April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon

[Sweder]

04:15. I’m wide awake without the help of my alarm clock.
The day has arrived. In a matter of minutes I’ll be setting out to run in the World’s Most Beautiful Marathon ™. There’s a heady cocktail of fear, expectation and wild excitement brewing deep in my guts as I busy myself with the pre-dawn porridge ritual. I scarf a big bowlful in a silent house. The condemned man’s last meal, or the fuel for an epic journey? My head buzzes at the prospect, the possibilities; so many questions to be answered, so many footsteps to tread.

05:10. In the car, my host Clive at the wheel, having insisted that I didn’t want the hassle of parking and walking some 2k to the start line, assuring me that he really didn’t mind getting up before dawn to get me there. He declines my offer of porridge, offering a perfect impression of an offended Sharpie, and we set off to collect Rog from his downtown hotel. The Old Boy is ready for us, bouncing on his toes in the half-light.

Clive’s wisdom is proven as we hit heavy traffic on the Newlands road. I peer into the cars and trucks beside us; without exception driver and/ or passenger is kitted out in running gear.

05:50: ten minutes before the start of the 21K race we’re still a half-klick from the start going no further on these wheels. Rog and I abandon ship, thanking Clive (profusely in my case) for getting us this far as hundreds of worried runners speed past us to meet the starting gun. We stroll along the main drag, watching people emerge from cars abandoned on driveways and traffic islands, pulling off tracksuit bottoms, adjusting race numbers, applying liniments or peering into the gloom for sight of their comrades. Excitement builds as the distant tannoy calls the half-marathoners under orders; more noise and they are, apparently, off.

The four-lane road, separated by a large central pavement, is filled with limbering 56Kers. This is ‘H’ zone, the back of the pack, last refuge for scoundrels, slow-coaches and newbies. Moyleman arrives with sister Cam’s fella and occasional JSJer Dave, and we four are well met. Rog snaps an overhead of four feet clad in new-ish runners. The boys look rested, chipper and eager for battle. I bounce and half-kick as nervous energy seeks an outlet, waiting for the tannoy to signal the start.

06:15. Wonderful African voices fill the pre-dawn. A huge choir massed at the start is singing to us, praising the brave souls who will travel on this incredible journey, wishing us God’s speed. Their easy cadence flows through the waiting throng like raw energy as the pensive shuffling steps up a gear and we bunch forward, necks craned towards the start. We’re under way, walking for a minute or two, jogging, finally running across the line, waving and grinning as the chip-readers slake their thirst.

A dream has become reality. Ahead lie 56 kilometres waiting for the sun, waiting for the pounding of eight thousands sets of feet. Waiting for us.