dark-to-dawn for an hour, up and down the undulating hills. Somewhere around Polly Shortts, the first big hill of the course, light starts to creep into the sky. At the highest point of the course--Umlaas Road--the sun breaks the horizon. Mist is rising off the fields and it's beautiful. I won't be cold again for the rest of the day. Huge crowds of spectators line the course, even during the early morning hours, even along the lonely stretches of road. I hear a lot of "well done, lady" and "well done, sister."
Fellow runners treat me like family. There is a color code system (which I didn't entirely figure out) to the race numbers and everybody knew it was my first run. They welcomed me to their country and to their race. Chatting with some runners I'd ask how many Comrades they'd run and I'd hear "oh, a few." "How many?" 14, 21, 30. Wow. The question never was if I'd run Comrades again, it was always "when you come back next year..."
I started off slow. Very slow. Ultra running is uncharted territory for me and I wanted to heed the experts' advice. The first 2 hours were actually sort of tough. I struggled with my stomach, back and leg pain and couldn't quite find a rhythm. Most of all I struggled with self doubt. Around 15 miles into the race, I'm questioning myself. Then something clicks. I pick up my pace and start to find my day. Somewhere in this time period I pass the sub-11 hour pace group. I'm having fun. I end up running with a father (21 Comrades) and his son (first Comrades) for almost an hour. The father starts the conversation with "so how does it feel to be running in the most beautiful country in the world?" As we're running through predominantly Zulu towns at this point of the race, they teach me some Zulu words. The word I use the most is "ngiyabonga:" thank you.
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We run through Camperdown, a large Zulu town. The Zulu runners around me link arms and run through as a group to great cheering from the town. A little further up the road we reach the Ethembeni, the school for disabled children we had visited 2 days before the race. Kids are out on the road on crutches and in wheelchairs, shouting and singing. I realize that I've been running with a smile on my face for hours. It's been pure joy.
The aid stations on the course are plentiful and well-stocked. Water and the sports drink Energade are distributed in little plastic baggies. There is a learning curve to the sachets, but after a couple of facial sprays I get the hang of it: bite, squeeze and suck. It actually works much better than dixie cups. Many of the aid stations have leg massages taking place, vaseline, salt shakers, water troughs for cooling down...pretty impressive stuff. Salt. I definitely don't have enough salt pills with me and my hands and arms are incredibly swollen.
Tough climbs ahead over and down Inchanga and Botha's Hill. Views spread out over the hills and valley on a clear and sunny day. Warm is turning to hot. And humid. We've already run a marathon and aren't yet halfway through the course. Some runners are starting to look not so good. By Botha's, many are walking. Some are hobbled with cramps, trying to stretch it out on the side of the road. A few are throwing up. I feel great, but don't take anything for granted. I enjoy the moment, keep on track with my hydration and nutrition plan, keep the pace rolling, keep smiling. I remember the quote by Gene Thibeault: "If you start to feel good during an ultra, don't worry you will get over it."
Heading up Botha, we are approaching the half-way point of the course. A little girl on the side of the road hands me flowers "for Arthur, for good luck in the second half." Veteran runners divvy up the flowers and branches handed out by the spectators amongst other runners. We are approaching Arthur's Seat, a little rock niche named for running legend Arthur Newton, winner of the second Comrades and a pioneer of modern run training. Legend has it that this man who went on to win 5 Comrades stopped here to smoke a pipe. If you want to run well on the second half of the course, you should offer flowers to Arthur's Seat and say "Good morning, Arthur" as you pass by. This is tradition. I most certainly want a good second half and I follow tradition.
We pass the Wall of Honor with the names of Comrades winners and runners on plaques. Then another cut off point and timing mat. I wonder if Geof is getting the text updates when I cross these mats. Past the half way point and downhill. The downhills are starting to hurt. The uphills feel fine I am beginning to understand the pain of a down year. The signs along the road count down the kilometers. I am now at 42, meaning 42 kilometers out of 90 to go. I realize that's a marathon. I still feel pretty good, but it's a sobering thought.
Up the road, I come across the sub-10 hour pace group. Not bad! Since the group takes up the entire road, I run with them for 20 minutes or so. The leader has everyone on a run/walk plan. When we hit the hills, he'll shout out "OK, 3,2,1" and we slow down to a brisk walk. He then yells "Arms up! Arms down" and everyone raises and lowers their arms. After 20 seconds of walking with arm raises, he does his 3,2,1count down and we start to run. There is singing and chanting. Passing the aid stations, the runners on the outside are like waiters, taking orders from the middle: Water? Energade? Banana? Biscuit? Everyone grabs something and passes it in. It's like running as a collective body, not as an individual. Although interesting, I push past the group when the road widens a bit. I feel I can run just a little bit faster.
We are leaving the Zulu villages and entering into the upscale community of Hillcrest. Crowd support is still strong and families are out grilling meat on the braais and drinking beer. Conversations with fellow runners are shorter now. Everyone is still so friendly and helpful, but we are all tired. Most of us are now running inside our own heads. The leg rub-downs at the massage tables are looking good, but I'm afraid if I stop at this point I won't start up again. The downhills hurt. No way to sugarcoat it: the pain is like knives shooting up my legs. I'm still smiling, but it's an effort now.
And then comes Field's Hill. At the top, we see Durban and the Indian Ocean for the first time. It still seems so far away. And then it's down. And down. The pain is awful and there is no relief. Fields is steep and curving and seems to never end. It's not just the steepness but the extreme camber of the road that is giving me issues. It's like running inside a funnel. I try to find the most level point which is usually the middle of the road. No luck. Nothing at the edges either. I also think about some other advice I've heard that you should run the tangent of the hills or risk adding on an extra 3 kilometers to the course. I give up trying for either and just run. I discover that you can't fight the pain. Try and fight it, your muscles tense and cramp and it feels like you're going to fall down. The best way to run the downs is to accept the pain, sink into it and relax.
Now comes Pinetown. Geof should be here and I start to look for him and his US flag. I run down through a little tunnel underpass and spot him as I run up. I pull over, chat with him for a few minutes, refuel, give him a kiss and head out. It totally lifts my spirits. 20 kilometers to go.
The last 2 hours of the race go by in a blur. My pace has been steady and good and I've enjoyed myself tremendously. Cowie's Hill is short and steep. I walk some of it. 10 kilometers left. I'm in Durban, running towards the stadium. I'm still running up and down. I would kill for some flat ground. My pace starts to slow. I try and pick it up only to watch it slow again. 5 kilometers to go and I have nothing left. I'm still trying to smile but I think it's more of a grimace. I just want to finish. Now.
Actually, I want to beat Batman and Superman. And Santa Claus, or Father Christmas as the crowds are calling him. These guys have been running the whole, hot, long day in full-on costumes. Unbelievably, there have been a good number of people running in various costumes and/or wigs. This is completely beyond me. They are all very nice people, but I would love to come in ahead of them. This is my only motivating thought. Beat Batman.
I enter the stadium. My sprint is a 9 minute mile. Even the loop around the stadium goes on and on. I see Geof and he's waving the flag. The clouds and light are beautiful. I look to the side and see myself on the large stadium screen. The stands are packed. The crowds are loud. It's very surreal. And I cross the finish line. 9:40on the gun time, about 9:33ish on my watch. 90 kilometers or somewhere shy of 57 miles.
My legs collapse and a runner named Ian grabs me. A volunteer comes over and walks with me for a couple of minutes. Geof spots me and the volunteer passes me over to him. We see many of our new friends and head over to a nice spot in the grass. I feel euphoric. So many people I met either on the course preview on Friday or who I ran with during the day float by. We talk about how special Comrades is. We cheer on the runners coming in. We all continue to wear our medals. Geof spots Terence with around a half hour left to go before the course closes. His family is all there to greet him. We have been invited over to their house that evening for curry, which sounded great at 3:30 am in the car. It's starting to not sound so great now. I've gone from feeling fantastic to not so good. I'm lying down in the grass to keep from throwing up.
15 minutes left and the announcer says there are still 10,000 runners out on the course. They are pouring into the stadium. The sun starts to go down and the clouds over the stadium turn orange, then pink. The crowd roars when the sub-12 hour pace group runs in. It is huge. They roar even loader for the rhino. I am not imagining this: there is a runner in a huge rhino outfit coming into the stadium. Ask Geof, I swear.
10 minutes left. 5 minutes. Everyone is on their feet. I discover it's not so easy to get up. Soon there is a guy in a suit with a gun and a bunch of people with red shirts. They move to the finish line and the red shirt guys join hands. The announcer starts the countdown: "10,9,8..." Runners are still pouring in. Most won't make it. I start to cry. We all worked so hard for this. Terrence's mom comes over to give me a hug. At exactly the 12 hour mark the red shirt guys, holding hands, turn their backs to the runners coming in, blocking the finish line. Meanwhile, the suit guy, also with his back turned, shoots the gun into the air, then turns around and shakes the hand of the first "unfinisher." That person is interviewed and becomes something of a South African celebrity. And still the runners come into the stadium. This, too, is part of the Comrades tradition. It is brutal.
It is so hard to put into words what this experience has meant to me. I've never had so much fun during a race. I've never hurt so much afterwards. I've never felt so connected to other runners or spectators. It's possible I've never felt so connected to a place. In a very strange way, it felt like coming home. One of the first things someone said to me after I finished was "welcome to the family." I've never been so happy to complete a race and never so sad to see it end. There is magic here. And for the record, I did beat Batman.
