Learn this lesson fast, and learn it well, this is the road to hell.
The Washie 100 mile run is the king of 100 milers in South Africa. It has all the history, the beauty, character and charm, and is probably the most competitive of them all. Washie has been my dream for years. Ever since I saw that black red and yellow tracksuit top at a local race, the concept of running with the best of the best long distance runners in South Africa, on the same road as the real unsung legends of running history, Washie has been my goal. A finish would be awesome, but sub 24 hours would grant me membership to the International Centurion Club, which would be my perfect run!
Over the years, I doubted whether or not I would ever get to the stage when I could line up amongst these men and women that had conquered the ultimate 100 miler. Time past, and my passion for running grew, along with it, the intensity of my desire to wear that tracksuit top at a local race with pride, just as I had seen a few years ago.
At the finish of my first marathon in February 2005 (Pick and Pay in 4 hours 57 minutes) and again at the finish of my first ultra in March 2005 (Two Oceans 56 in 6 hours 57 minutes) I was certain that running 100 miles was something that I would never reach. A year later, I pushed on to finish Comrades in 10 hours 57 minutes, and was once again physically broken from the long road.
Still Washie tracksuits appeared at races, and the envy boiled.
Incidentally this was the last time that I actually raced a race, instead of used it for the distance.
In March 2007, I decided that it was time to suck up the fear and start getting ready. All I knew was that I would have to run far, and often. Not knowing what I was capable of, and only with about 15 marathons under the belt, I entered for 4 marathons in the space of 10 days, despite never having attempted anything like this before.
With the added confidence of having finished those 4 marathons, I decided to enter the 1000km challenge, with the intention of using it all as training for Washie… one day in the distant future. No matter how long it would take, I was going to pile on mileage until I felt that 100 miles was a distance that I could cover. No racing, just distance. I couldn’t have chosen a better preparation route. With 50 or so marathons, including a 75km (or longer) run every month, it proved to be a busy year. Running back to back ultras on a weekend taught me how to deal with pain, suffering, and a general loathing for anything that looked even remotely more comfortable than me.
“One day in the distance future” was suddenly becoming frighteningly real. As I asked one honoured jacket bearer after another about the race, a disturbing trend started to appear, in which they all asked me when I planned to enter!
Those entry forms lay on my desk for months on end, as I became increasingly anxious about ever filling them in. Comrades was suddenly marked as training run, and from there I knew there was no voluntary turning back. (Although there was certainly part of me that wished something would remove the choice factor for me… possibly the seemingly less painful option of losing a toe just prior to July!)
So by Comrades I had a noteworthy base of mileage. One last marathon, and then onto the sharpening work in the final weeks. Without the strain of marathons each weekend, my time trials became quicker, and suddenly 4 brisk 10k runs were recorded in my training log. I was running faster than I had in a long time. I felt ready.
My dad, (Pops) was always going to second me, but when George Archer himself volunteered to join the seconding effort, I was truly grateful and inspired. The humble man has 33 100 milers to his name, including 5 200km runs, putting a check in the distance box, and numerous sub 3 hour marathons, putting a check in the speed box! Having completed the mystical 1000km circuit in the region of 11 days, and won many of these races, surely there could be no better help at my side for my big day?
Still holding onto hope that someone would drop an axe onto my toe, my entry for Washie was sent in a mere 4 days before the event. Packing ensued, and every possible mid-race problem was catered for, including different types of nausea, chaffing, blisters, hunger, electrolyte problems, pain, weather, cramps, shock, and equipment failure to name a few from the list of worries.
The three of us left bright and early on Thursday morning, and despite the grim time of morning, my mind was dancing from one running thought to the next. The conversation in the car revolved around running, and running alone, for a good 11 hours. Tactics, pacing and mental preparation obviously taking up most of those 11 hours, but we did manage to squeeze in the odd “did you know” regarding Washie and a few other 100 milers. George had undertaken his seconding position as a professional. His competitive nature was certainly rubbed off on me, and the pressure mounted as I could never live with myself if I let a man of this stature down.
As we arrived at the venue in Port Alfred the next afternoon and collected my number, I looked around for the heroes that I had met before, or heard about. Once again those jackets taunted me. I was potentially 48 hours away from one of my own.
Numbers, briefing, greetings, and pre-race preparations out of the way, we set off from a lonely field at 5pm, to the tune of “Road to Hell” by Chris Rea, a Washie tradition.
The first 14kms is a lonely loop where your seconds may not follow. Here it is just you, and the realisation of your pursuits’ magnitude. I got carried away, and somehow settled into a pace of 7 minutes a kilometre by the time I was back in Port Alfred. However, I had clocked the loop at 16kms, where as it was supposed to be 14. I knew the distance that I had run, and firmly stuck to my belief that someone was misinformed. With no kilometre markers, you have to rely on your second’s car odometer for readings.
I was running far faster than planned, but felt as if I was running within my ability, and decided to monitor my body very carefully, but to stay on pace. Despite this, I was still in the back third of the pack, leaving me convinced that everyone was starting too fast. George and Pops met me every 4kms with food and drinks, where George would run up and down the road to meet me with whatever I needed.
The kilometres were flying past, and despite sticking to the pace without any noticeable changes in my physical state, mentally I was very concerned about starting too fast. At 3 hours and 30 minutes I took my first intentional walk break, of 5 minutes, and another walk break at 4 hours and 30 minutes, also of about 5 minutes. (I had walked on two steep hills briefly though). At this pace, I predicted that I would hit the 25 mile (40km) checkpoint at 5 hours, a full 30 minutes faster than planned!
5 hours and 10 minutes for the checkpoint, but I knew that the checkpoint wasn’t exact. I had certainly run more than 40kms (closer to 42, and all of these distance feelings would later prove to be very significant!) I am very glad that I was paying attention to my body odometer! Straight through the checkpoint, and onto the next 40kms, maintaining a very constant pace.
The sun had set, and the Washie full moon was shining brightly across the coastline. As I crossed bridges over lagoons and streams, I caught the occasional glimpse of the ocean.
It was completely surreal to me. Here I was, running the Washie 100 miler, admiring the incredible beauty that our country has to offer by the light of the full moon, experiencing the “loneliness of the long distance runner” and all that the phrase alludes to. This was my dream coming true. Physically I was feeling great, and my time and distance was far better than I had expected. Just over a 5 hour marathon, and 58kms in 7 hours and 12 minutes were times that I would have run just 3 years ago at full effort.
However, no picture is perfect, and very quickly I was brought back to reality. Susan Hurter had been 20 minutes ahead of me at 40kms, but I had been closing in on that lead quickly. At roughly 75kms, my dad met me with the news that she had been attacked just ahead.
At the time I was roughly a kilometre behind her, and George and Pops were waiting for me when she ran past them. In the dead of night, they heard a scream that I cannot imagine, because both men have been unable to describe the horror contained within her voice. As they started the car, and raced 150m to her aid, Susan was in complete shock, and running frantically across the road in the path of an oncoming truck, which narrowly missed her. When George approached her (who she knows) she ran in fear from even him.
The scum of the earth had decided that he would try his luck on a tired, small female runner in the early hours of the morning. He had jumped out of the bushes alongside the road, and struck Susan across the head, before grabbing her long blonde pony-tail and pulling her across the road towards a settlement on the other side, while repeatedly hitting her head, and shouting for her to turn her head lamp off. Somehow Susan had broken his grip, and both she, and the dirt had fled as the cars rushed to her rescue.
The little comfort that one can provide at a time like this seems completely inadequate. However, with a woman as strong and determined as Susan, obviously the comfort offered from all those around proved to be enough for her to muster the courage to carry on running.
I clearly remember saying to her, “Susan, my girl, if you bail now, nobody will ever doubt your reasons. Nobody will question your decision, and nobody would ever consider thinking any less of you. However, if you carry on and finish, nobody will ever forget what you did!”
At that point I stopped talking because of the lump in my throat. She carried on running. Honestly, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
As we gently trotted through the night, the seconding vehicles stayed close behind, actually shining light where we were running, as a security blanket. We swore together, and cursed the bastard that had put Susan through what could have been an unmentionable ordeal, and before we knew it, the kilometres were ticking by at a fast pace again. We had gone through the Comrades distance, substantially faster than I had run it just a month before.
But, alas, when it rains it pours. It was around 90kms I think, where Susan hit bad luck again, and tripped on a bump in the road, sending her straight to the tar. She landed hard, and planted her knee first. As she rolled in pain on the side of the road, I thought that her race was over.
My dad and George told me to carry on as she hobbled to the back of a bakkie to lie down. So I did. I’m still not sure if it was the right thing to do, but its done now. I couldn’t imagine a way that she would carry on now.
I kept moving, and the pace quickened again, while I felt good. With Kieskamma valley in my sights, I was determined not to lose pace up the monster of a hill that it is. As I was feeling very proud of the pace that I was maintaining, I heard steps behind me, only to see two runners pass me as if I was standing still, just at the base of Kieskamma. With my head a little lower than it was before, I kept running. Roughly 500m later I caught up to the two that passed me, as the one bent over to vomit.
I cleared the valley quickly, and very strongly, and rose onto the flats for the 100km mark where I quickened the pace again. I still couldn’t believe how well everything was going. My spirits were at an all time high, and I was running just over 6 minute kilometres, as I headed towards Chalumna, another vital valley that requires crossing.
With only a few kilometres to Chalumna, I made my biggest mistake of the race, which cost me hugely in time. I stopped asking for food at every 4km interval. I had eaten all the way, and maintained energy levels, but missing just one feeding while I was moving fast, dropped my sugar levels and sent me into the start of trouble. It took me close on 10 kilometers of walking and jogging to recover while I stuffed my face with rolls, sweets, nuts, biscuits, and energades.
Once again the dream continued once I had crested. After letting the seconds go, I stood in the middle of the road, and shouted at myself, (which must have been very entertaining to anyone that saw it from the roadside!)
It was what I needed. I needed to get a grip again, to swallow the pain, and push on for another 40 something kilometres. “Just a few hours! Harden up!”, with the occasional four letter word in between.
From here onwards I shuffled it out. George had been watching me move up the field from the back third to a position where I could start looking at a top 10. When he told me, I laughed. The thought of it was hysterical, but clearly he knew what he was talking about as one by one, the gaps closed, and I moved up a position. The boost that you get from passing someone while you feel good at that stage of the race is simply immense.
Just as I hit the wall at 136kms, and asked George and Pops to shorten the meeting points from every 4kms to every 2kms, I was in for more good luck. I had hit the wall badly, and maintaining 9 minutes a kilometre was hard work. I knew I could keep it up, but it would hurt, a lot.
The good news was that my suspicion about the checkpoint distances was right from the word go. The car odometer was reset at each checkpoint, but I still believed that I had run further than I had according to the checkpoints. 300meters past the point where my dad had told me that I had 25km to go, I saw the 20km to go marker board. 5kms, you may think, is just a time trial. I can tell you with absolute certainty that each one of those kilometres was worth a marathon of pain!
I was now in the final stretch. Each kilometre would be marked to the finish from there, and each was a massive mental break.
With less than 20 kilometres to go, Susan proved herself to be one of the toughest people that I will probably ever meet, as she caught up to me. How she had carried on, I simply had no idea. But now the roles had reversed, as I was struggling, and she looked to be enjoying her morning training run!
We ran poles together, slowly, and painfully, watching our time down to the second on each kilometre. Running the last 10 kilometres with her was an honour. As we entered the city, and those East London residents that knew what we were doing clapped hands and cheered, we shuffled along down to the beachfront. One body more battered than the other, namely mine, but both equally teary eyed at our experiences and pride in ourselves, and in each other.
We grabbed hands to run under the finish banner, where I promptly collapsed, and demanded a sip of (another teary eyed) Pops’ beer.
What a run, what a race, what an experience. It was my running dream to finish Washie, but to finish with a time of 21 hours and 52 minutes was beyond anything that I had even considered. To cross the line hand in hand with Susan for 11th and 12th, after the many runs that we have had in the 1000km challenge over the last year together, was truly emotional. And finally, to shake hands with proud seconds, in the form of Pops and George was an honour. Everything came together on the day, and I doubt whether any other single run will fall into place like this did. Definitely not without the experience and guidance of a running genius like George…
This posting was found on the Runners World Forum ... (Hope they or Stuward don't mind Buffs placing it here...)
Stuward, Susan and all the Washie 100 competitors, you are all true heroes! Next year I will be there again, even if only to help with your race results. Danie
