The Peninsula Ultra Fun Run, known for short as Puffer, is a no-frills ultra-trail which has been organised annually in Cape Town, South Africa since 1995, by the Fish Hoek Athletics Club. There is no prize money and no major media coverage. Entries are limited, and participants are expected to be independent, self-sufficient and environmentally aware.

The total distance is about 80 km, which is more or less the shortest possible route from Cape Point to the Waterfront.  The route runs from Cape Point to Red Hill Pass, through the Simon's Town Water Catchment Area to Black Hill, via Ou Kaapse Weg across Fish Hoek Valley to Silvermine Nature Reserve, through Tokai Forest Plantation and the Vlakkenberg footpath to Constantia Nek, over Table Mountain to the summit at Maclear's Beacon (1,086 metres above sea level), then down Platteklip Gorge to Kloofnek, via Signal Hill to the V&A Waterfront.

So, that's the official line off the Puffer website... A number of us have been putting our names down on the application list for years, to no avail, so the amazing organisational abilities of the Tyrone Harriers was brought in to break the stalemate. Bugger it, if we can’t get on the official list, we will organise our own version of it! A date was set for the 17th of March, which we hoped would give us the best of the Cape weather, and fit in amongst all of the Comrades and Iron Man training that all the hard-core freaks had committed to. And we set upon a new name for our interpretation of the event: “The Bluffer”..

When the Tyrone Harriers Committee gets stuck in to something, what results is a not unlike a well-co-ordinated military campaign. All logistical arrangements were planned and executed, and when we all gathered at the airport on Friday afternoon, there was a relaxed but excited buzz in our little group. We piled on to the plane with our Vida Café coffees, and we were off.

We were met at the airport but the designated shuttle driver Clint, (more on this character later), and there was only one delay on the way to the B&B when poor old Paul had to alight from the vehicle and stand on the side of the road to deliver his weekly call to the Money Show on 702… He was too scared to do it from the safer confines of the bus, as he could not be sure that one of us might try to get involved in some un-official capacity… But soon we were off once more, we had found the B&B, thrown our stuff in our rooms, and were able to walk off down the road to a nearby restaurant for some pre-race dinner.

Dinner turned into a bit of a fiasco… The restaurant was clearly stretched by trying to deal with the 17 or 18 of us all at once… Our food came in dribs and drabs, and some of us had eaten and were ready to go before others had received theirs. It appears the effects of the economic crisis in Greece have really started to impact us here in South Africa too, as they ran out of halloumi cheese, (but that didn’t stop them serving “halloumi salads” though)! Poor Sheila ended up eating her dinner in about 30 seconds, whilst we stood around, took photos and videos, and clapped!

On the way back from the dinner on Friday night, we had an amazing experience. We saw a man-hole cover on a man-hole!

Malcolm pays his respects…

Malcolm reverently knelt down to touch this rare and hallowed object, and we all said a few words about how lucky Cape Townians were to have Helen Zille there at the helm. There was some talk about removing it, and bringing it back home as a souvenir…  But we resisted, determined to be satisfied with this more sustainable “touch and release” policy…

Saturday morning saw us having an early start. We all piled into Clint’s F1 Racing Bus,  and he set off, determined to reward us all with another scintillating display of his death defying driving, and his apparent affliction with bouts of crippling colour blindness, which seem to attack periodically at traffic lights.

We emerged unscathed from the bus with some gratitude at Cape Point, just in time it seemed, before he set off in a cloud of dust to some other pressing engagement. It was pretty novel to be the only group in the car park… Last time I was there I had to fight my way through the Japanese tourists, not unlike Admiral Nimitz did at Okinawa back in ’45… Not even the baboons were up to greet us!

We made our way up to the a long line of steps to the lighthouse, and gathered for that traditional pre-race picture… Can you believe it… An Asian gent appeared, (all alone), out of thin air! Good timing, because he was able to be the official race photographer, and to capture the pic of us all below:

Yes. Andre ran the whole way in his Sunday bests…

I am not sure why we were standing on the left, and crouching on the right…???Gavin obviously feels he is much taller than he actually is…  But anyway, There was a general whooping and hoopla, we gave the lighthouse a slap, and set off down the stairs again, back through the car park, and on our long and winding way back towards Cape Town. The weather was as perfect as we could have hoped for… Cool, with a light cloud cover, the gentlest of breezes…  We all fell into our own comfortable pace in little groups, soaking up the views, and the sunrise over False Bay to our right. The Cape put on a show for us, as it always manages to do. The rain over the past day or two had left the air squeaky clean, and had put a shine on the fynbos.

We stopped at one of the amazing viewpoints for our first munchies just before exiting the park, wolfing down some nuts, Gu or biltong. We took in the last of the sunrise over the bay, and headed out through the gates, down the long access road to the main Redhill Road, back up and over the hills to the point over-looking Simon’s Town.

Mid-morning, we took a shortcut through an “informal settlement” at the top of the ridge, and I was heartened to see the number of satellite dishes that had been nailed to trees, or strapped to telephone poles… It appears that even those living far below the poverty datum line find that the drivel served up on state TV far from appealing. Nearly every resident seems to be able to find the means to scrape together the pennies to pay for DStv every month. This warmed the cockles of my heart, as it means my employers are well entrenched on this continent…

We cut off the road again at this point, and were fortunate to be met by Malcolm’s mother and father in law, Peta and Chris Mason, who had turned out in their car, and met us at a picnic spot with a basket of fresh egg-and-mayo sarmies, some bottles of water, and a few other treats. 5 minutes later, all the bottles were empty, the baskets contained only crumbs, and the hoard of scavengers moved on again, over a hill, and down across some open trails towards Sun Valley.

After 28km on any run, it always starts to get quieter… Either we have told all our clever stories, or we start concentrating more on putting one foot in front of the other, than impressing our friends with our stunning wit and alacrity…. The route from here on in got hotter, and tougher. We stopped in at a garage in Sun Valley to fill our water tanks, before setting off for the real running of the day, which involved a whole bunch of climbing up Ou Kaapse Weg.

Malcolm shows us how it’s done…

The roads were busy with shoppers making their way to “church” in the malls, so where we could, we kept on the trails, and paused periodically to look back at our impressive progress in conquering the meters of climb up into the hills overlooking Noordhoek, and eventually Constantia.

A sign along the way. Three is a crowd… Four is …

So sometime around 14h00, the ragged band of runners arrived at the car park at Silvermine Dam, just over 46km from where we had started that morning. This is where we had arranged to meet our racing driver Clint, so he could further raise our adrenal levels with a drive back to the B&B for a wash and brush up. A few of the hard-core guys were determined to run on further, over the top of the ridge, and down into Constantia, but I am pleased to say that the most of us did not feel compelled. Many blamed this lack of willingness on the critical shortage of halloumi cheese in their salads the night before…  I rather fell prey to the lure of the pool, the shower, a pot of tea, and some rather fine home-made muffins back home. This, along with an extra hour on the cool cotton sheets of my bed, before spending the rest of the afternoon lying about with a beer in hand, watching the Sharks beat the hell out of the Red’s in those pathetic excuses for rugby jerseys…

Dinner on day two was a great improvement, at least from the aspect of the food we were served, but I fear once more we made no friends with the regulars… Let me give you this bit of advice: If you ever walk into a restaurant, and you see a table for 15 – 20 people with a reserved sign on it - Turn around immediately, and beat a hasty retreat. Cut your losses whilst you can – especially if you have your octogenarian mother with you! There is a high probability a loud group of runners (or other sport-tourist types), are about to descend on that space, and destroy your quaint dinner… And if they are already sitting at the table, ask if there are any St Mary’s girls there? If there are, run like hell! ;)

Sunday morning, more of the same... Breakfast, and away in the F1 Ferrari Bus (with the sickening knock and wobble on the back left wheel), for some more running in the hills… We started to run as the sun rose. No slow warm up today though. The climbing started immediately, and was pretty un-relentless until we arrived at Maclear’s beacon at about 1,100m above sea level, an hour or two later.   Once again, the weather was perfect, with nothing more than a gentle breeze, and visibility for miles and miles. I don’t know if us Joburg types really know quite how lucky we were…

We stopped at various look out spots to soak it all up, and had a team-photo opportunity “at the top”. 

Now was the time for the serious downhill stuff. We detoured from the real Puffer route to take in a few of the extra sights, like the view down over Camps Bay.

Yes… Those are houses down there… Expensive ones too!

Andre looking out over Cape Town

But the sight of the tourists pouring out of the cable car station chased us away pretty soon, and we beat a hasty retreat back down the steps, to the entrance of Platteklip Gorge, where we would do the most of the dropping. This little section did a pretty good job of turning our quads to jelly, and demanded lots of attention, as one misplaced footing would see you on your face, and making a fool of yourself (as Frank so willingly demonstrated, much to the amusement of his buddies), in front of the some of the many pretty little German Fraulein that seemed to adorn the mountain that morning… J

Emma descending Platteklip, showing us it’s possible  to keep smiling even when your  legs aren’t

At the bottom, we traversed along the contour lines, back down to the lower cable car station, where we waited for the rest of the team, and regrouped for the final push down to where the beer was waiting for us.

From the top of Table Mountain, Lions Head, and the section of the saddle out towards Signal Hill looks pretty flat… But it’s all about your perspective, because once you get down there, you realise it wasn’t all going to be downhill running…

Signal Hill wasn’t as flat as it looked from the cable car station (at the peak on top left)

Anyway. This “race” had to end sometime. We were all starting to behave like “hotel pony’s”… You know the type that only have one speed when they are turned around and heading for home… We navigated our way through the confusing streets at the base of Signal Hill, and arrived at Ferryman’s just after mid-day, which is an awfully fashionable time to drink beer… And destroy another peaceful mealtime for yet another crowd of perfectly innocent punters.

Recovery meal of Champions… The Doctor swears by a hard boiled egg (or two) and a pint of milk stout. Who was going to be the lucky one to sit next to us for two hours on the flight home tonight?

I managed to get down three pints of Bosun’s Bitter, along with a 300gr steak egg and chips, (bringing my daily egg count for the day up to 5, an possibly positioning me to be able to fly myself back to Joburg later).

After lunch, it was back to the B&B, where we were met with bad news of a power failure. So un-phased, the guys descended on the pool, armed with bars of soap and shampoo, to get the worst of the muck and sweat off us before the flight home, so the ladies could share what was left of the hot water in the geysers. We stuffed our sweaty kit into our bags, and set off to the airport. I said a silent prayer that the sniffer dogs would not be on duty at the airport tonight, as I was sure that if they were set free amongst our bags tonight, they would have to be sent for re-calibration the next day!

We checked in, and grabbed a Vida Café fix to try and keep us all awake. But the exertion and fun of the past two days wore heavily on us. This, along with the “downer” that comes to visit at the end of a long anticipated adventure… It was all too much for many of us… Lu may as well have saved the money on the neck brace for all the good it did her on the plane.

No amount of Vida was going to keep this girl awake…

But as I sat on the plane on the way home that evening, mulling over what had been an amazing weekend, what struck me hardest was just how lucky we were to be able to do this kind of thing… And it occurred to me that I must never take this “for granted”… I sat and pondered on the complexities of all our lives, and how much sacrifice had been made by so many of us, just to pull this off.

There was poor Wynne Kossuth, who had had to pull out after day 1, and fly back to Joburg on Saturday evening, (at short notice), so she could be at mediation for a demanding client on Sunday morning.

There was Sheila who also pulled out of day 2, to save her legs for Two Oceans in a few weeks, but more importantly to take her Mum, (who lives in Cape Town), out for lunch.

Joni, who’s Dad was in the final stages of his battle with cancer at his home in Simon’s Town… Joni ran with us each day, but rushed off immediately after each leg, so she could spend time with him, and with her sister, who was also at his side. He held on bravely, but passed away on Monday, immediately after our run.

Rory Steyn, who had an accident and fell whilst training just the weekend before the event, and broke his collar bone… This meant he couldn’t run, but he came down to Cape Town anyway, and hiked up Skeleton Gorge on Sunday morning with a pack of munchies, so he could share them with us at Breakfast Rock…

These are some of our stories… I am sure there were more, but I think I have made my point.

We live in a frenetic world, where it seems we have to fight tooth and nail to make these things happen. To put in the training so you can even turn up, to make the plans. To create the time and the space, that a group of friends can get out and do something like this.  This is what builds the connection, and creates friendships that can last a lifetime….

So, form “the Northern Chapter”, to our friends and comrades (old and new) of the Tyrone Harriers, a big, big thank you. Thanks for the amazing organisation and planning, and making it all flow so smoothly. And thanks for including us. If I am fortunate to get asked to join again, and if I keep training like hell, well, I look forward to doing it all again soon!

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Just back from my last WildRun experience. This time in the Maluti Mountains of central Lesotho. Or as Dayle and I were joking on the drive down in the car to the event, “our first international multi-day trail event”! ;) Five hours drive from Johannesburg saw us at the border post on a Wednesday afternoon. All went smoothly, and a short drive later, we were parking at the rendezvous point that had been arranged, for the transfer up into the mountains, where we were to start running from at first light on Thursday morning. It was good to see a few familiar faces on the bus with us: Jo Mackenzie was her usual bubbly self, Kelvin Trautman was there to work his magic with his camera, as was Andrew King on the video side. But mostly it was bunch of new faces, in the small group that met for the race briefing before dinner that evening. We had dinner, and everyone drifted off to their rooms to pack, plan and prepare for an early start.

 

DAY 1 – RAMABANTA TO SEMONKONG

Distance: 45km
Vertical Gain: 1879m

 

05h45 Thursday morning, and 26 twitchy runners gathered on the lawn outside Ramabanta Lodge for the start. No one was taking the “compulsory kit” check nearly as seriously as the organisers were... It looked like a beautiful day, and I was rather baffled, and just a little annoyed I was expected to have a headlamp, rain jacket, beanie, spare batteries for the GPS, fully charged phone, space blanket, whistle, etc, etc, all stuffed into my pack. I was happy to be carrying some water and a few snacks, (the 45km route had me guessing I would be out there for somewhere around five to five and a half hours perhaps)?  And there were no water tables or seconding stations, so water and snacks, they were good. And my camera.... But all this other junk?

Maritz getting ready for the start of Day One. These maps were for real, not just for show. I should have spent more time doing this....

Anyway, so the crack of dawn arrived, And Owen the Race Director felt there was enough light for us to start, so off we went. Down the lawns towards the river, across a footbridge, and into the foothills of some reasonably impressive mountain thingies that loomed ever larger in front of us. Dayle and I kept it real... We set ourselves up in the middle of the field somewhere, and watched Jo go haring off with some of the racing snakes, and five of the development runners from Lesotho, up front.

It took us about 2km to realise we were already lost. Dayle was paying more attention to his GPS than I was. Truth be told I was still trying to work out how this thing worked... So for the moment I was content to sit back and let the front runners do the hard yards in finding us a route. But after a minute or two in a huddle together, scratching our heads, staring at the map we had been given, and comparing GPS tracks together, we were in agreement that the front runners were way off course already. This was rather perplexing... Did the local runners up front know something we didn’t know, or were they just caught up in the excitement of the start, and were not even looking at their GPS’s? We couldn’t decide, but committed to following the correct route as laid out on the map. We hoped this would pay us dividends later, so we set off up a mountain to our right.

This wasn’t easy. These mountains are riddled with paths, made by goats or sheep. These paths are like spider webs. They criss-cross. Each looks like the real thing, so you run with it. But in 50 meters it disappears into nothing.  The side of the mountain is covered in a tough, sticky shrub that began to reduce our legs to a bloody, itchy mess. It was rocky and unpredictable under foot. One hour in, and whilst we were sure we were on the right track now, we had only covered 5km...

And as the light came, the scale of the challenge began to bite. Each time we crested a hill or saddle ahead, we were greeted by an energy sapping drop down into another valley, followed by an even more impressive climb on the other side. And there was water everywhere. My feet were already soaked.  I should have been prepared for this, but I wasn’t.

With the thickness of the bush, the water and stone under foot, and the severity of the gradients we were covering, (aaahh, and the altitude), our pace was reduced to little more than a fast hike. We would run when we could, but often this was no more than a hundred meters.  And every time you focused on your feet and path selection for too long, and didn’t pay attention to the map and GPS... Well then you would find you had to track back to find the route. The fact we could see no one else ahead, or even behind us, well, this might be good, but it could also be pretty bad. If you weren’t there, it’s probably hard to understand, but maybe the picture below will help give you a sense...

Briggie following on “the route”... You can see other runners, as long as you are within about 20m of each other....

 

Perhaps two hours into the race, and we caught another small group just outside a tiny village. We held court with Will Duk, Briggie Kirchman, and Lissa Parsons, and agreed that whilst the pace was far below our expectation, we were on the right track, and an unspoken alliance was formed.

The meeting in the village...”Dr. Livingstone, I presume” might have been appropriate.

 

We arrived at CP 1 after about 5 hours. This was the time I thought we might be looking for the finish..... And we weren’t half way yet. And the fact that CP1 comprised only a marshal on a motorbike, no water, drinks, nothing to eat or provide some happiness to our tired bodies, well this just made it even worse. We spent a few minutes gaining any “intel” we could from the marshal on the route, our position in the field etc, while he gouged holes in our maps to prove we had been there. We ate sparingly from our meagre food cache, realising that unless things got very much better, we would be out in the field all day.

An hour later, and we were at the mercy of finding streams that we could determine would be clean and safe to drink from, in order to stay hydrated. We picked those “above the village line”, avoided pools with animal tracks around them. Fortunately, streams of crystal clear, ice cold water weren’t hard to find, and we stopped regularly to scoop up handfuls of sweet water at any opportunity, or to top up our bottles or packs.

Water table, WildRun style...

 

That didn’t help the hunger levels that were becoming fairly intense, and it wasn’t long until the members of our little “peloton” were swapping fantasies about what they would pay top dollar for... My personal favourite was steak egg and chips. Dayle wanted salad? Huh? But the stories kept us amused, and the chirps were flowing. And being in a group had its advantages too. It meant we could share the responsibility of navigation. Will Duk seemed accomplished at map reading. Dayle’s GPS was different to ours, and provided some extra distance data. So we fell into a routine of “conferencing” together every 15mins or so... These “conferences” seemed to resemble meetings of the ANC Youth League, with much shouting, waving of arms, pointing and gesticulating....

In the early afternoon, our group gained another member. We found Kevin Balfour higher up on a ridge, wandering around trying to figure out where he should be going. He had been “befriended” by two local shepherds, who looked vaguely amused by their discovery of their new play thing, this strange white man. We held a brief conference, and declared he could join our merry band if we could eat all of his food, and he carried all of our bags for the last kilometre of the run.

I will save you the rest of the detail, but after nine hours, we could see the village of Semonkong, and we eventually crossed the finish line for the day in 11^th place, in 09:50:03. I for one was more than a little surprised to discover we were in joint 11^th place, and that Briggie and Lissa were the second and third ladies to cross the line. That meant more than half the field was still out there somewhere...

We were tired, hungry, and pretty grumpy. We took a much needed shower, had “lunch” (at 17h00?), booked a massage, and vegged out near the bar. Dayle and I discovered an amazing new recovery drink called milk stout... J

It was only later that it began to dawn on us how fortunate we were. Several of the participants were still out in the field, either lost, or struggling with the course. The final guys were brought in out of the darkness, (and in those hills it is properly dark), by motorbike nearly fifteen hours after the start... Suddenly the concept of carrying a headlamp, and some foul weather gear didn’t seem quite so ludicrous.

 

DAY 2 – SEMONKONG TO SEMONKONG VIA THE MALETSUNYANE FALLS

Distance: 28kms

Vertical Gain: 728m

 

Day 2 arrived. I had slept like I had been hit with a pole... And because of the late arrival of some of the field on Day 1, the briefing for Day 2 had been held over for the morning. This meant we had a later (07h00) start, which was welcome.

We set off again after breakfast and race briefing, along the banks of the Maletsunyane River. The clouds had descended, and it was threatening to rain today. Dayle and I had a new running partner in the form of one Lissa Parsons. It seemed the three of us had become a team, and we immediately fell into a comfortable routine of map reader, GPS Jockey and Arbitrator.

The team of three, caught early in the day cresting a hill,  by Kelvin and his trusty camera.

 

We weren’t killing ourselves. The day was billed as the most beautiful or scenic in the race, and we took time to take pictures and drink in the views when they came.

Andrew amusing Kelvin by trying to take a decent picture with a point and shoot...

 

About 11km into the route, we must have fallen asleep for a few moments, because we lost the track. This simple error cost us valuable time, because in trying to short-cut back onto the correct track, we got ourselves into some pretty sticky areas, trying to descend on some lethal rocky slopes. These slopes were dropping away at a crazy angle, and were comprised of some crumbly granite. We ended up on our butts pretty often, sliding and scrambling down amongst the shrubs and cracks. This went on for what seemed an age, as we dropped 700m into the Maletsunyane River gorge for the crossing.

The crossing was amazing, picture post card perfect, in cool clear water. Owen was there to meet and greet. And then it was 700m up on the other side...

The seven hundred meter ascent out of the Maletsunyane River had the legs burning.

 

From the top of the gorge, we had amazing views back onto our route. We settled back into running again, keeping it relaxed, and soaking in the views along the ridge. “Kelvin the cameraman” had been a welcome accomplice during the morning, and he had us doing the usual hops, skips and jumps. He was always running off ahead with his rig, looking for the next killer shot... Today was a run to enjoy. The Maletsunyane Waterfall put on a show for us... It seemed absurd to race past these views, so we stopped every now and again, and drank it all in.

The weather looked threatening, but the rain held off for us, and we looked forward to getting back to base at a respectable time, having some well deserved lunch, and relaxing a bit before the dreaded return trip tomorrow. Dayle, Lissa and I crossed the line in 11th place once again in just under five and a half hours. Lissa was maintaining her spot as the number two lady on the course.

We enjoyed the afternoon. Kicked back, got some proper food, and enjoyed a few more of those milk stouts! Dayle and I agreed that this was what makes a multi-day a holiday. We purposely kept our distance from the TV in the pub, as judging by the moans emanating from there, the semi-final between South Africa and New Zealand wasn’t going well. It felt like that game was taking place on another planet....

The medical staff were in demand today... Two days of running on wet feet were starting to take a grim toll. When your feet are wet for so long that they get like prunes, and they are in such demand in those hills, either running up, or trying to stop you going down, things start to go wrong. I had forgotten how important looking after your feet was....

Mary-Lyn, at the end of Day 1. The medics doing running repairs trying to keep her feet free from infection.

The same feet at the end of Day Three. Mary-Lyn displayed some real grit to finish on these...

 

DAY 3 – SEMONKONG TO RAMABANTA

Distance: 44kms

Vertical Gain: 1124m ascent  

 

Day Three arrived too soon. We packed in a bit of a scramble.... it was tough to be back to the 06h00 start. Everyone started slowly too. The first few hundred meters from the lodge is straight up a rocky drive, and there were no heroics here on tired legs.

The first 6km of the route were the same as the last of Day One... But once that was behind us, we veered off to the right, and dropped into the Makhoalipana valley. It was going to be another beautiful, clear day. The valleys were lush, criss-crossed with cool rivers and streams, reflecting an un-imaginable quality of light up the walls of the green hills all around us.

Within a few hours we arrived at the summit of the infamous ‘Baboon’s Pass’, at 2700m the highest point for the day, and of the event.  We checked in at Check Point 1 in high spirits.

The Team at CP 1, Day Three.

 

From here on down we had been told, we would be running on the “Baboons Pass”, which was like a road. This would make a cushy change after all the technical single track we had battled with over the last few days...

But then, when on a WildRun, and especially in Lesotho, never assume anything. The Baboons Pass is not a road. Not as I understand it at least... Rather a narrow, winding path, strewn with rocks, from fist size, all the way through things the size on a VW Beatle.

The Baboons Pass... Not quite the cushy running surface we were longing for, but the end of the bundu-bashing.

But as they say in the classics, beggars can’t be choosers... We could see the hills surrounding Ramanbata and the lodge on the horizon now, and we were enjoying this run. There was less emphasis on the navigation, and we could spend more time on looking around, taking in the scenery. We felt relaxed and strong.

By the time we got to Check Point 2, we could smell the finish. We got our maps ticked, and were off. And from about 5km out, we could see the inflatable arch of the finish standing out against the green lawns of the lodge. 

There is something special about the finish on a multi-day run... The finish of day one and two are nice... But in the back of your mind, you know it’s not really the finish. There is still more to do, things you have to hold a little in reserve for. But the finish on the last day is something special. And always seems to come as a surprise, something more than anticipated, or expected....

So once we could see the finish, impatience grew in us. We consulted the map one last time... screw it, we were just going direct now. Dayle set off in the lead, and we crashed down the side of a hill, through some fields and a little wood lot. Through a village, and over the crest of a hill. And then for the first time we saw one of the distinctive Wildrun banners, on the crest on a hill, right down the end of a finger of land, jutting way out into a long smooth bend in the river. We ran the crest of the ridge out to the banner, hills all around us, river either side. It was going to be one of those iconic Wildrun finishes... Like only Owen and Tam seem to know how to build. We could hear the guys at the finish, whistling and cheering. These sounds drifted out effortlessly through the still air, carried easily on the silence and solitude that abound in these hills.  Kelvin was on the ridge too, his camera at his side, and we followed him down the side of the hill, to make our final river crossing of the event.

All Dayle’s efforts to keep his feet dry were to no avail...

 

With the end in sight, things slowed... We didn’t really want this to end anymore. We took our time. We had a water fight as we crossed the river. Took a brief swim for a last time in the crystal clear water to freshen up. We could have stayed there a lot longer, but the finish was calling, people were waiting, so we put the packs on one last time, and scrambled up the slopes of the hill, past small groups of cheering children from the village at the hotel, up the steps, and through the finish arch.

Tamryn gave us one of her special welcomes, jumping up and down and cheering as only Tam can do. Hugs and kisses, medals on, and it was done.

Seven and a half hours today. Twenty two hours, thirty seven minutes and four seconds over the three days. I felt a lot fitter now that when I had started three days ago... ;)

 

Lunch. A few beers in the shade, swapping war stories. A massage for the legs, under a tree in the warm afternoon air, looking out over the ridges, as more of the field drifted in to hoots and applause...

An emotional final prize giving, dinner, and the usual legendary party... Everyone always seems to have a bit of spare energy left over for one of these...

Wildrun Lesotho was a surprise package. It delivered everything and more in terms of the stunning scenery we were expecting. And a whole bunch more in terms of challenges. But there was something else, some intangible spiritual thing that has left me feeling on a high for the last few days. And I think that comes down to a few special things:

1.       The peace and serenity was not just in the physical beauty of the land, but it was amongst the people that inhabit it too. Never in all my years in Africa have I seen a group of people living so close, and so in tune with nature. There can only be a hundred or so of these villagers left, but the symbiotic way they live amongst nature, and the respect and love which they show their animals, was something that left me feeling pretty humbled.

2.       The privilege of running with such a small group of people, all of whom seemed to be enjoying the adventure as much as each other. We all were enjoying the privilege of running in pristine environment, that without an event like this, you could never hope to traverse. No whining, even from those dealing with some pretty nasty physical pain or injuries.

3.       The joy of seeing Owen and Tamryn doing what they seem to truly love so much: Setting up crazy runs in the wildest places, and seeing it all come together, people having experiences and making friends that they will remember for the rest of their lives...

So a number of people have asked me, “how was your run?” I think a bit, and smile. “Amazing” is my standard response....

“Would you do it again?”

Yes!        And No.

Yes! This is an amazing event. I would recommend it to anyone.  And because it would be good to go back, knowing what I had let myself in for. To be properly prepared, and to give it a good klaap this time...

No, because if I am really lucky, Owen and Tam will have thought up another amazing race in some other special corner of this continent that I am yet to visit, and I can re-indulge my love of taking on another inaugural event... So many races, so little time....

 

 

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Just had the good fortune of spending a week down on the Wild Coast. Managed to get a run in most evenings, alternating between some nice long flat runs along the beach, and some proper technical trail runs along hiking trails and goat tracks in the hills around Umngazi River Bungalows where we were staying. Good preparation for Mont Aux Sources, coming up in a week’s time.

These runs were so refreshing, after grinding out so many “junk kilometres” on the road. Running in complete solitude along ridges and cliffs above the sea, the landscape studded with aloes that keep silent guard over the sea 200 meters below. I would stop occasionally, take in gulps of fresh air, and just enjoy the silence. All you can hear is the breeze, and the waves crashing on the rocks below.... The grass is dry, with all the seed heads soft and feathery. Very pretty in the fading light, but makes it a bugger to see the paths you are running on.

One evening I decided to just run out on the beach, ignore the hills for a change. I went as light as possible, and took the Vibram KSO’s for a spin. It’s so amazing to be able to run through the water without a care, over rocks, and back onto the sand... I read somewhere how these shoes make you “feel more in touch with the earth”... I thought that was a load of marketing crap. But now I completely get it. The atmosphere was amazing. It was an unusually still evening, and about 5km out, I came upon a massive bush fire in the hills alongside the beach. It was eyrie to run on, through the smoke, with the fire on one side, and the sea on the other.... For some strange reason, the smell of an African bush fire, mingled with sea air made the hair stand up on the back of the neck, but made the experience all the better.  Seemed crazy to run on with “danger” on the left and right... I stopped at the turn around point, took a swim in the sea, and ran back in the dark. Probably one of the best runs of my life....

This is why I run.... For those of you off on the Wild Run again next week, just enjoy. If the weather holds out like this, you are in for something special.

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What a day. Weather came right for a beautiful afternoon. Course was beautiful too. I have missed my trail running... Dayle and I have been properly spoilt by New Balance. Loads of new kit! Back to the guest house now for shower and massage.:) I could get used to being a sponsored runner!

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So here is a quick race report from my crazy weekend race... I have been criticised in the past for writing too much, so I am going to attempt to condense this into something less. Besides, I fell asleep trying to write this Monday night...

What I attempted this last weekend is a special event in the Western Cape called The Midnight Hell Run. It’s a trail run, at night, out of a place affectionately known as “Die Hel” (The Hell). You have the three choices of distance, 38km, 50km, and 80km.

Die Hel is very conceivably the most remote and undeveloped valley in this country. It’s a 50km long valley, surrounded on all sides by the Swartberg Mountains. The first road went in there only in 1963. The first power line in 1998.... There are still only 3 dwellings in the valley with electricity. So last year when I found this race on some obscure internet site, it sounded like a great idea...

But I said this was going to be short. So if you don’t have time to read the whole thing, the best way to describe my weekend was to ask you to do the following:

Setup the PVR. Record a couple of episodes of Survivor, and a few of the Amazing Race. Then play them back simultaneously on separate TV’s watching both at once, whilst running on a treadmill in a dark room for the weekend.  Let me explain why I say this...

I left home in Fourways at 07h00 Saturday morning. I was collected by Dr. Andre Lombard, an amazing friend I met first on the Cape Odyssey in 2008. He is accompanied by his wife Joan, and a friend Amanda. We drive to OR Tambo, and put the car in the parking. Check in, and fly to George. Collect our bags, sort out a hire car (4 x 4 the best option given where we are off to). We then set off at pace en-route to Prince Albert, (230km / 3hours according to Garmin). Drive like hell, past Oudsthoorn, and over the Swartberg Pass. Stop at the top and have “Padkos” on the side of the road.

LUNCH, SWARTBERG PASS STYLE... Eating on the run, before a run.  The stuff that looks like cat food in the Tupperware box on the left is a packet of tuna, mixed in with some lentils. The lamb chop (or what is left of it) was Andre’s left over’s from dinner Friday night. Amanda provided peanut butter and honey sandwiches. As we didn’t have a plate, (and only 1 plastic spoon to share), we found that the best way to eat this was to scoop up some of the cat food on a quarter of the sandwich. Tasted like a million bucks, and the amazing views finished it all off so well. This was all chased down with the dregs of Andre’s 5 year old KWV brandy....His hipflask was broken in his bag by some rough baggage handling, so there was not much left. This left his running kit with a tremendously fragrant aroma, and I had to settle myself to the concept of running 80km with a running mate that smelt like a “Bergie”...  J

The Lunch Spot: This was the scene of the crime at lunch. The path off and down to the left is essentially the start of the last 30km of the 80km route. You drop off through those pretty looking gullies, and down into Prince Albert in the valley on the horizon....

Back in the car, and down the other side of the pass. Arrive in Prince Albert at registration at 15h00.

Register, and go find yourself somewhere to pack your hydration bag, change etc...

THE LAP OF LUXURY: Andre trying out the designer bedding. The race registration is held in a proper “koshuis” boarding school block, so after wandering around a bit, we found an empty room and start sorting our stuff out, deciding on what to wear, and what to carry in our bags. Nothing luxurious, but at this stage we didn’t care.

SUPERMAN BARS: Andre  shares some of his world famous “Superman cakes” with me, that he has made with his own fair hands. The recipe is a family secret, but includes a blend of performance boosting cereal powders, smashed up Christmas cake, coconut oil, Ouma’s homemade apricot jam, (and yes, this is the Ouma that is in her eighties, and did the parachute jump with the rest of the family when they did their holiday together in December)! And of course, some additional 5 year old KWV! Enough calories to power a small space shuttle into orbit. All this, wrapped up in little grease proof paper parcels...

We were downstairs for race briefing and dinner in the “koshuis” at 17h00. This is when the race organiser breaks the good news that everyone is going to have to get themselves to the start. Now the start is 80km away, in the most remote valley left in SA, down some serious dirt roads.  So we are advised to talk amongst ourselves, and make a plan. And do it quickly, because we need to leave in 10 mins, or we will miss the start.  We have a hired Nissan X Trail, but as all four of us our running, we need a driver who will bring it back out for us. We can’t find one of these, so we give up, and start looking for others we can get a lift with.

We eat what is presented as dinner. I christen it “Trans Fatty Acid Lasagne”. Oily meat lasagne, with tomato floating in added oil. All bound together with lashings of oily cheese.... I slop some on a plate, along with a dry bun and some apricot jam. I run around with my plate of “Take away heart attack”, trying to find a lift amongst the chaos, whilst wolfing down the food. We manage to find a few spaces in different vehicles. Next, rush upstairs to change into race kit, throw the bags into the cars, and off we go for what we are told is another three hour drive into Die Hel....

The ride into “Die Hel” in the back of a pickup truck is less than magical. The journey itself is deserving of a complete race report. But let’s just say that 3 hours later, I arrive at the start of the race, feeling less than it tip top form. It’s now 20h45, 15 mins before the start of an 80km trail run. I have been travelling for about 12 hours today. The Trans Fatty Acid lasagne, and the three hour trip on rough, wiggly dirt mountain passes leaves me feeling more than a little nauseous. Just to top it off, there is no water available to fill up my hydration pack. I beg and steal about 500ml from a two litre coke bottle that is making the rounds.

The race starts at 21h00. The full moon is absolutely stunning, and once we are running, everything gets better. My nerves start to settle, and it’s an amazing scene when you look ahead or behind: just headlamps bobbing or floating along invisible trails, in an amazing silence.

At 12km, the real climbing starts in earnest though. The Elands Pass is not something I will forget in a hurry. Let’s see if you can spot it for yourself in the route profile below:

Here is a picture of the pass taken in daylight, from about halfway up:

This is 600m of climb, over 6km. For context, Constantia Nek at Oceans is about 200m in 4km. But half way up, the nausea is overwhelming me. I try a few dry retches, to no avail. I think the combination of the Trans Fatty Acid Lasagne, and the 3 hour commute down the mountain is finally taking its toll. If I can just hang on until the first water point at 14km though...

There is no water at 14km. I watch the last dregs of water being poured into hydration bags as I run up to the lone 20 litre drum that was left by the organisers. Do the maths: If there are about 100 guys doing the three different runs, all carrying hydration bags, 20 litres is never going to cut it... But hey, I did enter something called The Midnight Hell Run didn’t I, and I am sure I will get at 24km...

No. Not there either. That is also finished. I am offered water by other kind and caring souls I meet along the way, but don’t feel good about pinching water from them, with no other known source before the 50km mark. Fortunately I eventually find a discarded bottle on the side of the road at about 39km, and get enough out of that to top me up until 50km. Fortunately too, Andre runs ahead, and then comes back to find me with an anti-nausea tablet he has found Amanda has in her bag. There are virtues to running with a Doc, and a lady that has a bag that looks like she just robbed a small pharmacy! This pill kicks in at about 40km, and I start feeling stronger. I still can’t face the taste of anything except water though, so at about 03h00 on Sunday morning, Andre and I make a collective call  that we are scribbling the 80km idea, and will finish at 50km.

With the pressure off, and with the amazing feeling of water joggling in my belly, I start to relax and take in the magic of this valley at night. The moon seems massive, and so bright without the smog to contend with. We run most of the night with our headlamps off. There is no need for them. At about 04h00 in the morning, I see Scorpio rise in the east. With the context of the mountains, the scale of this galaxy is truly apparent. This really is a special experience.

Now they tell you...: We found this sign at about 04h00 in the morning, 2km from the end of the 50km....

We run into the race hut at 50km at 04h20 in the morning, (07h20 run time). 2500m vertical ascent under the belt, which is more than the 89km of Comrades, and only slightly less than Monty gives you. A good bit of time on the legs anyway, which is what we all need right now. We wolf down a few of the pancakes we were promised. The hot chocolate we were also promised is absent, but a mug of tea hits the spot though, and we lie about, swapping stories and laughing, as we watch as the sky starts to turn pink in the East...

But if you think that is the end of the Amazing Race / Survivor challenge, think again. Just like there isn’t transport to the start of the race, there isn’t transport back to the registration spot where you car and kit now wait for you. So we have to hike the 18km back to the village. We get lucky though, and Joan and Amanda use their charm to full effect, and we get a lift all the way to the door. We arrive back at 06h05, and head straight for the showers. We are sitting on the benches outside, enjoying a cup of tea and the sunrise at 06h30 when the winner of the 80km race comes in. It’s Linda Doke, at 09h30 for 80km. Second place is another lady, Jo McKenzie, in about 10 hours. We have heard that of the 27 of us that signed up for the 80, only 8 have gone through from the 50km mark though, so after seeing what passes for breakfast at the “koshuis” we pack up and head off in search of something better to eat. We visit the village dairy at the end of the street, and buy fresh yoghurt and cheese; We then find a coffee shop in a perfect location at the entrance to town, where we drink a cappuccino and eat some more, whilst we wait for more runners to come through.

It’s about 10h00 when we are getting ready to depart on the next leg of The Amazing Race, when we see a few more runners start to come through. And as we leave the village on our drive back, we pass another. I start to feel pretty good about pulling out at 50km, by Joan is gutted. But we have to get back to George, for the flight home. So we drive back over that amazing pass once more. Andre does an amazing job of staying awake at the wheel on the drive home....

Everywhere we stop, we eat and drink something We stop for an ostrich burger at a pub in Outshoorn, visit the beach briefly just outside George, just like proper Gauteng’ers, so we can say we have been in the sea.. So it’s a giant ice cream cone at the beach. And milk stout in the departure lounge at the airport. (Andre told me it was a good idea, and he is a Doctor, so who am I to argue)? When I start to think of everything I ate or drank on Sunday, I start to go green all over again...

Involuntary sleep comes on the plane on the way home. None of us could help ourselves by now.

Back to OR Tambo, we collect the luggage, and the car. We narrowly dodge getting stuck in traffic on the highway on the way home. Come on guys, it’s seven PM Sunday night! JRA just making sure you are really aware you are back home in happy Gauteng. So I get home just after 20h00 Sunday night, with 37 hours of adventure under the belt. Something more to eat, regale a few stories to the family, have a shower, and collapse. The kiss of that  cool cotton pillow case was playing on my mind a lot on Saturday night, and it  feels so good now.

So I popped down to Time Trial on Tuesday night to test the legs out, and was asked by a number of people, “would I do it again?” I will answer with another TV line: Don’t try this one at home children...

I would definitely do it again, but only if I sorted out all my own logistics and seconding.

So if you are one of those unlucky souls who didn’t get a place in this year’s Hell Run for any reason, there is still hope. Try this instead:

•  Drive down to Comrades the day of the race. That way the roads should be nice and quiet.
•  Get to Durban, and visit the registration to see them packing it up.
• Then drive up to Pietermaritzburg through the Valley of a Thousand Hills on all the roughest dirt roads you can find.
•  Arrive in PMB just before 21h00, and start the run. Make sure to follow the same route, but run on the stones on the road reserve all the way.
•  By this stage, all the water tables will be gone, and there will be no crowd support either, so it will be a good comparison.
• When you eventually get down to the stadium at dawn, it will be empty too, just like the finish was for Linda. Just three of us sitting clapping with our cups of tea...
•  Have a shower, and a coffee, and then jump in the car and drive home.

There you are. You just did something like the Hell Run!

Doc Lombard, at a road stop somewhere on the way to the middle of nowhere. Nothing happened there in 1890. Sometimes this weekend I thought there was nothing much happening in our heads either....

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Saturday morning. The 12th 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

 

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06h00, Thursday morning, the 3rd of September. The sun rising over the Indian Ocean sees seven of us merry campers boarding the ferry, to get taken across the Kei River to the northern bank, where we are due to start a new adventure in just less than 30 minutes. The Wild Run is a three day event, organized by Owen Middleton, (of Trail Series fame).  The concept is built on a simple formula: three days of running, (about 112km in all, but more on this later), through some of the moist beautiful coastline South Africa has to offer.  The organisers lay on one seconding table a day, (roughly half way through the day’s stage). And the daily stops are at quaint little hotels, right on the beach, that allow you to wash, and refuel with all life’s essentials, before continuing on the next day. The size (or to be more precise, the lack of size) of these hotels, means that only about 70 fortunate souls can be accommodated, so the field will always be small and intimate, (just the way I like it).. Once on the other side, we start talking with the groups that crossed with us, whilst we wait for the second load of runners to cross behind us. We meet The Balito Babes, (six ladies from Balito), who seem like they will be a fitting match to the Beer Bus contingent that are down for the run. Mark and I also meet some old mates from last year’s Odyssey. As we wait for the start, there is idle chatter about the relative merits of which route to take. That’s one of the beauties of this run. There isn’t a specific route or course prescribed. Just find your own way to the finish each day. Day One The siren sounded, and we set off into the sunrise, around the first point, having decided to keep on the beach. It wasn’t long before the first comments were flying about how interesting 42km on the sand was going to be. The running was amazing! The organisers had specially selected the dates (and the start time each morning), to coincide with Spring tides. This ensured we had the most beach, and pretty firm conditions underfoot. And the weather was also very kind to us: a gentle cool breeze, but otherwise beautiful clear sunny skies. We ran on, over the first river crossing, and past the wreck of the Jacaranda. The half way mark on day one was at Wavecrest. We stopped to find co-sponsor Gu had laid on a table of recovery drinks. We filled our hydration packs, and lay on the grass a while to chat and unwind. So chilled. No rush. Just enjoying life, and the company of friends. Then it was time to go, and we waded across the first of many rivers,. The cold water was bracingly cool and refreshing on our hot feet. We started to run again, the pace was easy, and the chirps were flying thick and fast.... As the day wore on, the temperature began to soar, and with about 5km left to run, we thought it would be sensible to pop in to the hotel at Mazeppa Bay for a quick drink. Ice cold cokes whilst sitting on the veranda were just what the doctor ordered. I managed a beer-shandy. Damn this race was tough... Onto the finish of day one, and the first of the proper river crossings, the Qhorha River. One presumes that rivers flow into the sea: Well they probably do when the tide is going out. But when it’s coming in, well then the sea is flowing into the river! (As some of us found as they were dumped on the rocks, far upstream on the other side). Nothing like a 30 – 40 m swim in the refreshing waters of the Indian Ocean to end the stage off. Then it was a short trot across the beach, and up the stairs of the Cobb Inn, our first overnight stop. We were greeted as we ran in by some of the staff playing traditional music, (especially for Greenie)! A swim in the pool, smash down some ice cold Millers, lunch overlooking the sea...Some more Millers, whilst awaiting my massage session, also conducted on the lawn overlooking the sea...I was really starting to enjoy this! Every evening before dinner we were all called together to celebrate the days happenings. Spot prizes are given for some quirky behaviour; photos of the days running are displayed on screen. The day’s winners are acknowledged. Then a race briefing for tomorrow’s stage is given. The atmosphere was always very relaxed and chilled, and even on Day One, you could see the camaraderie was starting to develop. Then it’s dinner, a few more beers to help with the hydration, and at about 21h00, everyone seems to get very tired, all of a sudden. We made our way back to our chalets, and crashed, as the mornings start early on this run, and the running, fresh air, and Millers had taken their toll. Day Two. The morning of Day Two arrived, and on making my way back from breakfast to my chalet to pack up, I came upon a fabulous discovery on the grass outside the room... A G-string! I snatched it up immediately, not quite knowing what I would do with it, but sure I would think of something... By the time I arrived at the start, I was wearing it something like a skull-cap, with the strings wrapped around my ears. But concealed under my cap... I unveiled my headdress with some fanfare just before the start, and in my announcement, appealed to the lady who had lost her knickers, to step forward, and explain how they came to have been left on the grass over night? There were no takers. So I selflessly volunteered to run with them on my head for the rest of the day, sure that someone would pluck up the courage to claim them... (not)! From that moment on, I was no longer Andrew, I became “the g-string man”.... Day Two is much like Day One: Beautiful beach running, with the occasional crossing to hill running on the many cattle paths that follow the coast line. We were to cross through into Dwessa Nature Reserve too, and based on some of Owen’s predictions the night before at race briefing, I looked forward to this, as it promised more beautiful scenery too. Shortly after the half way mark, and refreshments, we were greeted by the fence and gate at Dwesa, and found most of the field ahead of us had been detained by the National Parks folks there. It seems that the alarm went out when Dayle and about six of the other racing snakes went charging through, and the rest of the field had been captured. Nothing serious... Just the guy in charge who Owen had arranged this with had gone on leave for the day, and had neglected to tell anyone else about our plans to run through. So we camped out in the shade and waited whilst the negotiations to free us took place, and for the back markers to catch us, so we could all leave together in one big group. I called Tamryn back at HQ, just to make sure they knew. She was most concerned, and promised that this delay would not affect our times, and she had “stopped the clock”. Like I cared! What clock? And then we were released, and this is where it went a bit pear shaped... The authorities insisted we run on the roads, not through the bush or on the beach. They gave out a few scruffy maps, and suggested we run through the park to exit at Gate 5....  Once the large group started off, there was some dissention in the ranks, and some guys decided to break off down to the beach and duck, whilst the good guys like us decided to follow the letter of the law and run to gate 5.  What they didn’t tell us though, was that some kind soul had decided to remodel the signage in the park. The signs were twisted round, so whilst we thought we were obediently running up to Gate 5, we ended up at Gate 2. Which is on the top of a large mountain. And which is blocked off. 5km from the beach.... Today’s 38km run has just turned into a 48km run It was at this point that Mark “Hardman” Ledeboer issued one of the chirps of the run: He was broken. He realises our predicament: He bends down, hands on knees, and issues the comment: “F@ck! Just bury me here!” Well this amused the rest of us greatly, and he was parodied for this for the rest of the run. We had no choice but to run back down to the beach, and follow the sea again. But no one really cared. We were here, and had nothing better to do than run in the company of good friends. Five contestants from “Survivor Dwesa”, on arriving back at the beach. From left, Rob Liddle, Andy Challis, Andrew “G-String” Wynne, Mark Ledeboer and Craig Brown. Notice Craig giving a recital of the “F@ck, bury me here pose” It made Day Two pretty long, and by the time we got to do that day’s big river crossing, (The Xhora River), the tide was coming in with a vengeance. But we had learnt our lessons on day one, so entered right at the mouth, and didn’t fight the rip as it pushed us up river during the 60m crossing. We were properly hungry, tired and thirsty, and our late arrival meant we had to drink Millers much faster to fit the same number in given the limited time available to us.... Day Three Sunrise on Day Three, behind the lighthouse at The Haven. This day had arrived too soon. We knew this race was going to come to an end, but we weren’t looking forward to it. Owen had told us at race briefing the night before that whilst at 32km, this was the shortest stage, it still had a serious sting in its tail, with about 1000m of vertical gain during the day, mostly along the cliffs in the last 12km. I decided to stretch my legs, and so I snuck off from the Bus at the start, and just allowed myself the freedom of running the last day at my own pace... just letting the beach and hills come to me. I ran most of the day in complete solitude, occasionally picking up some guys in the distance, and running them down, and then I would be alone again. A sense of desolation, and elation. It was absolutely sensational. Owen wasn’t exaggerating about Day Three. The hills in the last 12km are big. Often there are no paths. But the hills are covered with soft grass, and littered with wild aloes. Once again, route selection plays an important role: A guy I overtook twice, ended up ahead of me on the final climb, as he had made some clever selections of line or route (beach or hills) in the last 10km. But cresting the last rise, nothing mattered anymore. There, maybe 300 - 400m below me lay the last river to cross. The finish, opposite the staggering beauty of The Hole In The Wall. I sank down onto my knees, gulping in air from the exertion of the climb, and let out a huge cry. Satisfaction. Appreciation. Joy. I scrambled down the slope, and crashed through the water to the finish. I collected my medal, stripped off, and went for a swim in the sea. An ice cold beer. A massage on the grass under the trees. We spent the rest of the morning lying in the shade, welcoming in the runners as they crested the ridge, and made their way across the river to the finish. Times or position was immaterial. We were transported from the finish at about 15h00, to our hotel in Coffee Bay. The mood was great, everyone was relaxed, and had had a great couple of days. The sundowners on the deck were flying, and everyone was competing to by their new mates a drink. The last prize giving and presentation was emotional. It was obvious everyone had had an amazing time, and that Owen and Tamryn, (and the rest of the organising team), had scored the highest marks they could in bringing this event off so well on its first running. We had dinner, and then a party started. One of those cool spontaneous things that just happen. They can’t be organised. People just letting their hair down, music pumping, drinks flowing, new friends celebrating an amazing trip. You would never have guessed that the crowd had just done about 120km of beach running in the last few days. We danced arm-in-arm, and drank into the wee hours.... Guys, if you didn’t do this run this year, sorry for you. For those of you who procrastinated, and thought maybe next year, sorry for you. This race was an perfect  example of that old saying, “seize the day”. I don’t think we can begin to know how fortunate we are in this country, with the runs that we have on offer, through the country that we have the blessing to run. This particular race rates as the most fun you can have running. Period. And you can quote me on that. If you got your name on the waiting list his year, there is a slim chance you might get in next year. But only slim, because my guess is that everyone that ran will cancel everything else to be there and run it again next year. And everyone that did run is going to be telling everyone they know just how much fun they had doing it. This race will never have to advertise itself again. It will always be sold out, within an hour or two of opening. And so, to the organisers: Well done for pulling off such a well run event. So much more relaxed, and more fun than Odyssey last year. Just the right amount of attention to safety and detail. But never more focus on the leaders, than on those at the back. I am sure this run has cemented a reputation being solidly built on your hard work in the last two years of the Trail Series. Well done to Dayle for winning the first running of this race, on all three days. He makes me sick. He makes it look so easy. J Well done to Rob Liddle for coming back from the edge. It was only December last year Rob was lying in hospital after having a malignant tumour removed from his stomach. None of us knew if you were even going to pull through. We missed you at Oceans and Comrades this year Buddy, and it’s wonderful to have you back. Lastly to Adidas: Wow. I don’t think I have ever seen a sponsor bring so much to an event. Not just the tonnes of kit we got given, (including trail shoes, beautiful shirts, a kit bag, etc), but the daily spot prizes, (sun glasses, hydration bags caps, bottles). And the brand ambassador, Ragna. Ragna seemed to be everywhere she needed to be, getting her hands dirty, always smiling, and striving to assist, helping make sure everything ran as smoothly as it did. Ragna, never has a brand ambassador been such an ambassador to her brand. I am so glad to hear we can look forward to your commitment to next year’s run. Ragna Nilssen: World’s greatest Brand Ambassador, hard at work polishing her brand and still looking like a million bucks after a very late night on Saturday! I am just back from running Mont Aux Sources this weekend, only one week later after returning from the Wild Coast. This was my second Monty, and man, my legs were tired! Perhaps I bit off a bit more than I could chew, doing these events “back-to-back”. After three runs of Monty, you qualify for a permanent number. So over a beer last night, we were chatting, and we have a suspicion that next year’s date for Monty will clash with the Wild Run. Bummer. It looks like I won’t be getting my permanent number for Monty next year then. I will be down at the Wild Coast, running on endless unspoilt beaches.... The author, committing to a river crossing....

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

Newsflash..... Andrew is recovering well in hospital, shortly after the infamous G-String was found in the bottom of his kit bag (by his long suffering wife), on his return from the recent weekend away. It appears the stories of this article of clothing were actually a swine flu mask had little effect....

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