November. Phone rings. Mom: “Dischem entries are open!!!” I closed my eyes and clicked ‘submit’. Phone rings again. Mom again. “And? Are you entered?”. “Yes Mom! And you need to kick me out of bed this holiday to train!” “Ok no problem. Dischem was my most difficult 21 ever. Even worse than Two Oceans.” AWKWARD SILENCE. What profound news AFTER I had confirmed my entry!
January. Bed-ridden – not by choice. Something hit me at time trial on Tuesday. Perhaps the flat Kempton route was such shock to my system in comparison to Rhodes’ hilly TT route (which I have sworn at many a time). Never-the-less, a bug got me and I was man down. “That blonde girl from the Christmas party wants to buy your entry,” Mom announces. I am not sure what she was plotting. I opened one eye and peered out over my duvet. Despite my drugged up state, my answer was more certain than Guinness on St Paddy’s Day: “NO. I am running Dischem on Sunday. Today is only Thursday.” With raised eyebrows, Mom turned to fetch me something to eat because I clearly wasn’t acting rationally.
Friday: not completely capable of walking down the passage without closing one eye for balance, I managed to get to the braai with some Rhodes friends. Read: alcohol, drinking games and clubbing. No prizes for guessing who was the designated Debbie.
And finally, the dreaded Dischem. Brilliantly organised. Notoriously tough. I found a spot in the C – seeding area which I had lied my way into. Predicted time of 1:59. Pft! I recalled a conversation with Rian the running coach. As he tilted his head down and shifted his glass of wine aside his tone turned stern: “If you’re going to lie, you had better do it convincingly.” Busted. A characteristic dramatic silence followed (one of those in which lawyers specialise). He continued: “I would’ve put 1:58.”
The little heart on my watch flashed furiously as it drew signal from my heart rate monitor. The Joburg air seemed thinner than usual. If men perspire and ladies glow, I was a flood light. As I turned into the sportsfields for the final 100m, a young marshal shouted “GO RHODES!”. With purple pride and a little selfless motivation from the marshal, I harnessed every last little bit of whatever I had left, shouted “Thanks marshal!” and sprinted over the finish line.
Survived, got the t-shirt and the medal!
A race is never necessarily at a good time. It doesn’t necessarily fit in with the social life, much less the sleeping schedule. And there are sure to be bouts of fever in the days leading up to it as well as inconsiderate neighbours and 3am phone calls the night before. But if you can harness the power of the passion, all you need is clean socks, a cap and a race number. Sorted.
Lessons learnt:
1. 1, Designated Debbie always has fond memories and blackmail material.
2. 2. Don’t sell your entry unless you’re injured or pregnant – if it doesn’t kill you, you’ll have a story to tell.
3. 3. Always thank the marshals.
