April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon

[Sweder]

Just over 10k’s gone and we’re still on Main Road.
Meadowridge and Heathfield are behind us, so too the pre-dawn half-light. Apollo has risen, his chariot blazing out of the eastern ocean to soar above the crags of Peck’s Valley and the coastal town of Muizenberg. At Westlake Golf Course we take our first detour from the straight and not-so-narrow, turning left into Muizenberg North. I look left and see railway tracks coming to meet us. Lakeside station offers a small incline, a few parked cars squeezing the runners through a gap or two. I’ve taken on a few water bags now. These bags are a great idea – flimsy plastic sheaths filled with cool drinking water or Powerade. All one has to do is nibble the corner and squirt liquid into your mouth or over your head as you wish. Much easier than messing around with plastic bottles or paper cups, infinitely less lethal underfoot once discarded.

Over the brow of the hill and we’re offered the first of many breathtaking views; Neptune’s Corner. White-capped breakers rush in across False Bay from the Indian Ocean, dashing plumes of spray against gleaming boulders, washing up with a sizzling hiss onto bright white sand. I’m plenty warm now, and the temptation to slip across the railway line and dance into the surf is growing by the second. Then I spy a sign, laced to a lamppost especially for me:
‘No, You Don’t Have Time For A Dip: Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon.’
Darn.

To our right the creaky, sun-dried, salt-lashed verandas of shops and homesteads offer comfortable vantage to the locals. Clapping, cheering and the occasional whoop send us on our way. We run, the road flat once more, alongside the ocean, a soft breeze cooling us as sweat starts to glisten on a thousand furrowed brows. Through St James and the 17K marker. These 'Kay' markers seem to appear with a friendly regularity I’d not expected. This is all most reassuring, yet in the back of my mind, in the midst of this soothing, tranquil scene, the low growl of a monstrous beast rumbles in reminder of the challenge ahead. Focus.

Our path winds gently through Kalk Bay, still ocean-side, the craggy face of Glencairn Heights, peaks first illuminated, still distant as we left Claremont well over an hour ago, loom massively overhead. We reach the half marathon point, 21.1 kilometres, but I can’t see a Clock and, as ever, I’m not carrying a timepiece. It might be useful to know how I’m doing – it feels like I’ve been chugging along at a fair lick, but It’s hard to gauge.

We're into the town of Fish Hoek now, a slightly more ramshackle variation on Meizenburg but no less charming for that. More townsfolk greet us from the sidewalks, chomping on croissants and muffins as we thunder by, their weather-beated faces and shiny black eyes impassive. Just on 23K we bid farewell to the railway and the beach to turn sharp right/ due west onto Kommetjie Road, the long easy gradient that crosses the Cape Peninsular to Noordhoek and halfway. It’s a symbolic moment in the scheme of the race; a farewell to earthly pleasures, to sandcastles and surf, to quayside creperies and seafront pubs. Time to pack away those comfy day-dreams and wistful thoughts; it’s time for business boys and girls. Knuckle down, pay attention; here starts the lesson.

We climb out of Fish Hoek, the sun leering at our backs. I’m getting warmer by the step, taking one water to drink and another to spray over my new cap and sweat-stained shirt. My calf remains a constant nag, though nothing more than that so far. There’s something else troubling me though, something new, unexpected and certainly unwanted; my stomach. And it’s here I must confess my folly, my unbelievably dumb breaking of one of the cardinal rules if distance running; never, ever, try anything new in a race. Concerned about the heat and consequent loss of minerals I’d persuaded myself to take on a nightly dose of salt tablets. Purchased on Thursday at the Expo these were long-lasting, slow-release chappies designed to gradually guard your system against cramp. My experience at the Jog Shop Jog, where both calves had turned to stone in the last mile and a half, had me convinced this was a good idea. Sadly I’d not factored in possible effects on my digestive system; only now, entering my 24th kilometre on race day, does it occur to me that I might have a problem. I need a loo break, and I need one soon.

This may not all be down to the salt tablets of course. Something I’d overlooked in my preparations was how to trick a body used to rising at 7am to get up at 4 and somehow get through its daily ablutions in double-quick time. Then there was the rather over-eager Friday munch-fest, culminating in a none-too-clever late (8pm) last meal.

Whatever the reason I'm in trouble. Being British and, more to the point, being me, I elect to soldier on rather than find some temporary shelter and with it blessed, if unofficial, relief. This decision is reinforced when just shy of 25K, right about the point we leave Silverglade to enter Sun Valley, I spot a ‘bus’ dead ahead – it’s the Sub Six bus. ‘Buses’ in South Africa are the Runners’ World Pacers, denoted by a small triangular flag bearing their target sub-time, usually surrounded by hopeful runners. I plod steadfastly, the bobbing flag coming ever back to me through the rocking, rolling runners' river. I’m level . . . and past! Blimey, what pace am I running? Despite the low rumbling in my guts I still feel good, though the rising temperature is starting to hit. It can’t be this easy; I’d better ease up. Yet even with my foot ever so slightly off the gas I’m staying ahead of the group.

Through 25K and Sun Valley lives up to it's name; like Lee Majors in the fabulous opening sequence to The Six Million Dollar Man 'I’m burnin' up'. I’ve no idea what the temperature is – it’s still barely 9 o’clock in the morning – but the sodden vest clinging to my back tells me I’ve a full sweat on. The road continues to rise, gradually, inexorably towards the next phase; half way and the legendary Chapman’s Peak. The heat is on.