Saturday morning. The 12^th of September 2009. It’s only a week since we finished three days of amazing running (Wild Coast Wild Run ‘09), but here we are, down on the sports field at  the Royal Natal Park in the Drakensburg, waiting for the start of the Mont Aux Sources run for 2009.

As I stand on the field waiting for my batch to load in the start chute, I am excited. I ran this race last year for the first time, and whilst it is tough, it’s a real privilege to be here. Because this run is conducted in a National Park, access is limited to only about 250 runners.

Soon we were off. I make a conscious effort to get a good start. Because so much of the running is on single track, overtaking is hard, and takes up a lot of time and concentration. The sun is just rising, slanting across the valley, and lighting the cliffs in a spectacular fashion. The field starts to thin out. Unlike last year, where the start was overcast and misty, we can see our destination clearly up above, framed by a brilliant, clear blue sky.

At 6km out, I am surprised, but happy to find Dayle Wheeler standing on the side of the track. I assume he is waiting for me to catch up, (he started in the “A” batch ahead of me), so we can run together. But I am mistaken. “I am out of here, I feel awful”, said Dayle. He too has run Wild Run with Andy and I just last week. And he had run it hard, having won all three days events. Just short of 120km of beach and trail running over three days has hammered him too. I am bemused to hear he is pulling out though.  I suggest we run together, just take it easy, but he is adamant. I pull my phone out of my pack, and call Sandi to let her know. And then I bid him farewell, and carry on up the mountain.

About 10km later, I am beginning to wish I had done as Dayle had. I am feeling very tired. I had forgotten the relentless climbing on the way out. Although it’s only a 50km run, you are faced with some massive vertical gain on this route, (2974m to be precise), and conditions under foot are tough, with much of the running being on rocky single track. For some strange reason, a perfect pair of shoes has decided to give me a blister on my left heel too. But I am committed to “run through it” feeling that it must just be a bad patch. I feel confident things will get better soon, so I put my head down, and concentrate on small goals, like getting to the next look-out point, or water table. At this stage, it’s only the spectacular vistas that greet me around every bend that are keeping me going.

The last water table on the route up is at Sentinel car park. As I leave this point, someone calls out my name. It’s Dom, from the Kearsney Striders Club in Pietermaritzburg. We met for the first time on this same race last year, but hadn’t seen each other since then. So we set off up the “zig-zags” together, catching up on races we have run in the last year. I am hoping like hell that some company will take my mind off my legs that feel like they belong to someone much older and weaker. And my blistered heel...

There is a simple rule about blisters: when you first notice them, stop and sort them out. Put a plaster on. I have a plaster in my pack. If it had been a multi-stage or multi-day event, I would do this immediately... But maybe it is the fatigue. Or perhaps  just complacency. I guess I am hoping this blister will just go away.... We are now running right in the shadow of the sentinel itself, and I let my mind wander, to the challenges that wait above...

As a result, by the time I stop at the bottom of the chain ladders, I have a painful open wound on the back of my left heel. I force myself to stop, take off my shoe, apply a plaster, and take stock. Things aren’t  going well. I am very tired. Even climbing the ladders is draining. And now, at 2900m above sea level, I am starting to feel just how thin the air is. It’s going to be a long day, and I suddenly realise my goal of completing this challenge in seven hours is increasingly a dream.

When I ran the run the first time, I fell into the trap that most first timers do: You think because you have arrived at the top of the ladders, that you have broken the back of this run, and that you are on the way home. This is far from the truth. You still have four hard kilometres to run in the bleak, hot, terrain that is the top of the range of mountains. It’s a surprising birth place for the source of the Tugela River. And the sting in the tail comes with the last kilometre up here, which is an unrelenting climb to the real top of the race, at over 3100m above sea level.

But today I am prepared for the worst, and I take it slowly. I find Kelvin Trautman taking pictures on the cliffs overlooking the Tugela Falls. I met Kelvin a week ago, we ran the Wild Run together. Today he is just here to take pictures. He tells me I am crazy to be running this. I can hardly disagree with him, although I try to put a brave face on things. The body language in this picture he takes of me tells a story though:

The Tugela River is relatively small here, especially now at this time of year. But it’s spectacular none the less. I stand on the edge of eternity, and peer down, marvelling at the river as it drops 947m to the valley below. Last year I rushed this section, and regretted it later. I take my time, wash in an ice cold pool at the edge of falls, and eventually say my farewells to Kelvin. It is nice at the top of the world, but hanging around here isn’t getting me any closer to the finish, and it is now getting hotter as the minutes tick by. 

I rejoin the run, and soon catch Dom and Karen, making their way up the last energy sapping climb to 3100m above sea level. It is tiring work, but we know the top is in our reach now, and once we are there, we pause to reflect for a few moments, before taking on “The Gorge”. The picture sums up the scale of this race, and our lack of significance in the real scheme of things....

But all too soon, we must leave, and commit ourselves to the challenge presented by “The Gorge”.

They never truly describe this section of the race to you in the briefings. It’s nasty. 500m of descent, down a narrow gully, which is set at about a 45 degree incline, and littered with ankle snapping boulders, mostly loose, all about the size of car tyres. You are at constant risk of falling or slipping, or setting off a mini avalanche of rocks onto the groups below you, (or the groups above you on to you...). This year to compound my misery, I manage a heavy fall. Fortunately, I fall on my back, and my hydration pack bears most of the brunt. But by the time I am at the bottom of this thing, I am in a really bad place. I am grumpy, tired, sore, and feeling sorry for myself.

But this race has an amazing way of offering up lessons to those that will listen....

 Shortly after arriving at the bottom of the gulley, we rejoin the route we ran the first half of the run out on. And running along the path still making their way out, Karen, Dom and I come upon two ladies, hand in hand, seemingly struggling up the path, still on their way out to the ladders. I look carefully at the lady being led, and notice she is struggling. She appears to be limping. I put a hand on her shoulder, stop her, ask if she is ok. She flashes me a broad smile, and I notice how attractive she is. She has the most amazing eyes. “I am fine” she says, although with the hobble she is struggling to hide, it’s clear she is not. “You are limping” I tell her weakly.... “Aaahhh, just a gamy leg”, she says as she turns and hobbles on. She looks back and flashes me that smile again. So I don’t have much choice, I turn, and we all run on again. It’s a few moments before Karen drops the bomb on me:

“That gammy leg”, says Karen. “That would be Multiple Sclerosis”.

There is a ringing in my ears. I feel a serious lump developing in my throat. For once I am quiet, unable to talk. Here am I feeling tired, grumpy, and sorry for myself, and there goes a lady, committing herself to this challenge, over and above the challenge of M.S.  Suddenly it all becomes clear. In that instant, I remember again how fortunate I am, how privileged to be out here, in these places I love so much, in the company of good friends, just doing what I love so much. Just running...  I stop, and take this picture:

If you look really carefully, on the right you can see Karen running off, picking her way round the edge of the hill ahead of me. And in the middle of the picture, our route home stretches out seemingly forever, along the crests of the ridges, and down into the valley some twenty odd kilometres below. Imagine running this, when you are battling to control your legs...

So the mountain had offered me another lesson. And so I run for what seems like the rest of the day, but no matter how hard it seems, how tired I feel, I can’t stop thinking about the lady above me, still struggling on up that mountain, fighting M.S. harder than gravity itself. Willing her body on, happy to be out here with the rest of us that so often take our abilities and opportunities for granted.

I meet a new friend on the road between Sentinel car park, and Witsieshoek, where the width of the roads means you can run side by side and talk. Fenella is also battling today, so we run on together, marvelling at some of the hills we seem to be climbing, when we are sure we didn’t run down them on the way out....

At 8km to go, I start suffering with cramps. Badly. And cramps don’t mix well with the last 10km of this run. Single track, logs, rocks, and the steep descent mix together in a vicious cocktail, and seem to strip me to the bone. But the lesson I have learnt on the mountain today is still ringing loudly in my ears, so I mumble away to myself, and try to keep Karen in sight as she makes her way down the mountains ahead of me.

My wife Anne-Marie, along with Dayle and Sandi, have heard I am battling, so they walk out on the route to encourage me. I meet them four kilometres from the end. Anne-Marie offers me a drink, but as soon as I stop, the cramps attack in an excruciating way, bending me double, so I have to beg forgiveness, and keep on moving. I leave them, and carry on down the mountain, with Anne-Marie jogging behind yelling support. Fenella rejoins me, and shouts encouragement too.

The end couldn’t come soon enough this year. I run onto the field, and do the finishing lap, with one of my boys running beside me, hand in hand. I pray I won’t be struck down by another attack of cramps before I get to the finish line, in front of these supporters who cheer and clap for each new arrival. I manage to find the strength to carry my boy over the finish line in my arms.

08:11:39.

Almost half an hour slower than last year. Battered and bruised, mentally and physically. I walk down and stand with my legs in the icy waters of the Tugela River a while. I take a massage. A shower, something to eat, and much later, I manage a few beers with Andy and Dayle, and the rest of the team that are down here with us. Ian Jones hands me a bacon and tomato roll, fresh from the skottel...

It’s now Sunday morning, and I am sorting out and cleaning stuff up to pack in the car for the drive home. I pull an Energade bottle out of my pack. I had last drunk from this at the bottom of the gulley on the way down the mountain, and my brain is trying to work out why it’s crumpled the way it is.... Then it dawns on me.... The crumpled bottle is the result of the pressure differential caused by 1800m of descent. It’s a graphic illustration of why I should perhaps not have run this race this year. Here is a picture of the bottle, with the Sentinel at 3100m in the far right of picture behind...

As the hours pass, and the pain subsides, I start to ask some difficult questions of myself: Would I have run The Wild Run a week before Comrades? No Way! So what the hell did I try and run Mont Au Sources the week after the Wild Run for?

Part of the answer is because I am dumb, arrogant and complacent. But Mont Aux Sources is still one of the best challenges you can commit to. It’s very beautiful. It’s so well organised, and the people are just so nice, from the registration desks, to the people that staff the water tables, and the people at the finish.  Your time doesn’t really matter either. Just being there, running with friends, realising how fortunate you are to be able to dream, and do these things, is all that matters. So I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And that is why it is called a challenge....not a race.

You are probably wondering what happened to the lady suffering M.S. I can tell you that I have now learnt that she and her partner made it up the ladders, over the 5km of hot bleak space at the top of the mountain, and impossibly, down the gulley, and back to the car park at Sentinel. They elected to pull out there. She had to accept that the Mont Aux Sources Challenge was too big for her that day. Very wisely she collected her own rock from the top of the amphitheatre, as she realised she wasn't going to be given an "official" one, as were the rest of us that finished. She deserves that trophy more than any of us do though.

I have subsequently learnt her name, but I have decided not to publish it, as I have wanted to respect her privacy. But this lady has earned my respect, admiration, and awe. As has this race. I look forward to doing my third Mont Aux Sources, and earning my permanent number. When I do, I hope I am there to see that brave lady from Durban crossing the finish line too.

Special mention and thanks to fellow runner Kelvin Trautman for supplying some of the images in this blog. Photo credit © Kelvin Trautman | kelvintrautman.com