The Endless Run Reflections on the 2008 Comrades
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The Endless Run Reflections on the 2008 Comrades. BY SPENCER FARRAR n October 2007, I was reading a magazine article about how Alberto Salazar had nearly died from a heart attack earlier in the year. What caught my attention, Ihowever, was not how this legendary runner had rebounded from his near-death experience but rather a blurb mentioning that he had won the Comrades Marathon in 1994. Comrades? Never heard of it. Out of sheer curiosity, I put down the magazine and did a quick Google search to assuage my curiosity. My eyes were instantly drawn to the headlines of the fifth Internet-search result: “Fifty-five brutal miles. Five torturous climbs. A ruthless clock. The Comrades Marathon may be the world’s greatest race.” With my interest piqued, I then clicked the link and was taken to an article that Amby Burfoot—himself a renowned sportswriter and former Boston Marathon winner—had written about the world’s oldest and largest ultramarathon. According to the article, the Comrades Marathon is an annual race held every year between the South African cities of Durban and Pietermaritzburg—a grueling distance of 55 asphalt miles. To add to the madness, the race alternates between an uphill and downhill course every year, and runners have to complete the run within 12 hours or they will be unceremoniously disqualified. Comrades is alleg- edly so challenging that even the Kenyans shy away from the competition. As ridiculous as this event sounded, I was immediately hooked. While I had been aware of endurance runs such as Badwater and Western States, I really never felt the compulsion to participate in one. But somehow, Comrades seemed differ- ent. Amby’s write-up triggered a primordial yearning to test my physical limits; later that evening, I went to the official Web site and signed up. Stepping it up Seeking an extra edge for Comrades, I joined a running club in Boston called Heartbreak Hill Striders, named after the reknowned hills in Newton where the group regularly trains. Until this point, I had always run on my own and was skeptical as to whether group training would be beneficial, but I figured no harm would come out of the experiment. 114 l MARATHON & BEYOND l Nov/Dec 2009 During my first training session, I met a 40-something-year-old émigré from South Africa named Errol Yudelman. This slightly built, bespectacled man had the distinguished appearance of a college professor but did not fit the classic look of a marathon runner. I privately wondered whether training with this group of middle-aged, scholarly runners was going to prepare me adequately for the upcoming race. Any preconceived notions I had of Errol’s athleticism were quickly shattered as soon as the run began. Errol quickly scampered to the front of the pack at an alarming pace and soon vanished from sight. I did my best to keep up with him, but just as I started to catch up, he effortlessly picked up the tempo and faded away. I later discovered that Errol was one of the top masters runners in New England, still capable of running a marathon in the 2:40s. Looks can be deceiving. At the end of the run, I asked if he knew about Comrades. “Oh, yeah,” he smiled. “In fact, I’ve done it before.” What Errol did not mention was that in 1984 he finished the race in 6 hours and 46 minutes, placing him 178th overall. When I mentioned that I was planning to run Comrades, Errol politely replied that this was a noble goal, but his squinty look and slow nod suggested that he had probably heard this comment from many others in the past. Errol pointed out that Jim Carroll, the coach of the club, had also run Comrades about 10 years earlier. It is quite uncommon to meet anybody in the United States— let alone two runners from the same running club—who have run Comrades. Of the 12,000-plus runners who ran the race in 2007, only about 40 participants were Americans. Now that apartheid has been dismantled and travel sanctions have been lifted, the global running community is finally beginning to take notice of this remarkable ultra. There remains, however, a lack of international participation due to the high travel expense of getting to South Africa. As autumn gradually slid into winter, my obsession with Comrades became more pronounced. I read every online article that I could find about the race. I bought Tim Noakes’s Lore of Running, which contains numerous sections devoted to Comrades. I even sat through a painfully bad South African movie I found on Netflix called The Long Run, which details the fictitious story of a has-been run- ning coach who trains a young Namibian woman to victory at Comrades (think Chariots of Fire meets Spike Lee’s Jungle Fever, only much worse). Destination: Durban Getting to Comrades is no small feat. At best, it takes a minimum of 24 hours to fly from the United States to Durban. On June 10, I took a Delta shuttle from Boston to JFK, and after a three-hour wait in the poorly air-conditioned interna- tional terminal, I boarded Flight 128 to Cape Town. After eight hours of flying, we landed in Senegal for a crew change and refueling. Following the uneventful Spencer Farrar l THE ENDLESS RUn l 115 two-hour layover there, we then continued for 8 1/2 hours more before finally landing at Cape Town. After clearing customs around 4:00 P.M. local time, I took a taxi to a friend’s place in the city, where I fought off my jet lag. Two days later, having caught up on some much-needed sleep, I took a morn- ing hop to Durban on a British Airways flight. Although the flight was only two hours long, I was pleasantly surprised to be fed breakfast, a rare treat for American travelers accustomed to airline frugality. In keeping with English gastronomic tradition, the omelet was exquisitely bland and bore a physical resemblance to SpongeBob SquarePants, but it was much-needed nourishment. As the Airbus A320 began its final approach into Durban, I was struck by how much the terrain resembled Southern California. From 10,000 feet, the azure water and green vegetation could easily be mistaken for La Jolla. It was hard to imagine that I was now entering the heart of KwaZulu-Natal—a region where Shaka, the great Zulu chief and military strategist, once led thousands of fierce warriors into battle. This is the same province where Britain fought some of its Pietermaritzburg Highest Polly Point Drummond Spencer Farrar photo Shortts 900 Top of Field’s Hill 750 Pinetown 600 Umlaas Durban Little Rd. Durban 450 Mpusheni Inchanga Botha’s Hill Boundary Cato Ridge Berea Subway Winston Park Height in meters Height 150 Tumble Inn Camperdown Cowie’s Hill 10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 89 Distance in km. ▲ While preparing for Comrades, runners should incorporate hill training into their regimen. 116 l MARATHON & BEYOND l Nov/Dec 2009 bloodiest military campaigns at hallowed grounds like Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift. It seemed surreal that I was going to be running an ultramarathon here. I had reserved a room at the Royal Hotel in downtown Durban because of its proximity to the starting line. During the 20-minute cab ride to the hotel via the M4 Highway, the industrial zone surrounding the airport gradually gave way to a curious mélange of elegant colonial English edifices and gritty beachfront high- rises. My taxi driver was a third-generation Bengali who explained that Durban was the home of the largest Indian population outside of India. During the turn of the 19th century, he explained, many Indians migrated to South Africa to work in the sugar cane plantations. For whatever reason, a large percentage had chosen to remain in the seaside city of Durban. The Royal Hotel is a 140-year-old Durban landmark that straddles the bustling Smith Street to the north and the crowded Natal Bay to the south. (According to my guidebook, Durban is the ninth-busiest port in the world.) Though the façade was unremarkable, the hotel’s interior was deceivingly modern and in good taste. After registering at the front desk, I proceeded to room 405, which overlooked the starting point of the race in front of City Hall. I unpacked my luggage and meticulously arranged my running gear on the floor—an obsessive/compulsive ritual that I conduct before every race. On to number pickup Satisfied that I had not misplaced any equipment, I departed the hotel and ambled toward the Exhibition Center to pick up my number and welcome packet. The warm, crisp air was a nice contrast to the dank and windy conditions of Cape Town, and I gleefully soaked in the unusual aromas and sounds that drifted on the wide boulevard. Crossing Smith Street, my reverie was dashed as I narrowly missed being hit by an erratically driven minivan taxi. I had been forewarned—rightly so, as it turned out—to be on defense against the notoriously bad South African drivers. Red lights and pedestrian crossings mean little to the Durban driver. I wandered throughout the exposition, checking out the numerous vendors that were selling the usual fare of muscle ointments, sports drinks, and running apparel. As I was walking by one of the booths, I overheard two Americans engaged in a heated discussion with a Comrades official. Nosy to learn what the conversation was about and curious to meet fellow American runners, I approached the group and introduced myself.