Comrades 2014
For six months you give everything you got. You give your
heart, your iron structure, your soul and your will. You compromise on the late
nights, you limit the liquids, and you set aside the carbs. You turn your focus
inward. You see illness as danger and injury as trauma. You see rest as
weakness. You count the days backwards. You alter what you did last year, working
harder this year. You see warm summer mornings invaded by icier winds and an
over throw of winters hues. You see the sun’s arc peak and drop. You see the green over-fed
trees turn gnarly, nobbly at winter’s appearance. You beat the tread of 1200km
together with your running partner. You scrawl each run down, each hour of
sleep and each minute of mileage. Your guilt is your strength. You’re in it
and, you’re committed. Your sugar is on
the sidelines watching and your brother is there as a spire. Big Al is there
with his famous P and J zarms. It’s a giant of a day. This is the year. This is
the year.
Me and Marty linked on the Saturday eve. We slept in single beds in Pietermaritzburg. We ate chicken breasts the night before. We stood side by side in our pen. I sat behind my glasses. He behind new emotion, new experience and a new start.
And that was the last time we were together.
They say the race is 90 percent mental. And as my mind’s wanderings travelled beyond where I was, beyond the distance of Pietermaritzburg and Durban, it wasn’t the fitness of my body, but the malleability of my mind that was my unravelling.
My 2014 edition of the Comrades Marathon was my thoughts crusade.
My energy had bottomed out turning the day tough. I remained introverted, stuck behind my shades. My eyes and globular brain holding my misery, my pain, and my many wonderings of the years thoughts. The pains of my career traumatising my mind space, the years of tumult scarring my jellied tissue. Where am I going and what am I running towards?. Mumbling very little. Marty drove the pace, pushing us half way in 4hours 50.it was brilliant. But still I felt discomfort. Physically, I was steadfast.
At 55km I forced Marty to leave me to run our own races.
62, and with 28 to go, I sat down. Finished to the world. A half litre of water gushing down my gullet. Brushing aside the concerned comments, I stepped back onto the heated road, still my legs uneasy. My body was deflated, my mind warped. My body double bent, a crowd member offering a hand. And then Carmy K gave me the 3rd.
At the top of Fields and with a half marathon to go, I crushed a coke down my throat. As the power aid careened past my parched lips, coating my furry teeth, hastening down my gullet, gaining super electric energy, rushing past my stopped heart, the defibrillator-like effect on my spirit was galactic. From 0 on the speedometer to a hyperventilating 160, id been brought back from oblivion.
My lips turned from bull nose to a smile, a vessel pooled with excitement, spunk and power.
Fields Hill blessed me with rolling speed, and trundling energy. My pulsing pistons purging my sluggishness. My chatting chirping and yodelling driving the unwaivering crowd.
Me and Marty linked on the Saturday eve. We slept in single beds in Pietermaritzburg. We ate chicken breasts the night before. We stood side by side in our pen. I sat behind my glasses. He behind new emotion, new experience and a new start.
And that was the last time we were together.
They say the race is 90 percent mental. And as my mind’s wanderings travelled beyond where I was, beyond the distance of Pietermaritzburg and Durban, it wasn’t the fitness of my body, but the malleability of my mind that was my unravelling.
My 2014 edition of the Comrades Marathon was my thoughts crusade.
My energy had bottomed out turning the day tough. I remained introverted, stuck behind my shades. My eyes and globular brain holding my misery, my pain, and my many wonderings of the years thoughts. The pains of my career traumatising my mind space, the years of tumult scarring my jellied tissue. Where am I going and what am I running towards?. Mumbling very little. Marty drove the pace, pushing us half way in 4hours 50.it was brilliant. But still I felt discomfort. Physically, I was steadfast.
At 55km I forced Marty to leave me to run our own races.
62, and with 28 to go, I sat down. Finished to the world. A half litre of water gushing down my gullet. Brushing aside the concerned comments, I stepped back onto the heated road, still my legs uneasy. My body was deflated, my mind warped. My body double bent, a crowd member offering a hand. And then Carmy K gave me the 3rd.
At the top of Fields and with a half marathon to go, I crushed a coke down my throat. As the power aid careened past my parched lips, coating my furry teeth, hastening down my gullet, gaining super electric energy, rushing past my stopped heart, the defibrillator-like effect on my spirit was galactic. From 0 on the speedometer to a hyperventilating 160, id been brought back from oblivion.
My lips turned from bull nose to a smile, a vessel pooled with excitement, spunk and power.
Fields Hill blessed me with rolling speed, and trundling energy. My pulsing pistons purging my sluggishness. My chatting chirping and yodelling driving the unwaivering crowd.
With 13 to go I bumped into Marty. Pinetown. Rooted to the
ground he had nowhere to go. Marty’s muscles had left him stranded, splintered.
I had to say goodbye, again.
With 5km to go, Elton, with the claws of a backactor scooped me up, and together we hurtled our punished bodies into Durban and onto the softened turf of Kingsmead Cricket Stadium getting us in under 10:30.
You never know this race, a chiselled body demands a chiselled mind.
With 5km to go, Elton, with the claws of a backactor scooped me up, and together we hurtled our punished bodies into Durban and onto the softened turf of Kingsmead Cricket Stadium getting us in under 10:30.
You never know this race, a chiselled body demands a chiselled mind.
