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Champions!
That coffee you have with your crew after the weekday runs? Be careful. You get convinced to do stupid things.
High on a post-10km endorphin buzz and two cortados later, I was talked into upgrading from the half marathon to the full Capital City Marathon.‘ Talked into it.’
And online entries had closed, so I had to actually drive the 40km to race pack collection for a manual entry. I did this.
Now please note: my longest run since Comrades last year had been 21km. Twentyone. And I only did this once. I think I had about 80km on my Strava for 2026.
They say you need at least one 30km training run before attempting a marathon.
So, I decided I’ d do mine during the marathon. I’ ll run 30km, and then just do the other 12. Duh! At 02h00 on race morning, my alarm went off and it was pouring with rain. I lay there staring at the ceiling thinking:“ This is the sign. The universe has intervened. Really no need to go run in the rain for over five hours.” But I got up anyway.
I packed my gels, my painkillers( yes, I was expecting to be in a lot of pain!) and my other magic potions. Deep down I was not keen. It was raining. I had a busy week ahead with lots of travel. What if I got sick?
All very reasonable thoughts from someone about to do something unreasonable.
I drove to Lineage Coffee in Hillcrest where we were all meeting to convoy to Pietermaritzburg. As I pulled into the parking lot, it hit me: I had forgotten my cooler box on the kitchen counter.
Inside that cooler box: Energades for pre, during and post-race, pre and post-race bottles of water AND my traditional post-race 1-litre bottle of chocolate milk! All gone.
This is the sign! Go back home and get into bed! But instead of turning around, I stopped at a petrol station and replaced everything, well, except the chocolate milk. Nobody wants to drink chocolate milk that’ s been sitting in a car for six hours. That’ s not recovery. That ' s regret. Back at Lineage, everyone was in full race kit. Except me.
I had a T-shirt on. My race vest was still on the passenger seat. As long as that vest wasn’ t on my body, I could still back out. That was the rule I had invented.
“ Rory, why are you so quiet?” someone asked.“ I’ m undercooked, overweight and this is getting a little too real,” I said.
Everyone laughed. This was the one time I actually wasn’ t making a joke. I needed just one person to tell me to go back home and sleep! We got into our cars and started the convoy. It started raining even harder. My wipers were on maximum. I still hadn’ t put on my racing vest. The rain stopped for a few minutes. Then as we entered PMB, it came down harder.
Champions, it was 03h56. Pitch dark. Pouring with rain. The sensible thing? Turn around. Go home. Get back into bed.
Then traffic officers rerouted us because of road closures. We had to turn around and take another road to Msunduzi Athletics Club. This was my escape. Another sign.“ This isn’ t even your Comrades qualifier. You’ re not doing sub-5 today. Just go home.”
But we parked. Car doors opened. Runners stepped out into the rain. And then it happened. That buzz.
That unexplainable, electric, pre-marathon buzz. The nervous chatter. The laughing. The shared questioning of life choices that had led us to standing in the rain in shorts and vests at 04h08 in the morning.
I felt it. The marathon buzz. I put on my racing vest. Committed.
Well, mostly committed. It was a two-lap marathon. I told myself I could bail at 21km. That was my out. Mentally, I had installed an emergency exit.
At 20km, the marshal shouted:“ Half marathoners left. Marathoners right!” I slowed down. Forty-two kilometres means doing this again. I thought about my bed. My dry clothes. My missing chocolate milk. And then, I went right. Full marathon. The next 10km were manageable. Then at 30km, my legs submitted formal resignation letters. Both of them. Signed and dated. Up until that point, sub-5 was still mathematically possible. Then it started slipping.
You know that feeling when your goal time drifts away and your brain whispers,“ Well, what’ s the point of finishing now?” I ignored it. A qualifier became a training run. A race became a mental battle. Every kilometre felt like two. I even stopped at a petrol station for another Energade. You know when you’ re stopping at petrol stations, your goal time is gone and you’ re in it for survival! I slogged and refused to quit.
I crossed the line in 05:19:28- my slowest marathon ever. And I have never been prouder. Because this wasn’ t about the clock. It was about the argument that started at 02h30 in the morning and lasted until the finish line. It was about going right when left was comfortable.
Champions, if there is something you’ ve planned to do and the voice in your head is offering you the easy exit, the sensible option, the soft landing. Ignore it.
You made that plan for a reason. Do it. Finish it. Because when you do, damn, it feels so good. I love you. 2-nils. www. modernathlete. co. za 25