All words by Michael Edwards
I knew I was scared because I had tears in my eyes when I said goodbye to my loved ones at the start line.
Credit: Sam Clark
On 25 November, at 5 pm, I began a grand traverse across Cape Town’s beautiful landscapes on foot. A traverse of 168.9km to be exact. It was as unfathomable then as it is now. I arrive at the race village a good hour ahead of the start time to try and settle my nerves and soak in as much of the excitement as I can. People talk to me but I don’t listen. Questions of ‘are you ready?’ and ‘how are you feeling?’ float somewhere in front of my face; significant questions that are simply impossible to answer. Besides that, I can’t tell you what anyone said to me in the thirty minutes before the race; I’m staring blankly back at their faces, my mind overflowing with appreciation for the people in my life who give so much to support and anchor my dreams. It’s overwhelming and I think the water in my eyes is already bubbling beneath the surface. The only distinctly audible noise in the chaotic environment is the announcer (Max Cluer, the legend) counting down the time to the start of the race. Thirty minutes. Twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes. Ten. “Milers please come to the start line”. It’s time to say goodbye. I know it sounds sensational, but in that moment it feels something like a permanent goodbye. The significance of the occasion hits home and I’m suppressing genuine fear and worry. Suppressed only by my rationality that the worst-case scenarios flowing through my mind are unlikely and avoidable. Before the start of the race, I’m already telling myself that I can pull the safety chute at any time. It’s a mentality I’ve never carried into the start of any other endeavour and it’s a major contributing factor to the total turmoil I put myself through in the early hours of the following morning in Hout Bay. I don’t give up on much, if anything, in my life, but for some reason, it felt acceptable for this race. Perhaps it was with one eye on becoming a father in January 2023.
Just before I leave for the start chute, it’s high-fives, hugs, kisses; amongst friends, family and, my beautiful wife and our unborn little girl. She’s with me in the form of a fold-up sonar picture in my zip pocket on my race pack by my heart. I’m simultaneously in a hurry and procrastinating to get to the start. And somewhere in that mixed emotion, the last person I bid farewell to is my dear Paula, the kindest person I know and my biggest supporter. As I hold her embrace my voice croaks a tepid ‘I love you’ and my eyes glaze over with water. If I don’t release her, I’ll never go. One last look in her eyes and my back is turned, head down and I’m marching to the start line to join 156 other like-minded individuals to begin our crazy adventure.
TRAINING
Before I go forward, I must go back. Back to how most of these adventures start: an outrageously exciting hype video from the previous year’s race and some half-assed commitment shared with friends after one too many beverages. The video for RMB UTCT was evidently very good and the beers must’ve been heavenly too. The next step is inevitably going online, clicking a few links and punching in my credit card details. Then it’s settled and the carrot is dangled. After that comes a plan; a plan which in my case comes from one of the great and most experienced trail minds in the country, Andrew van Rensburg. This was a particularly special occasion because, after 4 years of on-and-off training with him, we’d be racing together for the first time. His own story is incredible, becoming the first person to run all seven of South Africa’s hundred milers once he got RMB UTCT in the bag. And as luck would have it, we stood side-by-side at the start line.
My world between entering RMB UTCT and toeing the start line is one of training, balance, community, solidarity, sacrifice, consistency and chaos. The training is simultaneously structured and flexible. Structured in that I have a ten-weekly spreadsheet that I’m following like a textbook whenever possible but shuffle things around when life gets in the way. This year was particularly tough because I spent over 70 days travelling around the world, sometimes for work and sometimes for holidays and other races. In July I was travelling and I was sick for about five weeks. Needless to say, I didn’t get much done at all at this time. I ran Comrades for the first time in August and this July ‘training block’ did me no favours on the rolling hills down to Durban. What an incredible experience that was, though. Get it on your bucket list if you haven’t run it already — the quintessential South African runner’s right of passage. The other races included in my build-up to RMB UTCT were a relatively mild and boozy Oxpecker in May, and the George MUT60 (another exceptional race) in June. The training in between the racing is a mix of some speedy time trials (always a highlight of my weeks); some easier, long-ish road sessions around my neighbourhood; stairs, lots of stairs; and long trail adventures on the weekend searching for as much vertical gain as possible — a very difficult search in the concrete jungle of Johannesburg. Scattered in between all the running is some very important ancillary training: strength work in the gym, core workouts, pilates, balance and proprioception. After some introspection in response to the bombardment of ‘why do you do what you do?’s I get all the time, I’ve come to one distinct realisation and response to the question. It’s one of the few, if not only, things in my life where the outcome is as close to 100% commensurate to the effort I put in. Something which, sadly, is rarely the case in one’s career or personal life, other pursuits, or relationships. You can’t hide, there’s no deceit, and you will get exactly what you want if you put the work in.
LION'S HEAD & SIGNAL HILL
Nervous chatter permeates the start pen and reality sinks in. A good friend of mine once told me “getting to the start line is an incredible achievement in itself” and this, alongside the announcer’s voice, rattles through my head as I feel my way through all my pockets, zips, and pouches in my race pack, doing one final check and reassurance that I have everything I need. I’m still cursing the organisers for putting not one, but two, pairs of pants on the compulsory gear list. However, not long into the race, it becomes clear that this is a more than reasonable regulation. The countdown is under a minute and some epic song — though I can’t for the life of me remember which one — is blaring and reverberating around Gardens Rugby Club and in an instant I’m wishing the runners around me, including my coach, ‘good luck’ and ‘see you on the other side’. We’re off. Under the arch and into the sunset. The last recognisable face I see in the stands is my wife’s; a final wave and then head up to soak in whatever energy I can derive from the crowds before things get quiet for a while. It’s the strangest sensation to go from that noise to murmurs and footsteps on the tar in just a matter of seconds. Reality sinks in the moment we leave the fields of the rugby club. I’m all but on my own now, with a battle of contrast waging in my head: keeping most of my thought on the road directly ahead, the next footstep, the people immediately around me, but also harbouring thoughts about the journey in its entirety at the back of my mind. Think too far and you’ll never make it. Think too short and you won’t manage yourself.
The early part of the race (approximately 20km) takes you up and around Lion’s Head and Signal Hill. It’s a perfect day and the sunset is exceptional. I notice early on that there were a lot of runners with poles around me; I feel like I’m in the minority without, and I begin to second guess whether or not I should have trained and raced with poles. The doubt doesn’t long as I continue to soak in the exceptional beauty around me and approach the first aid station, around 10km in. Waiting for me at Signal Hill, Paula, my father-in-law Bobby, and sister-in-law Andrea (who also happens to be the ultimate seconder), and soon-to-be brother-in-law, Rob. My exchange with them is very fleeting as I’m keen to hold on to the rhythm I was in. Before the race, I had told myself that I wanted to get to the top of Table Mountain before nightfall, which I remember thinking I was vaguely on track for. From them, I grab my first of many baby foods — yes, baby foods; trail fuel of champions — and a refill of water, barely stopping and exchanging no more than a few words. My first of many surprises that day was waiting for me just around the corner from them in the form of my mother, Lorraine, with some words of encouragement and a phone camera capturing some early footage to share with family and friends back home.
Credit: J. Broderick
As I begin my turn around Signal Hill, I have no idea where I am in the field but I ventured a guess it was somewhere in the vicinity of the top third. I later found out this was close to spot-on — 48th. I’d also briefly joined up with an old friend from George, Jacques. You can’t underestimate the power of meeting up with friendly faces along the route, in the race or at aid stations. It was really good to stick with him for a short while and chat about his insane 6x6 George Peaks achievement he’d just endured a few weeks prior. The last distinct memory I have of this section of the race, rounding Lion’s Head was coming across a silhouette of a man on a bench overlooking Camps Bay and Clifton. At that moment I remember a serious thought of downing tools and joining him, crossing my mind. He was just out of the incessant galeforce wind and it looked so peaceful. If that thought had lingered for anything longer than the few seconds it did, I seriously may have joined him. A small but powerful hurdle so early on in the race playing with my still vulnerable and anxious mind.
Credit: J. Paisley
KLOOF CORNER AND THE MOUNTAIN MXN
Only 2km of racing that deserves its own section in this story. Kloof Nek is the final aid station before nightfall, the final aid station before the great climb up Platteklip to the top of Table Mountain, and the final aid station to see friends and family before over 20km of isolation. It would take over four hours to get from here to the next support aid station in Llandudno. Though, in between, there is a small station manned by a handful of the many incredible and selfless volunteers scattered across Cape Town.
At Kloof Nek, another stock take and replenishment of nutrition and water before the ascent to the Table Mountain contour path begins. It’s initially very slow and very steep, before becoming somewhat runnable and then very steep again. And it’s this second steep section that I will never forget for as long as I live. Not just what I saw but how I felt. Covering the steep steps in the final 100m leading up to the contour path is an outrageous group of loud, energetic, crazy supporters whose sole purpose is to fuel runners with every ounce of motivation and good ol’ South African ‘gees’ that they can. They form a tunnel on the steps; a cacophony of screaming, cowbells, high-fives, cheering, cameras and energy like I’ve never felt before in my life. My heart rate spikes as I power up the steps and throw my arms up in the air to encourage the noise. My legs are burning, my smile is beaming and in an instant, I’m at the top. I’d met this crowd before when I ran UTCT 100km in 2018 but this time it felt so much more exaggerated and the decibel level was ten-fold what it was back then. You move as if you’re in the home stretch. It’s exceptional. And the emotion and motivation take a long time to subside and even sneaks up on you at moments much later in the race. Thank you, Mountain Mxn.
COMMUNITY
The greatest part of my running journey, of any journey for that matter, is the people that join along the way. An experience is never as good as it is when shared. I’ve met some of the best people in the world in the last four years thanks to running. I’ve also had more than my fair share of beers and terrible tequilas thanks to them.
On the start line of a race such as this is a plethora of different types of people. One of my favourite words is “sonder”, which is defined as “the profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passing in the street, has a life as complex as one’s own, which they are constantly living despite one’s personal lack of awareness of it.” Medical professionals, crafters, artisans, financial and business types, lawyers, entrepreneurs, writers, tradesmen, and a handful of professional athletes, fill the start pen. Between the start and finish lines, however, all of that disappears. Running is a great equalizer and it’s one of the biggest reasons for my passion for the sport. Closer to home, in my more immediate community are the friends and runners who make the whole journey worthwhile. And not just worthwhile, but full of life, laughter, and solidarity. These people make the training bearable and even exciting. I’m both proud and privileged with the community that I have around me. For the most part, it’s grown organically and, just as in running, what you put in is what you get out.
More than races, one day I’ll look back on and reflect on the amazing memories shared with friends over coffee and beers, on weekends and school nights.
TABLE MOUNTAIN AND LLANDUDNO RAVINE
The contrast in emotion and immediacy of the change in environment, transitioning from Kloof Corner to Platteklip Gorge, was further highlighted by the almost perfect timing of the transition from day to night. I took my headlamp out of my race pack and put it on my head but, conscious of the long night ahead, I wanted to delay turning it on for as long as possible. The contour path to the beginning of the climb up Platteklip is windy, flat, and runnable; and an opportunity to soak in the city lights of beautiful Cape Town on your left. Only a photographer with a flash brighter than the sun itself disturbed the momentary solace. In my race planning, I had hoped to be at the top of Table Mountain before sunset was over and we lost all natural light. In hindsight, this was terribly ambitious. The head torch was on at the base of the biggest climb of the day.
Credit: S. Clark
By the end of this story, I will almost certainly run out of superlatives to describe the wind. Going up the Table, it was gustier and more potent than at any other point in the race, and the nature of the trail made it feel as though it was blowing from every possible angle. It wasn’t long before I had my waterproof jacket on to shelter me from the wind and it made the world of difference. Several times along the climb I had to stop and widen my stance to hold my balance and prevent myself from being shifted by the wind.
From a few hundred metres below you hear it and about halfway up the climb you see it — a bagpiper. In the dark, in the cold, breaking his lungs to lift the spirits of the headlight specks making their way to the top. I knew it was coming because he was there when I ran in 2018 but when I heard him I was still surprised. I didn’t expect him to be that committed — a legend. I called him as such and his immediate response was, “no, you’re a legend”. “You guys that do this crazy thing are all legends”. I have no idea what your name is, good sir, but thank you. Twice you’ve helped carry me up the Table and I’m forever grateful.
When I get to the top of Table Mountain, there are a couple of volunteers waiting at a timing point with some words of encouragement and a scanner. Covered in blankets and layers upon layers of clothes. Again, ‘sacrifice’ and ‘selflessness’ doesn’t even come close to describing what this community do for this amazing race. It’s really cold up at the top and the wind is as persistent and hard as ever, blowing from right to left with a sadistic view of blowing us off the mountain. On go the gloves, which, unfortunately, given that I thought there was a one percent chance I would need them, are rather useless. My hands and feet are really cold and the wind has begun attacking a new sense — my hearing. It’s deafening and all I can think about is getting down and out of the wind. A thick fog has rolled in too and I can’t see much more than fifty metres in front of me except for some distinct headlights in front and behind me. For a brief moment, I have three or four people around me and the collective moan about the conditions gives me a much-needed sense of solidarity. Cape Tonians are crazy fast on technical terrain, especially downhill — I guess they have the training in their back garden — my oxygen counts for nothing when we’re rock hopping. It’s not long before they disappear before me. I’m alone and will be for most of the night from this moment on. Around this time I’m telling myself ‘never again’. A ridiculous thought, as the city bowl lies beneath my feet, but I feel as far away from home as I’ll ever be up there.
The traverse across the Table and the Twelve Apostles en route to Llandudno is a blur of wind, cold, and discomfort. My legs are fine, but my mind is not. The conditions are sapping my motivation and my confidence away rapidly. Along the way is one small satellite aid station that perks me up briefly and fills some of the social interaction tank to get me to the next stop. It’s here that I think I made a grave rookie mistake. I filled up one of my water bottles with some electrolyte liquid that critically is not the brand my gut is used to. It’s either this or something else I’d done before that is ultimately responsible for about 12 hours of simmering nausea during the race. After what seems like an eternity in the pitch black of the night, the top of a small rise reveals the lights of Llandudno and the ocean down below. Between here and there though, Llandudno Ravine. A new part of the 100k course, and therefore 100 miler course, that can only be described as a touch sadistic on the part of the route director. Incredibly technical and difficult, rock scrambling, metal grips, steep and tediously slow-moving. According to my support plan, my sisters and mom should be waiting for me at the Llandudno aid station. In a game of running aid station to aid station, this is right up there as one of the ones I’m looking forward to most. Amy was at this point for me when I ran my 100k here in 2018 so it was something of a deja vu moment, albeit in entirely different circumstances. Laura and my mom have never joined me at any of my other ultra runs, so it was also a moment of serious pride and privilege to share part of this journey with them. Seeing all their faces midway through one of the hardest nights of my life was everything. Laura, full of enthusiasm, joy and pride. As always. Amy, concerned, caring, and encouraging. As always. I sat down briefly and tried to take on what little food I could manage. Half a sandwich, a Steri Stumpi, and I think some dry wors. Not wanting to get too comfortable and absorbed in the reassurance of family, I’m up again after a few minutes and taking a midnight walk on Llandudno beach with Amy, which will be a memory I’ll never forget. Slightly panic-stricken I start feeling around for my head torch, thinking I’d left it behind at the aid station. Laura went running back to find it but shortly after I discovered it in my race pack, apologised and bid farewell. “See you tomorrow,” I said to Amy as I left the last of the sandy beach to continue into the night and the infamous Suther Peak.
SACRIFICE
This is the hardest part of the story to write. Because it’s uncomfortably true. I’m only able to do these things because I train damn hard for them and I’m only able to train damn hard for them at the cost of other hugely important aspects of my life and relationships. I don’t even want to add up the hours of training and fatigue that has detracted from these things in the past year because it would probably be a very upsetting eye-opener. Yes, I love running, I love the community I do it with and the memories I’ve created in pursuit of my dreams. But I love my wife, my family, and my friends too, above all else. I’ve tried my best wherever possible to include as many of them as I can so that they’re a part of it but it’s not always possible.
The opportunity cost of waking up on a Saturday at 4 am to drive an hour, to run 5 hours, to drive an hour home, is coffee in bed with Paula and my dog, Bali. Going to the gym in the evening on weeknights often means missing a home-cooked meal and sharing stories about our day. An early morning running up and down stairs for two hours means I’m too tired to watch Netflix late at night with a glass of wine. The list goes on and so grows some feelings of regret. To say I regret it outright is not true because I do absolutely love it, but regret it in the sense that Paula has sacrificed so much for me to allow me to pursue my dreams and my passion. I’ve always done my best to make up for lost time and I will continue to do so. In the same breath, I hope my pursuits inspire our next great adventure together; the arrival of our little girl, Hannah. One day I know I will look back and wonder if I could have better spent my time. Right now, I don’t think that will happen. The time-to-life experience ratio of ultra running is second to none. Thank you, Paula, friends and family, for allowing me to sacrifice so much.
SUTHER PEAK AND HOUT BAY
Suther peak… my old nemesis from the 100k. It was made marginally more bearable than back then by the cooler temperatures and the experience under my belt. I was, however, rapidly running out of energy, because I hadn’t been eating right and my body was in desperate need of substantial fuel. The wind had died down a little, or perhaps just blowing from another direction. I don’t know. Cape Town things. I skipped right past the aid station on Rocket Road — a flat bit of contour path respite before the climb up Suther Peak begins in earnest — which in hindsight was not a great idea. The aid station crew were surprised, understandably, at my swiftness through the point. I think in the back of my head I was so desperate to get this mountain out of the way that I wanted to waste as little time as possible. There’s something like a false summit near the top that is demoralising. And there are a couple of rock scrambles that wake up some new, unused muscles. When I got to the top, I sat on a rock to soak in the incredible night sky and question some of my life decisions that lead me to this point. It was only the sudden appearance of another headlight that made me get off my arse and continue down. I didn’t get a face to thank them for unknowingly getting my going again — something about leaning back on the rock and staring at the sky seemed lazy and embarrassing at that stage. I had visions of the silhouette on the bench back at Lion’s Head.
The descent from Suther Peak down into the next aid station at Hout Bay was a section I had really been looking forward to. For the most part, it’s runnable, flowing, and fast. Unfortunately, it was at this section where the wheels well and truly began to come off.
Arriving at the Hout Bay aid station, the first words out my mouth to my mom were “I don’t think I’m going to leave here”. The simmering nausea had escalated and I was mentally exhausted from the night, the technical running, and the god-forsaken wind. Sapped of all motivation. The climb up Platteklip, the lonely and dark traverse across Table Mountain, and the brutal journey up Suther Peak had taken their toll on my legs and I was also just beginning to feel the rhythm of my natural sleep cycle come in. This is almost exactly 60km into the race and so, at 1:30 in the morning, the stark realisation that I still had over 100km to go until the finish and a long time between now and the next time I see my family, also hits me like a tidal wave.
I was broken and in one of the biggest holes I’d ever been in.
I was there for 45 minutes. An abnormally long time to spend in an aid station. Mainly in silence with my mom scrambling to do absolutely anything she could to help. In those 45 minutes, I fought the hardest internal battle I’ve ever had to fight. Nothing romantic or sensational about it. Just traumatic. And it’s the closest I’ve come to giving up on anything, ever. Fear of failure is a terrible thing.
I had my own words from something I’d written the previous day in my head: ‘be brave enough to try and strong enough to give up’. If ever I was going to heed my own advice it was now. I had already been brave to start (to try) and it would take all my strength to give up on my dream. Especially now. So early in the race with so seemingly an innocuous effort. In a sense, this was a moment for a ‘micro-try’ to get up and out of that aid station and ‘try’ to just get to the foot of the next mountain, to start climbing the next mountain if I could and then to continue if I could.
The parting words of my mother as I left the aid station were that ‘my nan was watching me during the day and my gran was watching over me at night’. I’m not a particularly spiritual person but, my grandmothers had been two of the most important people in my life that shaped my character as a child. I repeated these words over and over in my head for the next 2 hours as I traversed up Constantiaberg. I had said to my mom as I left Hout Bay aid station I was going to try to get to the foot of the mountain and from there to at least begin climbing up — if she saw my dot (live tracking) returning, to know then that I was throwing in the towel and she could keep the car running to take me home. I later learned that she waited and only when one of the aid station crew members told her he could see I was clearly going for it, did she hop in the car and head off to the next aid station. That aid station crew member, another face I won’t forget soon, a total stranger, was so willing to help and encouraging and concerned. My mom had also handed me some chewy sweets before I left her, and on the way up this climb, with every sweet down the gullet, a tangible symbol of what she said to me and motivation to get to the top.
Leaving that aid station was calculated; I mean it when I say ‘be strong enough to give up’ — it’s harder to give up than it is to keep going with so much at stake. So don’t be afraid to give up if you know it’s the right thing to do. At that moment, albeit after a lengthy period of introspection, I knew I had a little bit of something left in me to keep moving. It was the darkest and deepest hole I’ve ever been in, and my mom was there to pull me out. Marrying my wife was the proudest moment of my life — standing up from the rickety old wooden bench in the RMB UTCT Hout Bay aid station, a close second.
With that inflexion point behind me, the story finally begins to turn more positive. I swear these things are largely incredible experiences, it’s just inevitable that they should be so tough too. It’s not all doom and gloom. Also, once you’ve experienced a low such as the one I had at Hout Bay, my entire frame of reference changes and it’s hard not to be positive going forward. The deeper you go, the less inconsequential future challenges seem.
I was now traversing across the peninsula towards the Eastern Peninsula, to Kalk Bay via Silvermine. Still alone, still nauseous, but with some rejuvenation at the prospect of sunrise and a boost of confidence with a tough battle behind me. Surely it can only get better. There’s a long downward road section leading to the Silvermine aid station which was a welcome respite after 10+ hours of very technical running and steep climbing. Later, a lovely descent down into Kalk Bay. Another town in sight and another section in the bag. The most useful advice I received in ultra-running and the best I can pass on, is to break up the race into bite-size chunks.
Particularly in a race like this one where there are big sections between civilization and not. I love the quiet and I love the outdoors; equally, I love being around people and a buzz. In life as in running, you can’t have one without the other or, rather, you appreciate the one so much more in the absence of its opposite. I arrived at Kalk Bay aid station to a mother beaming with pride, who I think saw the biggest transformation from the person she watched trundle off into the night at Hout Bay to the person that came bounding into Kalk Bay. Her relief was palpable and so too was mine with the sun finally against my back and the sight of daylight on a loved one’s face. I took a seat, replaced a terribly green banana with a more ripe yellow one, smashed a couple of delicious coconut date balls, and buried some electrolyte drink down the hatchet. I spoke to my dad on the phone too.
Credit: J. Broderick
Sidetrack: In August I’d completed my first ever Comrades run. It would be too disrespectful to such an iconic race to call it a ‘training run’ but a brilliant result was not on the to-do list. I simply wanted to experience the race. In truth, it gave me a bit of a hiding. But that’s a story for another day; I bring it up because — just as my mom was with me to experience an ultra run with me on this day — my dad was with me on that, Comrades, day, to second me along the route. It was really special and I’m so glad they are each such big memories of two of my most cherished experiences.
KALK BAY TO BLACKHILL
I had done this recce a month or so before so I knew what I was getting into and, after the night I’d had, it felt manageable. I later heard from more than a couple of other competitors that they found this section interminable and very tough. So there you have it, recces help, I guess.
It was a beautiful morning. Still; gloriously still. The locals and their dogs were out on the beach for their early morning stroll (add to the list of things I should rather be doing), and the coffee shop and small business owners were rustling around their shopfronts getting ready for the day. I have three distinct associations with this place: the recce from a few weeks before, a naked individual medley in the Brass Bell (another story, another day), and my friend Matt’s affiliation to Elsie’s Peak. These are the things that accompany the mindless observances of the locals, in my mind.
At some point after Elsie’s Peak and quite near getting to the next aid station at Black Hill, I passed a few people but dragged one tag along with me. None other than Prodigal Khumalo. An absolute legend of South African running. Comrades gold-medalist and winner of the UTCT 100k the year I ran it. It was a fleeting privilege to run with him, exchange a few war stories and amble into Black Hill aid station together. He would subsequently leave the aid station before me, disappear into the distance and ultimately finish nearly 3 hours ahead of me, so he must have had some serious energy left in the tank for the back half of the race. Thanks, Prodigal. Black Hill was the first time seeing my Paula since the night shift. I ran, from a distance, with open arms into her embrace and a sense of relief that all was right in the world again.
SIMONS TOWN TO KOMMETJIE
The stairs out of Simon’s Town are once again a stark reminder of why I spent so many cold, miserable Thursday mornings training on Westcliff stairs back in Joburg. Stairs mean very different things to me than they do most people, besides their obvious utilitarian benefit. For me, they remind me of rain, banana bread, friends, collecting little stones and placing them on the top of every rep to count how many I’d done. The run — and surprisingly at this stage of the race, it is a run — between Simons Town and Kommetjie is relatively uneventful. And lonely. Again. I don’t think I saw a soul after the Kleinplaas Dam aid station. Which was not an aid station so much as a bakkie with some water in the back. Eventually, you crest a small hill and the much-anticipated Slangkop Lighthouse comes into view. The Kommetjie aid station is close. Rewind a few months, a couple of friends of mine had sent me a video from Table Mountain pointing out this lighthouse from the top. I remember both chuckling at the sight and immediately feeling my heart jump into my mouth. It looked really very far. And now in my head, I know I have to get back to Table Mountain and some, to get back home. Sigh. I digress! Kommetjie was beautiful, I’d never been before. A small, pleasantly desolate town but a stone’s throw from the hustle and bustle of the Mother City. I passed a good 10 minutes on the descent into town envisioning a life there, surfing, writing, reading, long walks on the beach with my wife, dog and little girl.
My friend Dave is waiting for me at the Kommetjie aid station. I haven’t seen him in so long and it was such a special surprise. We’d discussed possibly meeting in Noordhoek but he was 10km early. Another surprise but, importantly another total distraction from the long haul. Waiting there too: my sisters, my mom, my wife, in-laws, and other friends who were volunteering there that day. They forced a decent amount of food down my throat; I know there was watermelon but I can’t remember what else. Looking back I’m once again overwhelmed by the incredible people in my life and their unwavering support. I promise you can’t do a race like this without them — your people.
A message from Dave after my race. One of the best I’ve ever received:
“I think your greatest achievement I witnessed yesterday is the support system you have around you — you’ve always made it your priority and it shows.”
KOMMETJIE TO NOORDHOEK
On to the beach. So much beach. I don’t think I’ve been on a longer beach in my life. I was really fortunate that it was low tide at the time and that I could run, mostly, on the hardened sand left behind by the ebb and flow of the Atlantic Ocean. Next time you hear the phrase ‘Hell on Earth’, think they might be describing running on soft sand for 10km with 120km in the bank. It was getting hot, too. Not unbearable but certainly hot enough to start daydreaming about ice and water. In hindsight, this was a really short section, and the flat running was welcome respite from a race filled with technical ups and downs. Because I’m running on the hard sand as close to the water as I can, the route markers are some way off to my right, away from the ocean’s master plan to swallow them up and disorient 100s of trail runners. I can see Chapman’s Peak in front of me, the next and arguably final big climb of the day, but I’m uncertain as to exactly when I need to hook a right off the beach. Eventually, right at the end of the beach, I bump into several shrewdly-placed route markers that steer me off the beach and onto the road heading for the Noordhoek aid station
Credit: J. Borderick (I’m 99% sure that’s me)
Another aid station, more incredible support. I really hadn’t anticipated seeing so many friendly faces at all the aid stations. It was wonderful. However, my demeanour turns rather abruptly as I sit down and the weight of the next challenge hits me. For the first time in my race, I choose isolation and quiet over support and company. I pop a wet towel over my head to hide my broken face and try my best to centre myself and my thoughts again. I know it’s what I need right now and it’s a moment for me to be selfish in a room of the most selfless people I know. Paula knew this was bound to come at some point in the day and I hear a faint mutter of her telling the others to give me some space. Maybe it’s just something I tell myself to make justify my actions occasionally, but it’s ok to be selfish sometimes. And not just ok, but necessary. Support and a selfless community is the most important aspect of achieving your ambition but they can’t do it for you. At some point, you need to be accountable, and selfish, to get what you want. A happy facade will eventually break if not given a rest.
NOORDHOEK TO CONSTANTIA
From the moment the route for the miler was announced, I noted that this would be the crux of the course (read: I thought, even if I got as far as this, I’m not actually sure I’ll get through this brutal section). My recollection of this nearly 6-hour journey is really fuzzy. I’d been dreading this for a long time for so many reasons. It would, by far, be the longest without seeing people, it was the section with the most elevation, the section I knew the least well, it was in the heat of the day, and it was so close but so far from the finish. Purgatory. The climb up Chapmans Peak was slow, steady, and filled with beautiful 360-degree views. A combination of fatigue and mindlessness really makes the details hard to remember. I know I walked much of the section between Chapmans and Constantiaberg. It was interminable and very slow-moving.
My memory returns with the infamous fire. Somewhere above Hout Bay, a fire had broken out atop the mountain. I saw the smoke from some way out but it didn’t once cross my naive mind that this would have any impact on the race. I later found out that about an hour or two behind me, 100-km and 100-mile runners were being re-routed off the course to avoid the risk of any runners getting into any kind of danger. I got to the bottom Constantia and a fellow 100-mile runner turned round and looked at me with the biggest surprise on his face in seeing me. It was only then that I found out what had transpired behind me. Having spoken to one of his support crew, we estimated that I must’ve been one of the last 100-mile runners to get past the re-route. I had really hoped to see and join up with my friend Jono in this section, who was running the 100km. His glorious moustache — especially compared to my pathetic little effort — would’ve lifted my mood tenfold and it would’ve been really cool to cruise in together. Alas, the planets did not align and we didn’t meet up.
Credit: J. Borderick (I’m 99% sure that’s me)
ADAPTATION AND STRENGTH
Patience, dedication, and incremental improvements are the seemingly simple ingredients to achieving any long-term goal. ‘Seemingly’ because every single one of these traits is actually really hard to realise. In running, this combination results in the adaptation of the right muscles and the right parts of the mind, to be able to get as far as you want to go. The hard days out training, the long days, the days in the terrible cold and rain; these, too, develop strength and adaptation to the mind. It’s a game of patience — one day to the next, zero difference; one week to the next, incremental change; one month to the next, noticeable difference; and then it’s only in the year-on-year persistence that one starts to see true adaptation. Over that timeframe, as it may not always be obvious, it’s important to force yourself to look back and remind yourself of version one and just how far you’ve come.
CONSTANTIA TO ALPHEN TRAIL
This section felt short and sweet and my legs were moving really well, considering. I was also running towards my people who I hadn’t seen in over five hours. Arriving at Alphen Trail aid station was the first time in the race I knew with any kind of authority that come hell or high water I was going to finish this race. I knew I’d make it from here but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. I’ve never been one to celebrate early. Celebrating early is ego — there will be time to celebrate, time to be humble in victory, but I’ve seen people fall short at the final hurdle my whole life. The mind wants to switch off but it can’t. I find myself picking off 100km and 100-mile shuttle runners which is a great boost of confidence and also a really good distraction.
Once again I arrive at an aid station, Alphen Trail, to my incredible support crew. I shovel some noodles and pineapple down my throat, ask what the Springbok score was and I’m off again. Slightly delirious, I begin to place an order for KFC via my friend Dan, before realising it’ll be close to midnight by the time I arrive at the finish and swiftly cancel the order. For whatever reason, KFC has become my go-to post-race food of choice. Once and only once did I have KFC as pre-run snack — nine out of ten dentists wouldn’t recommend.
ALPHEN TRAIL TO UCT
Beautiful, brutal, stairs. I drift back to Westcliff again where I had spent so much time before and those memories seem to drag me through the next hour or so. Turning on my headlamp again is an affirmation of the battle I lost so early on in the race. I delayed it for as long as possible — for rational and symbolic reasons — I wanted to enjoy the last of the natural light, but under the canvas of the forest the light didn’t reach me and the next light I’d see would be from my bedroom window. I also didn’t want to turn the light on because it actually was beginning to disorient me a bit and I was worried the batteries would die. There is some significant boulder hopping through upper Kirstenbosch, but I was moving freely, possessed in the knowledge that I was nearly finished. Looking back I actually don’t know how my legs were still so strong, on very little fuel, an exhausted mind, and on technical terrain. Perhaps it was the long unsolicited break at Hout Bay, or perhaps it was many hours of hard work in the gym paying off. But perhaps not. It seemed at the time an insatiable drive to complete the task — no sensational ‘why’. My watch began to tell me lies about how high the climb was, reaching 0m to go and then proceeding to climb another 200m or so.
The technology gods had clearly left me hanging out to dry — a test of faith for my family more than myself. On top of my GPS wreaking havoc, I was oblivious to the loss of tracking and signal, but I also learnt later that my tracker came to a standstill and that my dad watching from home was ready to call in the choppers, imagining I was flat on my back somewhere in trouble. I think I underestimate how much my family stress about me in these races, and I think I must look terrible to them along the way. I wish I could reassure them and I wish sometimes I could share their emotions so that I could put their mind at ease.
UCT TO HOME
Just one more clamber up and traverse across an old foe, Devil’s Peak, an adjoining mound of rock to Table Mountain that so destroyed my spirit inside the first 30km of this adventure, awaits. The Blockhouse. Three levels of hell. I know this climb, I know it’s brutal, and yet it takes me by surprise. Funny how we choose to remember things the way we need to — and that may not always be the truth; my memory is one that remembers the emotions and high of a finish in 2018, not the torture of 100km on the legs. It’s an evolutionary coping mechanism, I guess; one that helps us be brave and helps us get through very difficult circumstances. I pass someone going up in a moment of strength — the ups have become so much stronger for me than the downs. My balance, my skill and my perception on the downs has left me. And, coming from Johannesburg, to be honest, they were never really with me. At the top of the Blockhouse, I know I’ll make it home. Before I relish in the past 29 hours I pull out a piece of home I’d tucked away in my race pack at the start of the race — my little girl. My headlight illuminates her vague profile in black and white on a folded sonar. I thank her in my head for accompanying me all this way and for carrying me through some tough patches; it’s an instant and she’s back in my pocket, the safest place, and zipped. My mind then turns to immense gratitude for all the other people in my life that made this day possible. I spend a significant portion of the next hour rambling into the finish, taking a mental record of all the people that helped me along the way. I look back at the race too, my year… and before I know it, I’m at Dead Man’s tree for truly the home stretch. From here it’s about a 3km downhill meander into the finish at Gardens Rugby club.
In the end, it doesn’t matter where I finished. But for what’s worth — the most unimportant six words in this story — 18th, in 30 hours 50 minutes. Of course, I have the utmost admiration for the front of the field and how they tackle their races. I’m competitive but acknowledge I’m not remotely near their level. This is my race, this is my own mountain. And that’s the beauty of ultra running; for all but maybe 1% of the field, it’s really not that competitive at all. The only competition is the one between your two ears. Everyone is going through their own trauma on the day. I can guarantee you there is not a single runner out there who moves past a competitor without saying a word or checking in to ask how their day is going. These races are so incredibly lonely and isolated, that you take every opportunity you get for the company, for an exchange of human emotion, and solidarity.
What I’ve taken from ultra running I will never lose. Resilience, that I may have the strength to keep going in the most trying of times in my life. Dedication, that I may persist in the most worthwhile endeavours and relationships of my life. Belief, that I may always live in hope and always be ready to leverage the belief that others have in me. And support, that I may always appreciate and cherish my community.
