“Well done, well done!!”
These are the words that one hears from spectators, volunteers and even fellow runners during each of the 89 kilometers of the Comrades Marathon course. And yes, for once the question, “How long was that marathon?” is an appropriate one. While Comrades has “marathon” in its title, its distance well over twice that of a conventional 26.2 mile marathon.
How does one best describe the Comrades Marathon in two words?
“Well done!”
I have been lucky to have participated in many special sporting events: Western States, Hawaiian Ironman, Badwater, the Birkenbeiner and others. Some have been magical events that have touched my heart, often for reasons other than running (or biking, or skiing, or swimming). But Comrades? From start to finish it is the run itself that is magical.
My trip to the starting line of the 85th Comrades started the week of the 84th running. My boss had talked about the possibility of a work trip to South Africa. I said that I had long wanted to take part in Comrades. “Get into the race and I’ll send you there.” November 1 was the opening date for first-timer registration. Would the boss remember the offer? September 1, October 1 and then again at the end of October I pestered him, just to make sure. It seemed like an offer too good to be true.
“Yes, get into the race!” he said.
Before the sun rose on November 1 in Milwaukee, I was on the Comrades website, credit card in hand. With the seven-hour time difference I didn’t want to wait too long. Within hours, the race closed, filled to its 20,000-entrant capacity.
I had a hard time getting my head around that. 20,000 runners in a 56-mile race? I thought that Ice Age was large with its 300 to 400-person field, spread between three events. I’d done Sunmart when there had been hundreds registered. But 20,000 people at an ultra? A big city marathon perhaps, but an ultra?
I had a hard time getting my head around the idea until race morning when 20,000 people all seemed to want to use the porta potties and check their tog bags at the same time. Not wanting to tax my host more than I already was I told him that getting me to the 5:30 a.m. start about an hour ahead of time would be fine. And at any other ultra I have done that would have been the case. But in every way, Comrades is in another league.
The first thing that I saw when I entered the runners-only area was a mass of humanity at the porta potty line. Like a lemming, I followed. But after a few minutes I wondered where the warm-up bags were being gathered. No one in line seemed to know. I had looked at a map of the area prior to the race but everything seemed different once I was there. I could find a bush later, but if I didn’t get my bag to the finish line I’d have nothing to chase the evening cold of the South African winter after the race. A volunteer pointed me around a corner and there I was greeted by a mass of humanity even greater than at the porta-potties. I wedged my way in. At least it was a good way to stay warm in the morning chill. I’d check my bag, take care of my personal business and then head to the starting chutes.
Surely I had enough time, didn’t I?
Runners are divided into starting waves based on submitted race times. We all start together but gun time serves as your finish time, not chip time, so it is advantageous to be as close to the front as possible. I was seeded in one of the middle chutes. As I headed to the gate for that chute I saw people trying to get around a volunteer waving his arms. Then I remembered –– the pre-race literature stated that runners had to be in their chutes 15 minutes prior to the start. The volunteer was closing the chute. OH SHOOT!!!!!
I wiggled my way into the middle of a group negotiating itself around the volunteer. Tangled in a mass of people I was like a football player rushing for a touchdown at the one-yard line. Had I made it in? When I could see something other than than buttocks of the runner in front of me I finally realized that I was on the inside of the fence.
Well done!
A few minutes before the start the South African anthem was played. Sung in a combination of Zulu, Afrikaans, Xhosa, Sesotho and English –– five of the 11 most frequently spoken languages in the country –– it is a reminder of the history of the country and its re-birth as a post-apartheid society. Not only was I in an incredible event, I was in an incredible country.
The gun went off and four minutes later I crossed the start line. Although it was a slow walk to the start, once past the line runners were soon able to run their pace. I was surprised at how easily 20,000 people found room for themselves in the streets.
All runners are required to wear their numbers on their front and their back. Our names are printed on them and the color of the number indicates something about its wearer. International runners had blue numbers. Evidently the citizens of South Africa are instructed to seek these blue numbers out and welcome international runners to their country. Or so it seemed.
People in multitudes of colors and accents came up to me and welcomed me to their country and to their race. “We are so glad that you are here!” I was told. And the people seemed to mean it. Runners, volunteers and spectators had the same welcoming enthusiasm. “Welcome to South Africa!” I heard again and again.
My new-found South African friends told me about the course, what to expect, as well as a few hints on running it. As we slowly ran up an early hill a fellow runner told me, “Next year you will run down this!” Comrades switches directions each year and while I was only a few kilometers into the race I was already being encouraged to come back for an “up year.”
“Oh, but you must!” I heard over and over. “You are doing a fine job here today. Well done, well done!!”
After a few kilometers runners come into the first aid station. I had heard that water and energy drink was given out in plastic bags. I had no idea what this actually meant until I saw one. The fluids looked like melted ice pops. I looked at the other runners talking them and realized that one bites a hole in the bag and then sucks in the fluid. It seemed odd until I did it. It is much easier than trying to negotiate a cup to one’s lips while moving. These South Africans have some good ideas.
Bottles or a hydration pack? Neither are needed at Comrades. After the first few kilometers the aid stations are constant. I think that some are independent of the race, though I was never sure. How do 20,000 people move through an aid station? Very easily when there are hundreds of volunteers at each. Though I didn’t use them, runners also had the option of visiting several PT stations along the way to have knotted legs unraveled.
The spectators. Ever wonder what it might feel like to ride in the Tour de France? Spectators camping out just to cheer you and your fellow competitors for a few moments? Eager fans crowding in the street, propelling you forward with their enthusiasm?
“Well done, well done!!!! Welcome to South Africa!!!”
Coming through the main spectator sections one was surrounded by fans five, six and seven deep. In less spectator-friendly sections the fans were there as well, though smaller in number. From the top of bridges and even hanging from trees the fans were there.
The encouragement of women to women was incredible. “Lady, lady, you look so strong! Lady, lady, I know that you will finish!!! Lady, lady, have courage!”
And of course, “Lady, lady… WELL DONE!”
The course? To me it felt like a paved cross country ski trail without the snow. If you have done the American Birkenbeiner or Quebec’s Gatineau you have a sense of the terrain. Rarely was it flat. Up, up, up and down, down, down.
This was a “down year” from Pietermaritzburg to Durban, so the end point was much lower than the start. For those who still had quads in the last 20K it was a wonderful ride into town. For those who left their quadriceps somewhere around 70K, the end was a constant battle in pain management.
“Well done, well done!” The shout took on a new meaning in the latter miles of the race. “Well done,” as in “put a fork in me, my legs are DONE!” Even those having the best of races were running their last miles on dead meat. Very well done meat. No juice.
But I really was one of the lucky ones. Other pieces of the machine were showing more wear than my quads. I had hamstrings as tight as an African drum head but the quads held on. It was wonderful to do the last few kilometers at a faster pace than the first few.
Coming into Durban my face hurt almost as much as my legs. I think my mouth was stuck in a perpetual smile. My body was in discomfort but my head was filled with joy the entire 89 kilometers. I smiled at the elderly black ladies carrying their items in bags upon their heads. I laughed at the young children with their hands held out, trying to catch as many high-fives as they could from passing runners. I loved to hear the many languages floating around me: Zulu, Afrikaans, English, Xhosa, Sesotho and many others. The ease with which Africans switch between languages is amazing.
But then, much about South Africa is amazing.
And the stadium. I saw the one kilometer sign and realized that I was near the end. I had heard about the stadium finish but had no idea of what awaited me. My jaw dropped as I entered. Thousands of fans were waiting for us. Cheers from every direction. Our entry flashed upon a jumbo screen as we came to the finish. So overwhelmed by the spectacle I found myself laughing and crying all at once.
Even the finish of mid-packers like me was broadcast on national television. “We saw your finish on TV!” said one of my hosts at the end of the day. “You are now famous in South Africa!”
I have done many races, and been a part of many special sporting experiences. But this? All I can say is “WELL DONE!” What more can I offer to the South Africans than their words to me.
Well done indeed.
