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http://www.eatout.co.za/venue/california-dreaming/
She was a bit of a star - I even saw her drinking a glass of champagne and eating chocolate brownie - which makes her a proper athlete as far as I am concerned;-)
Dinner at 19:00 sounds good. I will be in the lobby of the Belaire to leave at 18:45 if any one is still here?
I mentioned to a few that we might be going to beers at Joe Cools after dinner, but let's see if I can stay awake that long!
Had a really tough day of it, but held on for a 10.17
Seren, thanks for keeping an eye on me in the tent
My day finished with round 2 of cleaning up after monkey home invasion!
Will have a read back later - well done everyone! I'm looking forward to the war stories and run report
Enjoy the beers tonight
We spoke of the various Comrades medals and on the subject of the Wally Hayward medal I mentioned that my Green Number was presented to me immediately after my finish of my 10th, by the legendary Wally himself. My cherished photo of that is attached!
Travel safely all and I hope to see many of you next year.
I'm just back from an easy 3.5 miles along the seafront, in part checking out how far it is from the rumoured new Down run finish to the City Lodge. Close enough but I hope that the race distance won't be longer now!
Great to see everyone who made it to Mugg and Bean or Joe Cools yesterday. Hope fun evenings were had by all.
Back to the U.K. for me tonight with Emirates. Safe travels everyone and I don't suppose we have a 2018 thread yet?
Here it is. My phone initially tried to be helpful and auto populated the title with my own name. https://forums.runnersworld.co.uk/discussion/345917/comrades-2018#latest
Flights were fine, if long, and I was able to congratulate Steve Way on his achievement. Poor guy doesn't get to take home his gold medal as they won't give it to him until after the drug tests come back clear and they can't post it to him, he has to collect it in person - next year, probably when he comes back to try the Down run.
Terry, thanks for sharing those photos.
Chris: great race report and well done again on your run - fantastic time.
Mr Zuvai, well done on that run - and sympathies once more for the monkey invasion problems.
Safe travels, everyone.
As in previous years this thread has been a great aspect of Comrades and it was super to meet so many of you in Durban and PMB.
It wasn't actually that hot for Comrades this year, believe it or not and the breeze helped. The first two that I ran were a lot hotter but last year was cooler. Only one wee for me in 5 Comrades.
Back home again now and reflecting on the race. I had a fantastic time - as always, it's all about the people, and the more often you go the more fascinating and lovely people you meet.
My learning points as far as logistics were concerned were that a hotel on the beach is better, (and I liked the Belaire) and Uber is a good way to get around in Durban. I've never used it in the UK, but a friend had it, and it was a super cheap and efficient way to get around. It also felt much safer than the ordinary cab we picked off a rank which smelt of petrol, had no seat belts, and was driven by a lunatic.
Reflections on training - did anyone else use the bronze plan from the Comrades site and how did you get on? I thought at the time that there were too many medium back to backs and not enough long runs in it, and I think I was right. I'm sure I would have had a more comfortable day if I'd added in a couple of 30 milers. But you live and learn.
I won't be back next year unless I have an unexpected premium bond win as I'm planning to do Two Oceans, but I'll definitely be hanging around on the new thread - see you all there
Back home again since Tues with nothing injured bar my pride
This was my 5th year at Comrades and I thought I was seriously up against it to continue my record of sub 10 hour finishes. Injuries had prevented me doing much hill work and I really struggled with running from the end of March up to early May, firstly due to medial tibial stress and then from glute tightness. I could manage about 3 miles but not a single step would have been smooth due to tightness somewhere or other. Virtually the only day in April that I was able to run smoothly was the day of the Boston Marathon but I was so happy to find when Boston started that overdid the early pace and paid for this later. I struggled on the Newton hills, which really did not augur well for the much tougher Comrades hills.
After Boston it was back to running being wonky and I was resigned to a slow time at Comrades so I did not focus as well as I would otherwise have done on getting down to fighting weight. Physio exercises eventually sorted the problem, just in time for the taper but I feared that this wasn't going to be my year. There is an online calculator that predicts your best possible Comrades finish time based on recent races and it was suggesting over 10:30 for me.
A nice thing this year was that there was another local runner doing the race, a Fetchie called Hicky. I had discussed the race with him a few times and knew from Strava that he had done his preparation well.
The race plan, as in the last three years, was to run to heart rate, keeping it below 150 and keeping relaxed and concentrating on good form, in particular on the downhills (to minimise impact on the quad). The race start is always equal parts of excited anticipation and sheer terror at what is ahead. One of the early terrors is the potential for tripping over - there are discarded bottles and garments strewn across the start area then when you are on the road there are the dreaded cats eyes, which stick quite high out of the road. The main way to avoid them is to avoid running down the white lines. No mishaps for me, thankfully.
I had my watch showing only heart rate (up until about mile 44) and enjoyed relaxing during the early stages as others attacked the initial mile, safe in the knowledge that I was working at an effort level I could maintain for the next ten hours or so and they probably were not , so I would be seeing them again before long. This was the "Up" run from Durban to Pietermaritzburg. There is a long climb out of Durban (the first of many, many long climbs) and I knew I would be walking some of this, once my heart rate got to 150. After about a mile I saw a familiar vest up in front and it was Hicky. We had a good chat and ended up running about 40 miles or so together.
The race tactics worked well. Familiarity with the course also helped. I knew that the first half of the Up run is significantly harder than the second and that by running with control in the first half I would be able to take advantage of easier sections in the second half. By following heart rate I knew when to start a walk break on the long climbs, and when to push on.
For the last ten miles or so Hicky and I had been trading places with the 10 hour bus - this is a pacing group that people can join if they want to get round in under 10 hours. I have never liked running with the buses - too many people, too congested, a bit warmer than running solo and I prefer to pace the race how I want. Hicky and I ran with the bus for a bit, having been absorbed into it, then got ahead of it. We were then caught by it on Little Polly's, the second to last big hill, and ran with it again but I let the bus go on Polly Shortts (the last major climb). Hicky was full of running at this stage and stayed with it, eventually finishing a long way in front of it in a very good Comrades debut.
When I got to the top of Polly Shortts I was able to pick up the pace a bit. There is only about 6 miles to go at that point and there is some good downhill. I was on a mission and had to yell at some people who were walking, four abreast, and taking up the full width of a timing mat that is at that stage. With 5k to go I knew I had 41 minutes left to get round in under 10 hours. I had been tracking the race on my Suunto and had my Garmin 35, which is my everyday watch, on as well so I could see the time of day. However I timed the last 5k on the Garmin just to be sure and as it turned out I only needed 31 minutes. It was a good job that I had started the Garmin as the Suunto ran out of battery with about a mile to go - it had been set for taking a reading every 10 seconds but with optimal accuracy and and I took a risk in not sacrificing accuracy for extended battery life.
Running into Pietermaritzburg I saw the 10 hour bus ahead but quickly caught and overtook it as I was full of running. Last year I had finished just ahead of the bus and the TV cameras had been focused on it so I wasn't shown. I didn't want the same to happen this time and managed to get quite a bit ahead by the finish and my mum managed to catch a brief glimpse of me on the tv coverage, which she was watching on the internet. A finish time of 9:53 surpassed my expectations.
Looking back over the 5 Comrades I managed to get the training and preparation right for the first two runs but probably made rookie mistakes that cost me sub 9 finishes. I have always thought a sub 9 achievable if I can get the training and race tactics right. The most recent three runs have been affected by injuries, although I count myself lucky that I've been able to make the start line in each year, and sub 10 hours has been the best I could have managed. This year the race tactics could not have been better and if I had been carrying a bit less weight I think the sub 9 could have been mine. The focus for next year has to be on injury prevention. I travelled to South Africa on the same flight as a chap who is a very good runner indeed (caashford) and he emphasised the importance on strength and conditioning in the winter. I used to do a lot more of this type of work and although I still regularly did it it was clearly not sufficient.
Comrades was my 91st marathon and I have my 93rd half marathon, St Albans, on Sunday so I'm getting close to a hundredth of each. St Albans is my favourite half marathon and my legs feel fine (I ran on Tuesday, which is I think the earliest I've been able to run after a Comrades) but it will just be a nice run around a pleasant course with an ice lolly to finish.
On June 4th I ran a bit:-
This is a first; I arrive on time at my starting Pen.C; it’s only taken me three years to get right! The official checks my running number and lets me in, the calm and order of it all seem out of place. I have a happy 20 minutes standing around in the pen, taking in the atmosphere and spectacle, grinning like a loon before the traditional singing commences. I’m wearing the Bonitas provided poncho, not for its intended heat retaining benefit, but for its anti-accidental-number-ripping-off protection. I’m glad of it as the crush commences and we shuffle down the pen. I can almost touch the start banner. Several latecomers climb the high sided cage to get access to their allotted starting space and squeeze in amongst us, I make a note of their confident style for future emergencies. The future? Am I really that hooked on this adrenaline that I am contemplating standing here in future years even before this year’s gun has fired? Are my comrades right? By going for a third completion am I really committing to a tenth and a permanent green number?
Shosholoza is a wonderfully uplifting treat leading to Max Trimborne’s cock crow and the official starting gun. As we move forward through a cacophony of noise a rain of discarded ponchos and bin bags fills the air. I step over the obstacle course of discarded bottles, clothing and gels and cross the starting mat in 2 minutes, a significant gain on Pen.H starters who take on average 6 more minutes to get to the same point, precious time saved as this is a “gun to gun” race. The timing mats are there to track you, but everyone’s clock starts when the start gun goes irrespective of where you are in this crowd. All runners have the same 12 hours from the gun to finish this race. I discard my poncho as soon as I am over the line and settle into a tempo well in excess of comfortable as I’m swept along with the early rush of people more fleet of foot than I. I manage to ease down into a steadier pace quite quickly on the far right of the throng but have to concentrate on avoiding drains, kerbs, pot holes and enthusiastic crowds lining these early streets.
We sweep right then left and I manage to change down to a power walk on the up ramp to the N3 motorway without being trampled underfoot in the continuing swarm. The stream of people passing me seems endless but I sense the flow ebbing with Pen.D, E and F runners beginning to cruise by as we leave Durban behind. On this less demanding road cats eyes and marshals are the only major hazards. Support is less personal with car horns on the opposite freeway dopplering into the dark morning and groups of early risers chanting on remote rooftops with cow bells and vuvuzelas. A green number chats with me briefly congratulating me on early progress but warning me that even for a Pen.C start I am way ahead of schedule. I confuse him by informing him I am a masquerader from Pen.H. He clearly isn’t the charitable type and powers on up the course.
It’s strange how familiar the route is; I’ve only run it once before in this direction and yet I know it so well. 45th Cutting powers me off the N3 towards Pinetown on the M13. I’m slightly concerned when I make the first cut-off with only 14 minutes to spare; I really wanted 20, but it’ll have to do. There isn’t much in my race plan; there doesn’t need to be; it’s going to be a long day; I need to run completely relaxed when I can and ensure those miles click by in sub 12:50; I need to power walk anything too steep, not burn out, not fear those miles in excess of 12:50, and, as the day ends, if required, I need to up the engines from that relaxed preservation into a committed and controlled push to make the final 12 hour cut-off. I want the luxury of 20 minutes in hand at each cut-off if I can manage it.
Beside my basic race plan I am here to have a damned good time! On the turn at the base of Fields Hill I step out of the pack into empty road and high five all the spectators on the outer left hand curve. I love the enthusiastic power fed back to me from all the touches as I re-join the multitude to begin the massive climb. I am incredulous when a 12 hour bus pushes past me half way up Fields Hill. What? This is ridiculous? They are stupidly ahead of schedule? The driver is running them up Fields Hill compared to my power walk? This is suicide. I calmly tell the gasping people passing me they are way too early. Sweat is pouring out of them. The driver continually promises them a slower second half as they claw their way ahead of me. I am disgusted with the driver but hold my tongue as they disappear. Half an hour later an 11:30 bus catches me confirming how out of place that 12 hour bus was.
At Botha’s Hill the Kearsney boys are resplendent in their blazers giving me restrained encouragement befitting the formality of their attire. This is a beautiful slice of South Africa; wonderful ancient trees span the road providing shade from the harsh sun and an occasional breeze cools my face producing a contented smile. Life could not be any better than this. At Drummond, halfway, I have 23 minutes in hand, back on schedule, but I know Inchanga awaits ready to steal it all if I let it. I trot past The Wall of Honour knowing my plaque is high up amongst the multitude and doff my cap shouting “Good morning Arthur” across the road to Mr Newton’s Seat; I’m sure he’ll understand I can’t burn time waiting to place a flower this morning.
The Valley of a Thousand Hills is stunningly beautiful, arid, daunting, and Inchanga is a beast to climb through the heat of this day. The prize on the far side are the wonderful cheers for “Raja”; which is South African for me (Roger)! As I approach the World Vision support point I am lifted from the road and my innards almost squeezed out like a tube of toothpaste as Zanele and the team celebrate my arrival. It is a wonderful welcome but all too short as I must press on. Only a few further steps up the road I crouch down to greet each individual child from Ethembeni School on my side of the path. Beautiful eyes greet mine as I exchange the gentlest of high fives with the smiling faces. Although, I think the beast of a young adult on the end of the line is an impostor as he tries to snatch my last sachet of water snapping me out of my reflective suspended animation and back to the arduous task of Comrades road running (he’s not fast enough to out fox me today).
Running on through Cato Ridge I have gained a further minute against the cut-off. A South African voice behind me asks what I reckon about our chances of finishing today; 30km left and four hours to go. I reflect that its “game on”, all we have to do is stay relaxed and keep knocking the miles down. “Good man!” Comes the reply; “a true voice of experience,” he says as he glides past me; a 27 times finisher green number from Pen.E called Hilton! I laugh out loud; “good luck with your journey to triple green!” I call after him. Another voice behind asks me where I’m from; I always say “near Liverpool, England” for simplicity. The same question back produces the reply “Durban”. We wish each other luck as he cruises on by. Am I slowing down or are all these South Africans speeding up?
At the next support station I’m confused by the immediate lack of water; isn’t it usually the first thing they hand out? I knock back my usual quarter cup of coke trying to spot the water sachets and exit the station with nothing! What? I must have missed it. At the next station a runner is dowsing himself with water from one of the ice troughs. No one is handing out water sachets. I ask for water. They point me further on. I take a hit of coke and grab a blue Energade sachet, it’s obviously not water, I take it as “insurance”. I again exit the station having been offered no water? This is getting drastic. A soft runner like me needs 3 sachets of water per station; one to sip and two to spray over me to keep cool. I sip the Energade. I hate it. As I enter the next station I am in disbelief, but at least they are honest; they are out of water! They are chipping at ice and filling up paper cups. I grab a cup and press on. The only way out of this is to get to wherever the water is.
I yelp with surprise rather than pain; my left calf has been nagging me for a few ks, but this is different, it felt like it should have hurt, but it didn’t. My left leg “missed a beat”, the foot didn’t strike the floor properly, just skidded. Nope, no banana skin, I slow down and try and figure it out. It “doesn’t feel right”. I try to ignore it and crack on, relax, stand up straight, it kind of goes away, but doesn’t. I keep going.
There is no water at the next station! I scream at the support people and instantly regret it. Something drastic has gone wrong, they are in as difficult a position as me. At least sweat is pouring out of me; I’m not desiccated yet. My ice has gone. I’ve been searching the road as I desperately run between stations for discarded water sachets; nothing. Supporters are thin on the ground out here but I manage to grab the odd orange segment for much needed moisture. Finally at the next station they have water! However, there are two further random stations that are out of water further down the road – this is unheard of as far as I know at Comrades.
At Umlaas Road I’m only 16 minutes inside cut-off. I know my pace has dropped as I nurse my left leg along. Every now and then I skid losing control on that side, it’s like my left leg is shortening; as I throw it forwards the knee doesn’t completely extend and the foot falls short of the target my brain thinks it will achieve. I try to push the worry of what is going wrong out of my mind. Thank goodness this is Comrades; up-hills are my sanctuary; I either have to power walk them because they are so steep, or, when I can run, the ground hits my leg earlier than flats and downslopes and I don’t skid. I’m eager for Polly Shortts. What? The world is standing on its head today!
I step onto the verge and hang on to the telegraph pole. Concerned spectator voices around me ask if I need any help. My cap shields their faces; I see legs and feet gathered around me. I assure them I am fine. I’m not fine. My left leg is shaking uncontrollably from the hip to the toe. I can hardly stand. There is no real pain although I feel the fatigue and discomfort of 11 hours of running settling through my frame as my system starts to shut down thinking we are finished for the day. My leg is not my own anymore, hamstring and calf juddering in offset harmony like my washing machine on max spin. I dig the heel into the soft ground. Hang on to the pole with both hands, squat and pull, gradually turning up the tension, breathing deeply, attempting to relax. Slowly the juddering subsides. I keep the tension on feeling the leg come back to me.
I’m at the top of Polly Shortts. It’s terribly late in the day. I made cut-off moments ago with 13 minutes to spare. Despite the apparent success, for which I am exceedingly pleased, I know I’m up against it again. I am so aware of the stream of runners passing me by. In my head I have a figure of 5 miles to run in an hour; 12 minutes per mile would be easy on any other day of the year. This late in the day the crowd are so enthusiastic, willing us to finish, but these locals speak-a-da-km-ish. In my tired and addled state their assurances that 8 minutes per km is ample time to finish is complete gibberish to me.
I climb back onto the road and strike for the finish. Within half a mile my leg is all over the place again. It keeps completely losing traction with the ground and I keel to the left each time almost toppling over. For the first time on a Comrades road I feel frightened, this is something apparently beyond my control. I should be striking for the finish line, but my body is breaking down. Efforts to stand up straight and relax don’t cure the problem. I know I have no time to stop and stretch again so soon; I will burn the remaining time today if I try and address the problem that way.
On the crest of the next bend I am undertaken by a guy lolloping along like a cross between Professor Pat Pending from the Wacky Races and John Cleese from The Ministry of Silly Walks. His squat stance and elongated stride are comical in the extreme, he clearly is in worse trouble than myself. I can’t imagine he has come all the way from Durban with that gait but he is covering the ground at an amazing pace in comparison to myself. As I begin to tumble to the left again I squat ever so slightly and magically start running straight. I am able to power up the rise in front of me in this mode. I feel like a crab scuttling sideways across a sandy beach.
Despite my disappointed confusion I am still running on some sound principles drummed into me by my comrades and Petula Clark; never stop, don’t accept lifts from strangers, don’t sleep in the subway darling, don’t stand in the pouring rain, keep moving towards that finish line no matter what. I run on. Passing the last cut-off gives me the right to finish and everyone around me is still pushing so hard. As we turn on to Fairfield Avenue and the road starts to climb yet again, my disgruntlement at the injustice of yet more upward challenge finally breaks me free of my mathematical malaise and even the crowd’s km-speak starts making sense! I am right in the mix still, I am not out of time! What was I thinking? The lift this realisation delivers to my brain is remarkable. The disgruntled squat crabby hill crawler transforms into a focused Comrades runner again. I’m still scared of the remaining distance and the swiftly diminishing time given old lefty’s continuing Weltschmerz but the drive for the line is back on!
Turning onto Ridge Road a passing runner shouts “Hey Liverpool! You’re going to make it, plenty of time!” – “Durban? Is that you?” my mind shouts – I am physically unable to croak back the greeting I so desire as he disappears up Taylor Street. The hubbub amongst us all, runners and spectators, is 1km to go and 10 minutes on the clock. We ARE going to make it! We burst onto Scotsville Race Course and get thrown the worst ground of the day. A typical Comrades trait. How can we be on the finishing ground with no sight of the finish, no sound of the crowd, the ground beneath our feet uneven rutted concrete, are 86km of road not enough torture today, you have to throw in a final km of topsy turvy land making the final 10 minutes the biggest challenge of the day? Sharply down an underpass, steeply up the other side, ground breaking up as it transitions from relative stability of concrete into divoted undulations of grass. Distant glimmering lights and a rumbling PA system drawing us stumbling across a pantomime surface to our desired goal. A false finish arch ultimately delivers us to the joy of a glowing digital clock rolling to 11:54 and counting. Queen rock us to our victory, those final minutes of comedy scramble eradicated in the glaring happy floodlit cruise to the line. I finally find my voice; “we will, we will, rock you!” throwing my arms aloft to the beat and waving to the shady crowd beyond the lights.
At 11:56:46 I cross the finish mat and enter a land of total elation, grinning from ear to ear. I walk forward under the camera gantry, but, before I am squashed into the medal queue, I step out of line and turn back to the finish line. The spectacle of the day is about to unfold. Officials gather across the line; the seconds inexorably ascend and the clock hits 12 to the echoing shot of the starting pistol. The last finisher and the first non-finisher are caught on the line. The final lucky remainder who beat the 12 hour cut-off join me back in the medal queue as the lonely notes of The Last Post play. There is immense satisfaction as we congratulate each other on a colossal day and outcome. These smiles could power the world and solve global warming if someone could plug us into the national grid!
Ultimately I am alone amongst a crowd of thousands, walking unsteadily, unhurriedly, along the post finish corral; no longer the proximity of fellow runners, the weight of the clock, the need to keep moving. As I slowly step away from the dramatic conclusion behind me I realise how precious these few moments are. My aim all day has simply been the finish line against the clock. This small space prior to the overwhelming congestion of the greeting grounds is a unique temporary sanctuary holding the final embers of today’s journey. I gladly smile as the last photographer captures this unique corpuscle of my life and merge into the melee beyond.
Walked down to the start with Becca slow duck and Marty where we all went into our various pens. I headed into C with Becca who was then able to tell me the order of things and a few tips. The whole start with the national anthem, shosholoza, chariots of Fire and the cock crowing was very moving. I set off at a very cautious pace and from the beginning did a walk run up the hills. Nearly lost my glasses at some point but some kind runner picked them up and gave them to me. Met Seren at about 15/20 miles so we took a selfie (and yes we were running when we took it!) we cat and moused a bit. Went past the kearnsey boys all dressed very smartly. The halfway (nearly) point came very gratefully and then it was good to know you were on the countdown. At 42k to go someone shouted out only a marathon left. Yay 6 hours. Surely that was possible. Past the amazing Ethembini school children and further on to where there was no water for several aid stations. That worried me. Could I really continue on coke alone. At some point around that time I suddenly got severe cramp on the inside of one thigh and was instantly reduced to a badly limping walk.