It's been almost a month now since the Comrades Marathon and Jim and I are in Colorado, at the Training Camp for the Leadville 100 Trail Run which takes place on August 20th, so a detailed report on Comrades is overdue. I think the purpose of blogs like this is to share information that may be useful to anyone considering whether to do a particular race. I will do that a bit here but, before going into the details, let me just skip to the bottom line and say that this race was a wonderful experience and, if you are considering it, you should do it. It is not without some hassles but those all have to do with getting there. Once you're there, it's a pleasurable and rewarding experience. I'd go back and do it again without a second thought. Jim will get into the actual race reporting in his next post. What follows is not so much about the running of the race as it is about the experience of being there.
GETTING THERE
You may live in a part of the world blessed with good flight connections to the rest of the planet. Those of us from Indiana, however, live with the adage that "You can't get there from here---at least not easily".
It took us four different flights and something like 28 hours to get to Durban. After all the cramped, uncomfortable, low-level abuse that is modern day economy class travel we were finally on the approach to landing in Durban. We descended to a level where we could count the palm trees but then stayed there for an extremely long time while we seemed to be circling. Suddenly, the pilot pulled it up in a steep climb and flew in a direction I was pretty sure was away from the airport because we seemed to be headed well out over the Indiana Ocean. He then came on the intercom with his best Chuck Yeager tone (tinged with a South African accent) and said that the "folks on the ground have waived us off because of an improper vector" but he was pretty sure they'd get it right on the next approach. By that time, after having been stuck in flying metal tubes for going on the second day, my feeling was that I didn't care whether he landed it or crashed it, just as long as we got off the God-damned plane. He nailed it the second time and we got off and picked up our rental car which, because they drive on the left side of the road, has the steering wheel on the right side and you shift gears with your left hand. After spending eternity in sleep deprived travel hell, it seemed to make perfect sense and we took off for Pietermaritzburg.
BEING THERE
Comrades is run every year between the big city of Durban (on the Indiana Ocean and very modern--think Miami Beach) and Pietermaritzburg, a less big city of 1/2 million or so that really seems much, much smaller than that. Every year they run it in the opposite direction from the year before. This year was an "up" year meaning it started in Durban and was up hill all the way from sea level to Pietermaritzburg, elevation roughly 2000 feet. If that entire elevation gain was a constant grade spread out over the whole 87 kilometer distance (54 miles) it might not be so bad. Of course, it isn't. As we shall see in Jim's post, there are are more hills than you can count which present both steep up-hills and long descents; but more about that later. For now the important thing to convey is how good a time we had in Pietemaritzberg.
The race organizers operate out of Comrades House, which is an old, red brick victorian home in a quiet neighborhood. They couldn't have been nicer or more helpful to a couple of jet-lagged bumbling American flakes who seemed to have forgotten to bring all the things you are supposed to have at registration. We met numerous people who have run the race mutiple times, some as many as 18 or more. They were extremely patient and answered all our dumb questions and gave us good tips and were just generally a lot of fun. They were genuinely glad to have international runners come and try their race, which this year had about 13,000 starters (and a little over 11,000 finishers--accurate statistics would be on the race web site).
One of the things we came to appreciate from talking with the Comrades organizers, runners, and volunteers is how different the running culture there is compared to back in Indy. There the prospect of running 54 to 56 miles every year is considered absolutely unremarkable. It's just something you do. In Indy the big running event is the 500 Mini-Marathon, a half marathon run in conjunction with the Indianapolis 500 that is now drawing 35 to 40,000 entrants every year. The thought for most people is "Boy, if I could only get in good enough shape to do the Mini I will have really accomplished something" and maybe that's true. I'm not denigrating it. Everything is relative. In South Africa, however, it's not "Boy, if I could only get in shape to do Comrades" it's "I really want to keep my string of 15 finishes going so I'd better do three or four marathons to sharpen up."
The way they go about it is also different. They seem to have a "we're all in this togather" attitude. It was, after all, called Comrades by the original organizer to honor his buddies who fell in combat in WWI. That would be this guy, Vic Clapham:
When a person has completed nine Comrades they are given a yellow number. When they've completed ten they are given a green number which is theirs for all time. At a point about half way though the race we were handed a single long-stem red rose by some volunteers. I had no idea why. About a quarter mile up the road we came upon a wall lining the course. On the individual stones were memorials to previous runners who have died. Each little plaque had their name and number. Yellow ones for runners with fewer than ten finishes, green ones for the ones over ten. We saw that the locals were going over and putting their roses on the wall beneith the individual plaques. Clearly this race was so important to these people and their families that they wanted to continue to be part of it even after they were gone.
The South African runners are organized into running clubs and they support each other during the race. Even among runners from different clubs (or races, for that matter) the attitude was that they weren't racing each other--just the clock. The cut-off time is 12 hours. Finish after that and it's no metal for you. If you're under 11 hours you get a different and more highly prized metal. Under 9 and it's better yet. And so on. To help each other make their respective goals, groups of runners will organize into "busses". A twelve hour buss is a group of people who plan to finish under twelve hours. They will run togather the whole way, sometimes chanting in unison or singing and just basically helping pull each other along.
The race just has a old-school patina to it. Even though it is a national facination like our Super Bowl (they show the whole 12+ hours on national television live) it has none of the glitz and smaltz of other sporting events. The finishers' medals are just that--old fashioned medals, not the enormous pie plates other races give out for walking a 5 K. Here's a comparison of the Indy Mini-Marathon medal and the Comrades medal:
brought back from the war.
The Mini medal looks like something you'd
get for regular attendance at a whore house.
We met people from several running clubs. Jim and I stayed in Pietermartizburg which presented a logistical problem. Since the race started in Durban at 5:30 am we either had to get there in the morning before the start or go there the night before and get a hotel room for one night. If we drove down to Durban the night before the race we'd be running away from our car and need to go back to Durban to get it after the race when we assumed we'd be practically dead. An alternative was to take the bus provided by the organizers down to Durban the morning of the race. This was not appealing because the bus was leaving at something like 3:30 am, which would mean getting up a 2:00 or so, which meant never really getting any sleep. We decided to get a room in Durban and find a way to get there the day before the race. Easier said than done. Surprisingly there were no Greyhound or "big bus" connections that would work.
We had seen numerous mini-buses all over the streets of Pietermaritzburg that seemed to have no official stops but would pull over anywhere and any time to pick up anybody. There seemed to be two employees on every bus. One to drive and one to lean out the window and yell at people who weren't showing enough interest in getting on their bus. The passengers who were on the buses, which always seemed packed to over-flowing, appeared to have all their worldly possessions piled on their laps. We found out that some of these mini-buses made the trip to Durban and asked around at Comrades House if taking one of those would be a good idea. The several volunteers standing around sort of shot glances at each other and one finally said "Well, you'd have a real South African experience", which we did not take as a glowing recommendation.
Eventally, one of the organizers, Ileen Hall, said "Why don't you come to my running club's pasta dinner tonight and see if you can catch a ride with someone to Durban?" She told us to look for her husband, John Hall, at the Natal Carbineers Drill Hall. We went and found ourselves at the club house of the Natal Carbineers of 1879, who participated in the invasion of the Zululand, during which 23 of their members died, and numerous subsequent battles. Needless to say the place was extremely cool. It was also extremely packed with hungry runners from all over Africa, black and white. There was a pitch-in spread with every kind of pasta dish you can imagine and all you could carry. It wasn't hard to spot John Hall. Every few minutes he would make an announcement in a booming voice and remind the Carbineers to look for each other during the race--which would be easy because they all wore knee high red socks. We quietly went up to him and asked if he knew of anybody driving down to Durban the night before the race and he said "So, you're the Yanks. My wife said you'd be here." He immediately shouted the noise down and yelled "We've got a couple of Americans here who need a ride to Durban". Looking at Jim he said "Is anybody driving down who can give a big seat to this fellow?" And then, looking at me, he added "And a not so big one for this one?".
A tall African man named John stood up and said he was the head of their club and if we could meet them early in the morning there was room on their bus. Perfect. We met them and talked with him the whole way to Durban. He was 52 and about to do his 22nd Comrades. He explained that most people he knew didn't like America too much but they liked Americans and we seemed alright to him. He asked what we thought of Obama and gave no hint of how he felt until we answered. He then agreed with us that Obama is a good man doing the best he can.
We got to Durban bright and early, with a day to kill, and wished him and his team good luck. As it turned out, we saw him several times during the race as we passed him or he passed us and he was always smiling and talking to everyone around him and apparently having the time of his life. Nice guy.
That's pretty much the way it went the whole trip. Wherever we went we never felt threatened or at risk. They say the gods protect drunks and little children and maybe you can add foolish Yankee tourists to that because Jim and I got along there with no trouble. Which is not to say we probably could have gotten into some if we tried but, for the most part, we didn't put ourselves into any bad situations and nothing bad happened. For instance, we went to a large downtown shopping mall in Durban in the middle of the day and the place was absolutely packed. Out of thousands of people we appeared to be just about the only whites who lingered as we sat and had lunch. Nobody paid any attention to us at all. That night, our room in Albany Hotel was on the third floor on the street side and we were right over the entrance to a disco with thumping music blaring out of the open door. The people on the street were loud and the place was jumpin'. We knew we didn't belong there and we didn't go out. No problem.
The start of the race was exciting. It is a tradition to sing a South African song, "Shoshaloza" and to listen for the recorded and amplified sound of a rooster's crow (there's a story behind it). While waiting for all this to take place, I noticed the guy next to me had his arm in a sling. (Actually, I couldn't help but notice because we were packed togather like sardines). I told him I thought it was a bummer that he'd injured his arm before the big race and he explained that he'd actually injured it 15 years ago shortly before Comrades and had to run in a sling and he'd worn one in the race ever since for good luck. It wasn't untl then that I noticed that his sling was embroidered with the dates of all his races. He tried to explain that when he got tired his old injury made his arm flap but by then it seemed clear that the sling was just part of the tradition for him. And that's the thing about this race. It's a tradition for everyone and each person seemed to have some special way of honoring their own personal tradition.
If you do this race, here's a hot technical tip for you: watch where you're going. Like New York, people are shedding clothing continuously for the first few miles. Mostly it consists of a kind of tissue paper pajama top they give you in your goodie bag. While it really wasn't very cold by Indiana standards, clearly a lot of these runners felt chilly and the pajama tops were popular until things warmed up. Then they seemed to litter the course like tumbleweeds and that's exactly what I did--tumble. I caught my toe and did a complete sumersault. Of course, having fallen four times at the JFK, I've come to accept that it really isn't a race until I've fallen on my ass. Anyway, no harm done and we were off.
Another exotic fact about the race is the way they provide water. It comes in little plastic bags that hold a few ounces. They call them sachets. You bite the corner off and squeeze the water into your mouth. I liked them because, unlike drinking from a cup on the run, you actually get most of the water into your mouth. And, you can carry one or two with you well past the aid station without shaking it all out. The coolest thing about them though is that when somebody drops one and somebody else steps on it, there's a "POP!" and you get a free shower.
Jim will tell you about the hills. Just be aware if you are considering this race that it's defining feature is the hills. On the up run they're exausting and I'm told that on the down run they're quad killers. I can tell you that we walked most of the five named hills, which are monsters, and still finished with times that made us happy. The final hill, Polly Shorts, (no, I don't know who Polly was) took 19 minutes to walk up. It comes along with just a few miles to go when you are good and tired. Once at the top, however, I found it not too hard to bring it in fairly strong. Just the knowledge that it was almost over kind of put a spring in my step.
Here's a picture, taken from the course, of the surrounding countryside that will give you some idea of the area they call the Valley of A Thousand Hills.
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As you get to the big park where the race finishes in Pietermaritzburg the crowd is electric. It lines the course for a long way before the finish line. I recommend you go on U-Tube and find a few videos of the finish. It will give you some idea of how thrilling it is. For about the last half mile as I approched the finish an African runner behing me was loudly wailing "Thank you, Jesus! Thank you sweet Jesus!" With about a quarter mile to go we passed a guy standing on his car with an amplified megaphone lecturing us that "God did this for you!" I have to admit that my thought was unless he was talking about the bearded guy who handed me water at about the fifty mile mark, I was pretty sure I had run the whole thing myself. What is it with evangelicals? This is the second time that right at the finsh line of an ultra-marathon one of them has tried to push their religion on me. They must figure that their spiel works best on people who are brain-dead tired. If I'd have had the time or the energy I might have stopped to explain that the only response they inspired in me was "Bite me".
After the finish the international runner's gathering area was a treat. All the good food you could want and best of all, lots of chairs and free beer. There's nothing better than pleasantly fatigued runners wearing their metals and getting a mild buzz on. Here's a shot of Jim and I in mid-buzz (at least I am).
BOTTOM LINE
If you get a chance to do this race, you should. It broadened my outlook as to what is a normal and usual undertaking. I will no longer consider simple marathons as something extraordinary. I also came away impressed with the sporting spirit of the South Africans. The ones we met were vibrant and friendly. Both Bart Yasso and Amby Burfoot have written about this race and their material is easy to find on the web. Check out what they have to say and decide for yourself. I for one will remember this race as one of the highlights of my humble running career.
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