. . . there’s so much more to tell.
First up, the facts.
Dave came in under the magic six hours to claim a magnificent bronze medal. Hats off to you mate - an awesome debut in crushing conditions.
Rog caught up with Moyleman and they came home together in 6:14.
My official chip time was 6:26.
Peter The Great
OK, so there’s the stats.
But I’ve left out a few details from my journey. Like meeting Peter. Peter was running his nineteenth consecutive Two Oceans. Peter carries a basket on his back to collect money along the way for Guide Dogs for the Blind.
Oh, and he’s run every one, and an equal number of Comrades (a snip at 90K) barefoot.
Intolerable Cruelty
And then there’s the intolerable cruelty of The Gun.
I’d heard about The Gun but finally I got to see it for myself. Having staggered from the finish area into the arms of my family, placing my medal around Phoebe’s neck, I lurched into the International Hospitality tent. They stopped serving alcohol the same year they re-opened ‘Chappies’ – Chapman’s Peak – 2004. Apparently one or two competitors got a little worse for wear. Hard to believe.
The first person I saw was Dave, sat at a large round table, legs akimbo, a distant look on his face as he stared into near-space, just a hint of a smile playing on his lips. I grabbed his hand and pumped his arm and the smile burst into a broad grin. Then Moyleman grabbed me from behind and spun me round. We hugged – not a sight or sound for the squeamish – and the grins lit up the tent. Cam and Tina, respective better halves, offered their congratulations. And there was Rog, looking for all the world as if he’d just loped a gentle 12 miler. Another embrace, slightly longer, and heartfelt thanks for his magnificent support. Luke was there too, eyes a-gog; I suspect this young man may have glimpsed his own future today.
I wobbled off to the bar to grab a cup full of ice and Powerade, then into the private enclosure alongside the finishing straight. I brushed past a young blond lady and recognised her at the last moment.
‘Bravo Helene.’
‘Well done to you.’ Weary smiles exchanged.
The enclosure barrier was lined with finished runners and their families waving and cheering on the stream of finishers. I looked left to the finish line to see the clock: 6:48. Blimey, twelve minutes to go. I wonder how many there are still trying to get home?
As the minutes ticked down the tannoy chap announced – gleefully it seemed to me – that though all those who’d entered the UCT fields would finish there were still plenty on the road for whom fate remained in the balance. I joined the crowd, yelling out the names of those struggling to make the line. 6:55.
‘Five minutes left – you can still make it’ roared the tannoy.
There seemed no end to the amount of runners rounding the bend to the right. A couple of hobblers would struggle but make it. A trio appeared, the outer two all but carrying a distraught man in the centre, his face contorted in agony. They crossed in 6:57. 6:58, still more coming in, and some of them moving horribly slowly.
‘COME ON!!!’ I started screaming, desperate for these poor souls to beat the guillotine. I glanced left once more as a man dressed in official TOM gear stepped out from the shade of the finish zone. He turned his back on the approaching runners, looking up at the clock above. His right arm extended and raised, a small black pistol gripped firmly in his hand.
‘One minute to go!’ bellowed the tannoy.
I looked right again. Still more runners and a few walkers. The walkers had 200 metres to go; they’d no chance. But a young lad in a black and white vest was making a bid for last second glory. I squinted into the sunlight.
‘COME ON ANDY!!!’ The crowd roared as one, the shouts turning to screams as the announcer counted down. Come on mate! Dig in! Andy’s teeth were set hard, lips peeled back in supreme effort, back arched, eyes clamped shut; he poured everything into that final 50 metre dash.
BANG!
A waft of blue-grey gunsmoke drifted up across the clock.
7:00:01.
Andy, hands on knees, head almost to the floor, two metres from the finish line. The marshals stepped forward, directing the arriving athletes into a side exit, their faces emotionless masks under big dark sunglasses. I stood slack-jawed, staring at the finish line. Death aside it was the most terrible thing I’ve witnessed; the crushing of a man’s spirit. The crowd noise died with his ambition, heads turning away, unable to look. Down the field the few left striving for that little piece of metal slowed as if someone had hit the slow-mo button on a VCR. They walked like zombies towards the finish, eyes dead, shoulders slumped; but they would never know the agony of that lad.
I heard tales of dramatic cut-offs the next day; I’ll leave that for the re-hydration report, for there lies a whole series of yarns to spin.
Days of Chunder
I rejoined my family and Jacqui and Clive. We bundled Rog and Luke into the wagon and took them back to their hotel. I thanked the big man again and we vowed to hook up back in the UK to plan the next adventure. Mrs S’s face turned to pale granite.
All the way home I thought I’d throw up. Clive cracked a can of draught Guinness for me as he drove – seems the laws are a little more lax in SA – and I sipped half-heartedly at it. The cool dark liquid did nothing to quell the uprising, so I shelved the can and held on for dear life. Back at Chez Nel I made a B-line for the bathtoom, diving into the shower. Standing there under the stinging hot cascade I finally let go, emotionally and physically, watching the Guinness, Powerade and remnants of gels mingle with my tears to swirl down the plug hole.
Yes SP, it swirled the 'wrong' way.
And no, I didn’t make a movie of it
Mama Africa
On the following Monday we intrepid Oceaneers and our spouses, families and friends gathered at Mama Africa for dinner. 56K shirts and medals were de rigueur for the runners; team photos immediately after the run were eschewed so as not to embarrass the weak-assed amongst us (ahem). The food was sublime, the entertainment – from a drumming troop that just wouldn’t quit – authentic and wonderful. A night of laughter, story-telling and the consumption of much excellent wine ensued. We ended the evening on a round of Springboks, a pleasant little shooter consisting of something creamy and something green and no small measure of alcohol.
Warm hugs of true friendship end this African Tale.
Once again we dropped Rog and Luke off at their digs. Rog turned towards us.
‘Thanks for sharing your dream with us Ash.’
I didn’t say it then, and I’m only whispering to you now you understand:
[SIZE="1"]The dream isn’t over, it’s only just begun. [/SIZE]
There’s unfinished business in the hills of Chappies and Constantia. Like that hammy gap-toothed Austrian, I’ll be back. Roll on admissions.
[SIZE="1"]Still to come (in a few days - my wife is weilding a very large knife and an exceedingly short temper):
The Blue Peter; Drinking With Giants - Tales of Long-Distance Madness;
Walking With Elephants – The Chance Of A Lifetime
Photos[/SIZE]
April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon
