The Mail & Guardian’s Thabo Mohlala runs the Comrades Marathon.
”Boet, are you strong enough”, ”do you have a strong character”, ”have you been running races”, ”which was the last race you ran?”
These are the questions I was bombarded with when people heard that I would be taking part in this year’s Comrades Marathon in Durban —- for the first time.
As with any other novice, I was a bundle of nerves. After all, this is the world’s most prestigious and gruelling ultra-distance race. I took to heart those tips that were spiritually edifying. I felt modestly sanguine; I would do better because I had taken part in a number of high-profile races such as the Two Oceans.
I arrived at the coastal city on the Friday before the race, joining thousands of other runners on what has become their annual pilgrimage. The hotels in and around the North Coast must have raked in millions judging by the number of runners who lodged there.
My hotel, spitting distance away from the sea, offered an inspiring and refreshing view. I used the first day to settle in and absorb the mood. On Saturday morning I went out for a gentle trot alongside the beach where I met a number of other runners who were also there to stretch their muscles and refine their strategies. Later in the day I went to the registration centre to get my race number as well as activate my chip.
I battled to catch a nap because of anxiety. With the race starting at 5.30am in Pietermaritzburg, I decided to hit the blankets as early as 7pm so that I would be ready to catch a 3am bus to the starting point.
At exactly 2am my alarm went off. I took a quick bath and put on my running gear, which was already nicely packed the night before. I swallowed a pinch of salt to forestall any need to visit the loo in the course of the race. And boy did it work!
At 3am our bus was already groaning on its way to Pietermaritzburg, the official starting point. There was jubilation, with runners clad in their club attires prancing about enthusiastically to shake off the biting winter breeze.
Lively music pumping from king-size speakers added to the jovial mood. The clock was ticking and dignitaries were taking their positions to officially kick-start the race. Soon a recorded version of the national anthem played, followed by the emotionally gripping Chariots of Fire by Vangelis.
The sheer profundity of the song and its significance was evident on every runner’s face, leaving a few wet eyes. It was a deeply schmaltzy affair and within seconds the suspense was ended with a gunshot, sending us on an unpleasant crusade.
My objective was simple: to finish the race. That meant taking things conservatively and resisting the temptation to speed up. I reserved all my energies for the notorious steeps of Inchanga, Alverstone, Bothas Hills and Cowie Hills, ahead.
I had a few pit stops on the route mainly to replenish lost body fluids and supplement my sugar levels.
Everything went as planned. I had no cramps or any injury. But when I reached the halfway mark, Drummond Hill, my legs started to feel pain. This was made worse by the fact that a few kilometres down the line, the course became a down run, which killed my quadriceps. Needless to say this drained me psychologically as my speed reduced. Besides, at this point of the race the legs are wobbly.
I decided to walk and run. With about three kilometres to the finish, the sub-nine ”bus” caught up with me. I blocked off the pain as I joined them. A delirious crowd lined both sides of the route and kept us going. As we entered the stadium the euphoria became more deafening. I was ecstatic for having made it, clocking eight hours and 58 minutes, to earn a Bill Rowan medal.
Yes, I am still nursing my pains, but I also feel proud that on my maiden race I conquered one of the stiffest marathons in the world that has come to epitomise physical and psychological endurance.