April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon

[Sweder]

Down down, deeper and down.
That’s the way the road runs from Die Josie, the high point of Chapman’s Peak, all the way down to Hout Bay, fom kays 34 to 38. It should provide respite for those hard-working muscles after the 5 kilometre climb out of Noordhoek Bay. But of course it doesn’t. Running downhill on tired legs is even less fun than struggling uphill. My quads start to burn, my right calf and shin are aflame and I do believe my back has started to chime in with all this jarring. Sweat flies, flesh wobbles as we judder our way through the cruel cambers of the twisting road. Then, a mirage: lo! What toilet on yonder outcrop sits! I start to laugh, desperately hoping I can control both my gigglebone and my sphincter as the mirth rises on a volcanic rush of hot hysteria.
‘Yeehah! Ah’m off t’the Khazi!’
I actally break into a full run for the first time in while, mentally shedding my water belt in preparation for blissful release. But wait; there’s a catch.
No, they’re open, but it seems I’m not the only one in need of sanitary salvation.
‘Argh, there’s a queue!’
‘I saw someone taking a dump in a bush over there’ offers Rog.
This is bad. Never mind my cramping stomach, Rog is losing valuable time in his own quest for a medal here.
‘Perhaps you should go on Rog.’
‘Naa, I’m fine. Here, I brought some loo paper just in case – take this.’
He reaches into a compartment in his Camelback and pulls out a plastic wrapped section of toilet paper. What can you say at a time like this? Hugging is ill-advised; exploding in an embrace with your running partner at this juncture is hardly gratitide. I grunt and grin, and do a little dance as my nerve centre indicates it’s been given the green light and what the hell are we waiting for? Mercifully a stall door bangs open and I push rudely past the exiting runner without a word. The smell is tolerable and I lock the door and lift the lid . . . oh good Lord . . . it’s a bottomless pit! Beneath a bog standard (sorry) loo seat instead of a porcelain bowl and pipe system there’s an inky black vastness. Way below what looks like rockface is spotted with . . . well, we know what it’s spotted with. Undaunted by the prospect of hanging my backside over such a perilous drop I assume the position.

Two minutes later I’m back in the sunshine. Rog is stretching against a wall, eyes flicking nervously along the trail of runners passing the rest area.
‘I think the 6 hour bus must’ve gone by.’
We’ve been here at least ten minutes and I’ve no doubt the we’ve missed the bus. To be honest all my thoughts of times went a while back; since the scorching at Sun Valley I’ve set my sights on a finish – and medal – of any kind. With one major obstacle removed I feel certain of making it.
‘C’mon, lets get going.’

We take to the road again, still two kilometres of descent to go. My legs scream at the injustice of a re-start, agony licking at my shin. I ignore it. I feel sure all I need to do now is get moving, get the blood flowing, and all will be well. We’re back at a decent pace when Rog decides to meander across the central white line. His low running style brings his right shoe into contact with a protruding cat’s eye, and whump! The boy’s down again!
‘Hey, steady mate!’ I reach for his arm and pull him up.
‘Needed another burst of adrenaline’ he grimaces.
The wound on his hand has opened and an impressive streak of claret is running up his arm. There’s no point suggesting a stop – we both know that too many more breaks in our route and we’ll be off the map. With the sub six bus gone the next group will be the sub seven, and after that the sweeper bus. There’s several cut-offs on the 56K route; if you don’t make each stage by a certain time you’re pulled off the circuit. The next checkpoint for us will be 42.2; the cut off there is 5:17 (11:37 am) – we’re still miles ahead of that, but I know too well loss of momentum added to the toughness of the terrain could eat that advantage in no time. He’s OK – a thumbs up, a grin and a return to his chest-out, easy style a clear indication of his fitness to continue.
‘Stay away from those bloody cat’s eyes’
‘Amazing isn’t it? We spend all those hours running through mud, across rocks and flint, up and down slippery trails, and I go and tumble on a flippin' road!’

Another cheering throng greets us at the base of Chapman’s Drive. I doff my sodden cap in thanks for their enthusiasm and welcome support. They look hot, which in a very small way makes me feel a soupcon better about feeling thoroughly baked. Through the picturesque town of Hout Bay I marvel at the collection of restaurants, cafes and bars that litter the roadside. Each outlet has a number of patrons seated outside, sunglasses on, beer or glass of wine in hand, watching the panting, sweating chain-gang shuffle past. Good grief it’s not even close to midday – these swine are guzzling ale with no regard for propriety . . . or my sanity! I could murder a pint . . except actally, no, I couldn’t . . . in fact the thought of eating or drinking anything has me back on the good ship queezy. That recent pit-stop did nothing for the flips and twists in my belly, and I’m none too happy about that. My leg is screaming quietly on a permanent basis, and now that we’re back in the full glare of the still-rising sun I’m finding breathing extremely difficult. 39Ks in and I’m really struggling. Three water bags to one go over my head or chest. I swallow the occasional Powerade too, but like the weird guy in Constantine who drowns himself in booze in the liquor store I can’t seem to get enough fluid. Rog is getting concerned. I know this because he’s started to encourage me a lot more. I stumble into a staggered walk, holding up a shaky hand in apology.
‘Sorry mate, I need to get my breath.’
I want to recover enough in the next K or so because my family and friends are waiting, as arranged, on the roundabout just ahead. I’d hate them to see me this distressed. I walk for a hundred metres or so and, feeling slightly better, break into a gentle trot. It lasts about a minute and I’m walking again, hot air rasping down my impossibly dry throat. I feel sick – perhaps it would be best to throw up? Then again, perhaps not. Rog walks alongside, dismissing my waved suggestion that he carry on alone. And then something happens, something so touching, so spiritual and yet so undoubtedly human it almost reduces me to a blubbering wreck.

Rog found The Lord not so long ago. He wasn’t drifting about all beardy and wise on the Snake or anything silly like that; he just had the occasion to find Rog, or Rog found Him. Anyway, El Rog has taken some good-natured stick from some, mostly from me to be fair. He doesn’t rave on about it, except to say it’s changing his life in a gentle but positive way. He’s formed the Habakkuk Harriers, a running charity to raise funds to build a church, having vests and business cards designed and made to spread the message. And here, on this apparently god-forsaken, dust-dry, sun-cooked roadside, he turns to me and lays a hand on each shoulder.
‘Lord, please help our friend Ash to find the strength within him to carry on to achieve his dream. We ask this of you Lord because he is a good man and he needs your strength and help.’
I look at Rog and he offers a sheepish grin in return.
‘I’ve never done that before’ he says. ‘I feel a bit embarrassed to be honest, praying out loud like that, but you look like you need it.’
Emotion wells up in my throat and I have to swallow hard to keep myself together.
‘Don’t be daft Rog – that was a really lovely thing to do. Lets hope it works, eh?’
I start running, and though everything still hurts I feel a little better.

At 40K I can see the mound of the traffic circle at the main Hout Bay exit. On one of the large boulders in the centre stands Mrs S, hand shielding her eyes from the impossibly bright sunlight, Rog’s son Luke by her side. I wave my sweaty cap like a loon and can’t repress a huge grin. She sees me and waves back, calling Phoebe to join her. They’re both waving now, and my cap is going like the clappers spraying all and sundry with my hot, stale bodily fluids. No one seems to mind.

We embrace, a sticky, sweaty kiss for Mrs S, a nasty soggy hug for the Pheebster. Pats on the back from Jacqui and Clive, a banana offered from somewhere. I climb onto the island and suck air, desperate to fill my lungs. I confess to finding it tough, citing the heat as a key factor. Jacqui is sunburnt already and everyone looks warm. Runners continue to pour round us, some running steadily, others walking, heads bowed under dripping caps.
‘C’mon Rog, we gotta go. The climb to Constantia awaits!’
The cry of bravado takes an intollerable amount of energy.
We set off again, running slowly, waving to our loved ones. I discard the untouched banana as soon as we’re out of site, much to the relief of my tightening stomach.

Up the road aways, taking advantage of some shade from the lofty cedars, arcadias and pines along Hout Bay Road, I take another walk break. And another. Clean breath is as rare as hen’s teeth. Rog continues to encourage and cajole; my response is feeble at best but we keep going. Ahead yet more super volunteers line the parade to the 42.2 archway. 4:33, incredibly only 13 minutes outside my initial target time of 4:20 – but I’m in horrible shape and I know it. This will be nine miles to test the very fibre of my being. I’ll find out just how much courage I posses, how deep within myself I can dig without scraping the blood-dried wasteland at the bottom of my tourtured, salt-crusted soul.