April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon

[Sweder]

Hot, bothered and alone in a sea of runners I leave Sun Valley and start the long climb past Noordhoek towards Chapman’s Point and the Peak beyond. The road weaves gently at this point, and just as it dawns on me we should be approaching halfway a familiar red and black hooped vest pulls alongside.
‘Alright mate, hows it going?’
A horribly relaxed, fresh-looking Moyleman beams a broad grin across at me.
As I suck in an extra lungful of warm air to respond he adds
‘Getting pretty fuckin’ hot innit.’
I nod, a small waterfall of sweat and water cascading off the brim of my cap.
‘Been struggling to get air’ I pant. ‘Leg’s alright so far.’
In fact the leg has been relatively fine but this is mainly down to the small pharmacy consumed pre-start and on route. With halfway upon us it’s time for yet another ibuprofen.
‘Dave’s just back there. Haven’t seen Rog since he stopped. I’m gonna push on – good luck mate.’
And he’s off, striding strongly through the assembly, peak pulled down on his cap. He might be feeling the heat but he’s not letting it get to him. Good man. Soon enough Dave arrives, upright, relaxed, looking good. A similar exchange transpires and he too leaves me to eat dust.

28 kilometres and a mid section time check: 2:48.
Well, that’s pretty good, except that the easiest sections are behind me, basking on the cool of the early morning; the heartbreakers all still to come, just as Dante would have them; in the inferno. I shake my head – more sweat flicks across those about me. I’ve got to lose those negative thoughts! It’s tough, yes, and getting tougher; but I’ve trained for this. Get your head down, dig in and shut up. But I haven’t trained for this – this infernal bloody heat. It feels like someone’s turning up the gas, steadily, easily; we must be gaining a degree every half kilometre. My stomach rolls again to remind me that heat and hardship aren’t my only enemies just now. Man I have to get to a toilet and soon!

All this analysis, coupled with seeing two mates steam past, has seen my pace drop. A glance behind shows the Sub Six bus gaining incrementally. Another head shake, more hot showers and I’m back in the groove. Hang on – that has to be Rog up ahead – how’d he get there? It is, Mad Rog, looking solid as he climbs past the turn off to Noordhoek beach and another of those sponsored gags . . .
'Still No Time For That Dip. Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon.'
Ha Ha Ha . . .

I kick – at least it feels like a kick – and catch him, barely able to speak when I get there.
‘Oi!’
‘Watcha! Didn’t see you there!’
He probably didn’t recognise me; hunched over even more than usual, pouring sweat, cap down over my face (I hate caps, and will never wear another). We exchange notes. Rog confirms the failure of the new socks, admitting that Sam had advised against the two-piece from the get-go. A lesson learned. It was Rita Mae Brown who said ‘Good judgement comes from experience, and often experience comes from bad judgement.’ At least I think it was Rita Mae . . . it might’ve been James Brown for all I know or care at this juncture. I confess a desperate need for a ‘bathroom break’, explaining after the usual response that no, a tree or shrub ain’t gonna do it for me. There's not much Rog can say about that so we plod on.

I glance left and see a sight to gladden the hardest, most despondent heart; Noordhoek Beach, beautifully white, handsomely broad, shimmering in the morning sun. The Atlantic Ocean, so much colder and more brutal than her Indian cousin, crashes wave after wave on the guardian boulders below. Last summer (our winter) Mrs S and S Minor took a horse ride from the far end up to Chapman’s across this beach; they barely saw another soul. It’s a slice of heaven left here on earth for we mortals to enjoy and aspire to greater things, to remind us that no matter how bleedin’ clever we think we are we got nothing on nature. Or God, or whatever floats your evolutionary boat.

The arrival of this view means only one thing; we’re climbing Chapman’s Peak. 30Ks in and we’re shoulder to shoulder, the old battlers from Paris, hammering up the steep ascent to Chapman’s Point. The winding road, so reminiscent in all but surface of our beloved Snake, winds upwards and northwards along the Cape peninsular’s western shore. Carved into the side of the boulder-strewn mountains the road is victim to dangerous rock fall. Realising the potential for keeping such a fabulous route, from Hout Bay to Noordhoek, open the City fathers invested in a vast arrangement of safety nets and overhanging canopies. As we pound the tarmac, the ocean raging below we look up and see the rocky haul these fishermen have claimed and thank them profusely from the bottom of our hearts. Chapman's was closed to the race for some years until a reliable solution was found; if it weren't for these nets we'd be baking in the sun right now.

The major benefit of 'Chappies' - at least the uphill section - is the shadow of the mountain. As fast as Apollo strives for his zennith he’s yet to outrun the blissful shelter of the peak, and I relax a little as the air cools around me. Runners ahead are starting to walk, but if we’ve trained for anything these past months it’s to run hills, so we run, chirruping away to one another as on a Sunday morning lope. Ahead of us the road slithers around vast outcrops of rock, wrinkled and grey like the skin of a gargantuan elephant. The zig-zag course lures racers into thinking the pinnacle is just around the next bend. Of course it isn’t, and we giggle; we know this ploy so well. Our Sussex serpentine friend does this every weekend. We’ve spied the top, the only section of rock to so far catch the sunrays, and it’s easily a kilometre if not more away.

There’s a water station below the longest canopy section, just about at 32 kilometres, and I take a handful of baggies. One down the throat, one over the head, the others across front and back. Despite the shade I’m still cooking in my shell, a Lobster waiting to scream. The first twinge of regret has appeared in my right shin, but it’s only half an hour after my last painkiller so it’s grin and bear it time. Rog fumbles with his camera, determined to snap a shot of the procession of walkers, joggers and runners parading up the Peak. Suddenly he hits a small boulderlet lurking at the base of the rock face. He stumbles, cries out and goes down in a heap, his right arm shooting out, still clutching the camera. He hits the deck and rolls almost back to his feet without stopping, an impressive manoever given the circumstances. His hand is cut but at this point damage appears minimal. He looks more embarrassed than hurt so we chug onwards towards the shimmering golden arch that is the tipping point of Chapman’s Peak. I swear I can hear singing, a sort of rhythmic chanting as the corner approaches. Around the top bend we’re greeted by an entourage of singing, bouncing youngsters, waving and smiling as we stumble past. They’re uniformed in green Old Mutual shirts and black pants, boys and girls alike, and they herald the arrival of a remarkable oasis in this desert of Herculean labour.

To the left and right of the road, taking advantage of the tourist rest/ viewing areas, numerous stalls are decked with drink and food. Waitrons (as they are known here) walk amongst the runners bearing trays of small baked potatoes and sections of peeled banana. We gaze, amazed, bewildered at this madness. I feel like one of the abducted airmen leaving the Mother Ship in Close Encounters; I blink away the salty sweat, grinning my thanks as I grab a small spud and cram it into my dry mouth. I spit half of it out, dimly aware that anything else in my digestive tract right now could prove terminal. I’ve been feeding in Hammer Gels since the 12K marker, but even they have started turning me over. Rog gulps his down.
‘What a great idea!’ he beams.
‘It’s all down hill from here for a bit’ I gasp, pointing a finger towards the downward trail ahead.
‘All the way to Hout Bay. Yipee!’

It should have been a turning point, and it was, but far from the one I’d hoped for.