Modern Athlete Magazine Issue 125, December 2019 | Page 17

THE RUNNING MANN
A River Runs Through It
The route starts with a run along the N1 to the town’s
eastern limits, where you turn around and then exit
at the western end of town as you cross the Buffels
River. The comprehensive tour of the town provided
an enjoyable first 800 metres and I wondered what the
next 79,200 metres would have in store.
Like the animal after which it is named, the Buffels
River looks deceptively docile. However, every now
and again it will burst into a bad mood, wreaking
destruction on anything that crosses its path. Sadly,
Laingsburg is probably best known for the 1981 flash
flood which devastated the town, leaving just 21
houses standing when the wall of water, 10 meters
high at some points, subsided. The magnitude of the
disaster was such that 104 people died in the flood
(72 of whom were never found). Bodies were found as
far away as Mossel Bay (200km), and survivors were
rescued from the Floriskraal Dam over 20km from
Laingsburg!
The flood level is prominently displayed on several
buildings around town to document the scale of the
tragedy. Having looked at pictures from the 1981
disaster in the town’s Flood Museum, I was grateful
that all the rivers we crossed during the race were
bone dry. In fact, the only thing drier than the Karoo
rivers were the five missing water tables (more on this
later).
Wandering in the Desert
Following the tour of the town, we got a quick desert
appetiser when we turned into the very appropriately
named Moordenaars (Murderers) Road, before looping
around and returning to the town’s main residential
area. We’d get to spend a lot more time struggling
After a brief introduction, a much longer
‘conversation’ with the appropriately
named Moordenaars Road later in the race
to survive Moordenaars later in the day, as this long
and lethal lane forms a large part the route home.
We enjoyed great crowd support here from the local
residents, who had all got up early to cheer us on, but
that support was short and sweet...
The end of civilisation is marked by an abrupt
transition from tar to the harsh, unforgiving desert
sands at the 5km mark. Other than a brief asphalt
interlude along the R354, crossing the N1 highway
and the final kilometre to the finish line, the remainder
of the route is run along well-graded gravel roads, and
there are a few soft “sea sand” sections and a couple
of rocky patches to contend with, which keep you on
your toes and give your calves a good working over.
Although some runners ran with hydration packs
and even came prepared with their own fully stocked
“picnic baskets,” I am a minimalist and relied solely
on the support tables. These were a mixed bag. Some
of the support tables were five-star culinary delights,
others offered no frills basic essentials, and a few
were sadly missing in action. (I guess you could say
that they literally deserted their posts!) With three
tables missing between the 10 and 20 kilometre mark
and another couple shortly after the marathon mark,
we got the opportunity to enjoy... no, endure, an
authentic “dying of thirst in the middle of the desert”
experience.
Many of the tables were brilliant, some were
basic, and a few were sadly missing
Loneliness of the Long Distance
Runner
The Karoo is famous for its tasty lambs and warm
Merino wool, and I thought I would stay alert by
counting sheep along the route. Although the signs
were there, I did not see any actual sheep to count,
but there were plenty of rocks. I diligently (and very
slowly) counted 79 rocks. When life gives you lemons,
you make lemonade... and when life gives you rocks,
you make ultra-marathon distance markers! The
organisers certainly followed this mantra, and every
kilometre was meticulously spray-painted onto an
available rock.
“Like driving through the Karoo” is often used as
a simile for watching paint dry. However, there is a
stark, arid beauty to this region, and I never got bored
of the scenery. I did however get bored of my own
company. This race is an introvert’s dream. When
there are more kilometres to run (80) than runners to
run them (71), extroverted runners like myself were in
for a long and lonely day, because as the day wore on,
the number of running companions dwindled. I guess
you could say this is what “being deserted” looks like.
If a picture is worth a thousand words, I could save
you a lot of reading time (and myself a lot of keyboard
bashing) with a montage of pics of nine long, arduous
hours of splendid isolation in the desert.
An introverted runner’s dream come true...
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