Open Writing

Over the years the popularity of long-distance running has increased exponentially and has resulted in more and more enthusiasts taking part in the sport. The London Marathon, started by Chris Brasher in 1979, now has over 34 000 contestants, so many, that it has become necessary for prospective runners to participate in a draw for a place and the runners start in relays. If you are lucky enough to draw a winning ticket, but are unable to make use of it, you are duty-bound to hand it back to enable another runner to take part.

Then there is the New York Marathon, and what is possibly the oldest race, the South African “Comrades” – all the races attract huge numbers of people and are recognised as one of the premium sports. Whilst I have no personal knowledge of any of these, I watch the very small amount of coverage the two overseas races get on South African television, but truly love the full-day coverage given on one of our sports channels to the Comrades. I spend the whole day watching the enormous physical and mental effort runners put into completing what is incontestably one of the longest and toughest foot races in the world.

But, before I tell you more about the Comrades, I want to mention a couple of details about the London Marathon, and the New York races. My ‘English’ daughter gave them to me in one of her rare bouts of volubility. She has run the London race three times, and the New York once. I found her brief comments fascinating, and felt that her insider’s view was something that only a runner could experience.

For instance, she says that the London race is always very well organised, with plenty of watering points, and more importantly, plenty of comfort stops for any runner caught short. Neither of these important adjuncts to the race were available some years ago when she ran the New York race, and she says the organisation was terrible. The race starts very early – usually around 5am – so the runners arrive wearing their oldest warm outer garments, and, as they run and warm up, they simply throw them away as they progress. The unnecessary hazards all this discarded clothing creates can be imagined, and one can also imagine what it must be like having to clean up afterwards – not only discarded plastic water bags, but tissues, clothes and fast-food wrappers – it seems that anything goes.

Then; the lack of toilet facilities. My daughter was running with a girlfriend and as happens, the friend suddenly felt an urgent need to find what the Americans euphemistically call “the bathroom.” As nothing is provided anywhere along the course, my daughter kindly held up a jersey in an attempt to screen her friend from the passing throng, but as many other runners were similarly affected as time passed, she says that quite soon, she noticed that most threw discretion to the winds, and simply ‘did the necessary‘ were they were. Not very nice for those runners who still had to cover the distance.

But, to leave distasteful matters behind. The South African Comrades Marathon is what is now termed an ‘Ultra-distance’ marathon, being run between Durban and Pietermaritzburg – a distance of 56 miles [90 Kilometres] and rising in altitude from sea–level to 1200ft. It is run alternately between the two cities, known as an ‘Up’ or a ‘Down’ race, every year. The ‘Down’ races are considered more difficult than the ‘Up,’ as the strain on the legs and feet is infinitely worse.

The race is known as the “Comrades” to commemorate the old comrades lost during the first and second world wars. It was started in 1921 by Vic Clapham to commemorate his comrades who, with him, were forced to march 2700 gruellingly hot miles across German East Africa during the First World War. It was designed to create similar conditions of extreme physical discomfort and stress and bring out the best of comradeship in the participants. It is this which keeps me riveted to the box every year.

The race starts in front of the City Hall at cockcrow, and instead of a starter’s pistol, Max Tribhorn signalled the start by loud crowing. Since Max’s death, a recording is used. It ends at five in the afternoon, eleven hours later.

The early races attracted small numbers, seldom more than 30 to 40 entrants and sometimes as few as 19, and times in the early years were nearly double present day records. Then, the runners covered the distance in around 10.5 hrs, now 5.5 hrs are the norm and enormous fields are common. Computerised tracking chips embedded in the runners’ shoes to give a moment by moment record of their progress.

The camera focuses on the heaving mass of the competitors. It steadies on their straining faces and pounding legs; we get the sound of training shoes slapping the tarmac, and then a swift glimpse of the crowds along the route, the hazy blue mountains in the distance or the shimmering heat haze on the road.

The most exciting part of the race begins during the latter part of the day, after the star runners have broken the tape, received their awards, been interviewed by the reporters and departed in a haze of glory. From 3pm onwards, as the cameras track backwards and forwards, focusing on the laggards, with a brief glimpse of the front-runners and then as the last couple of hours pass, on the footsore and weary, the ‘fallers-by-the-wayside’ and the ‘determined-to-succeeders,’ the tension cranks up, gear by gear.

The minute hand of the clock inches round on its journey to 5:00 pm, and second by second the tension mounts. Tired and weary, sunburnt and exhausted, sweating, cramping, footsore and dehydrated, the masses begin to straggle in. They are all trying to beat the clock and get their medals to show that they completed the course. They may not be winners in the official sense; but they are all winners to themselves and their families who stand on the roadside cheering them in.

It is here that one sees the real meaning of ‘Comrades’. As the starter raises his arm, pointing the pistol at the sky, as the seconds count down faster and faster, the last few staggering runners who still hope to make it try to put on a burst of speed. “Must get there …” they urge their aching legs. “Gotta make it now; so close …” “Can’t give up …” they moan, as they grit their teeth for the umpteenth time.

One man collapses and three strangers with every chance of crossing the tape before the shot sounds, stop to pick him up and carry him, spread-eagled, face down, groaning in agony those last few interminable yards which stretch forever into the distance, until they all collapse exhausted, only inches on the wrong side of the mark.

They are passed by another couple hobbling together, arms across shoulders, supporting one another, but still determined to succeed.

Every runner is different, every effort a triumph and they all give many meanings to the real spirit of what “Comrades” really means.