Some things you do once, you do for the rest of your life; some you do a couple more times thereafter; and some you never ever do again. I have come across all of these, including the last when my moronic naiveté entered me into the Foot of Africa marathon, down in Bredasdorp in the Western Cape. Oh joy! I thought to myself as I looked forward to the 42.2 km challenge; I can’t wait to do a marathon! It’s going to be so exciting! Yes…
Skipping the introductory trip, I will take you to straight to the starting line. I was nervous, yet excited at the opportunity to try and beat my dad, an experienced runner. Furthermore, I wanted to beat my best time set the week before during a practise run. I knew the race was going to be very tough and long, but I still felt as hunky-dory as a paedophile in a playground.
The shotgun pellets pierced the sunny sky and we were off! Truth be told, it wasn’t as mind-blowing as you might of thought. More like 75-year-old women at the start of a hundred meter dash, without the use of walking aids. The first leg of the race was fairly social: people were chatting, and laughter was ripe all across the ever -stretching crowd of suicide partakers. By the half-way mark, I was feeling strong and thought that if I kept up my pace I was in for a great time, little did I know what agony and martyrdom lay ahead. As the race progressed past the 25 km stage, the effects of long-distance running set in, such as contracting muscles, dehydration and sore knees. Still I pushed on through, however the mental distress that I was facing was sinking in fast. I mean how demoralising is it to see men and women 40 years older than you come screaming. I’m sure they were giving me the ‘middle finger’ for the sake of their generation. Anyway, by the last 15km I was in misery, all made worse by the rolling tarred road leading to the finish. Mental exhaustion had set in, and it was soon going to be a complete breakdown. Dehydration was becoming a growing concern, even though I was guzzling water at every stand, the energy seemed to dissipate within a few metres of every sip. By the last 8km it had become a stop-start affair, where I’d walk for 10m and run for a few hundred. The physical strain was unbearable, yet it was the mental aspect that was the most excruciating. One’s body gives up before one’s mind, so keeping your mind in check is a skill in its own. This was not helped by the last stretch of rolling hills, which they should of dubbed “the never ending f****** road”. Still I made it to the last kilometre where I must have looked as though I had just walked off the screen of Dawn of the Dead. I was on the brink of dehydration, my legs were moving but my head felt as though it wasn’t meant to be there. My vision had begun to blur, but I still managed to angle myself towards the Castle tent behind the finish line. All in all I felt like a vegetable, unhappy about what I had just put myself through, yet content that I had made it. I proceeded by flopping over like a dead fish on land.
The following day, still feeling as fragile as a rape victim, I began to ponder on why I had decided to do the race. I realised that it was for the challenge, the challenge of pushing your body and mind into something uncomfortable, something to test you, something outside the box. I had never done a marathon before and since my father had been through so many, and continues to enjoy them, I thought to give it a go. Mind you, my present outlook on marathon running is highly contrary to that of my dad.
The rush one might get at the thought of entering a marathon and accomplishing it only occurs before the race. Since the run, I have burnt my shoes, disowned my dad and melted the medal. I’m now on the brink of declaring jihad on marathons. Oh, and the Foot wasn’t even an ultra-run, which classifies as runs over 50km, which I’m sure are mainly entered by those in the loony basket.
Marathons are just hard; not fun, joyful, or a walk in the park. Government should ban them, laws should be written to stop the misery unleashed during these events. The UN should get involved on accounts of human suffering and self-torture. Desmond Tutu should pray against the madness. Madiba should disown the practise. Marathons should be locked away to rot and die.
Thomas Mills
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