Modern Athlete Magazine Issue 128, March 2020 | Page 21

Running for his club (left) and charity (right)
marathon, but I still managed to end in a decent time
of four hours.
My second marathon about a month later gave
my spirit of adventure another fix when my lack of
transport led me to another night of searching for
shelter. This time I found myself on the streets of Green
Point, close to Cape Town Stadium, wandering about
with my running gear in a backpack and no place to
sleep. What made this time harder than the Fish Hoek
race was the fact that there was no police station
anywhere nearby, so that option was not on the table.
By the age of 15 I was ready to get inked by the JSK,
but first I had to prove that I was willing to become
a provider for the gang, and so a few of us gang
newbies had to go and rob someone. We decided
the best place to accomplish this would be the main
road behind Modderdam High School… with little
pedestrian traffic, finding an isolated target would take
patience, but wouldn’t be too hard, and it was right
next to the school’s sport field, so that getting away
would be easy after the deed was done.
It was a cold windy day, scattered with rain, so
hiding our identities by wearing wool beanies and
rain jackets wouldn’t raise suspicion with passers-
by. I was shivering as we stood next to the school’s
outside wall, not sure if it was because of the cold or
because I was about to cross a line that I knew I could
never uncross. We watched the road intently, trying to
find a suitable prey that would provide us with easy
bounty. We passed a weed joint amongst ourselves as
we prepared for that moment, and there was very little
chatter amongst us. We were hoping the weed would
calm our nerves with every deep drag we took.
One of the lookouts we had placed further down
whistled loudly as he spotted a potential victim, and
we tensed with anticipation as a lone figure on a bike
approached our position. He could have been a father
on his way to work, already running late because of
the weather conditions, or maybe he was a young
student on the way to the University of the Western
Cape, which was a 40-minute bike ride away. We
didn’t know, and we didn’t care, because at that
moment he was just a means to an end, a way for us
to get enough street credibility to be allowed official
entry into a gangster’s life.
We pounced like a cackle of hungry Hyenas. We
rushed at him from the side of the road, and he had
little time to react. I remember being oblivious to the
cars hooting at us as they drove by and saw what
was happening. “Gryp die vark!” shouted one of my
companions loudly, at nobody in particular.
The would-be victim jumped off the bike, but held on
tightly to one of the wheels. Three of us were pulling
at the bike trying to get it from his grasp. He had a
vice-like grip and refused to let go. We swore at him,
hit and kicked him, but he was holding onto the bike
like the fate of the world depended on it. Strangely,
even though I was one of his attackers, I admired him
for his courage. Time was running out, and soon we
heard the calls for us to go. We failed to deliver the
goods, but we had showed enough heart to earn our
spots. Later I would have three letters tattooed on my
right thigh, and the start of a long, dark journey had
begun.
Running provided me with an emergency brake for
a life that had long ago spun out of control and was
heading for the cliffs at breakneck speed. But there
was nothing easy when I applied this brake to my
life, because it came with its own sacrifices and
challenges. I found myself at times wanting to step
outside of my body and slap my own face, while
shouting, “Are you a looney toon, mate, what the hell
are you thinking?”
I remember doing my first marathon in Fish Hoek.
I had no money to pay for a lift to this race, and
because of its early start, I did not have the option
of using public transport on race day. So instead
of skipping this race and having to postpone my
marathon debut, in my infinite and cosmic wisdom,
I decided to take the last train of the day from Cape
Town to Fish Hoek on the Saturday night and spend
the evening finding a ‘cosy’ shopfront or a bus shelter
to sleep in.
Fish Hoek by day is idyllic, its welcoming embrace
accompanied by the gentle sea breeze blowing
across Main Road and the sounds of the waves from
the nearby beach. But that picture changes with the
setting of the sun, especially if you have nowhere to
lay down your weary head. Then it becomes a place of
threatening shadows and alarming sounds that tense
you up as the shops, bars and restaurants close their
doors for the night. Spend a few hours walking up and
down Main Road looking for a place to sleep and you
find yourself only filled with paranoia and anxiety.
Thankfully, the sight of a police van driving by not only
brought me relief, but also a ‘Eureka!’ moment where
the answer I had been searching for jumped out from
its hiding place. I needed a place to spend the night,
and the Fish Hoek police station was the best place to
do that. The police would surely not turn me away if I
told them my story, and so with a spring in my step and
renewed hope, I charged down the road to the police
station – a strange thing for me, because in my previous,
dark existence, I often found myself trying to avoid the
boys in blue, like a vampire would avoid sunlight.
“You’re running in the marathon tomorrow and you
want to sleep here tonight? It’s ok, but we only
have that wooden bench, will that be fine?” they
said. “Thank you, I’ll take it!” Not the best prep for a
Green Point also had a lot more foot traffic at night,
and the amount of homeless roaming the streets
or ladies of the night plying their ancient trade was
making it a very lively but dangerous place to be. It’s
usually not what you see in the light that you should
fear, but what hides in the shadows that should fill you
with trepidation.
I spent that night resting my head on a bench next
to Main Road, not daring to close my eyes. It was
a long night, but if I had the choice to do it again, I
wouldn’t think twice about it. I don’t know if it was the
lack of sleep that night or the heightened alert levels
in my body, but the morning of the marathon I ran a
personal best time of three hours 26 minutes, and the
joy of being alive filled my being.
Even though the challenges I face on this running path
are many, I would not want it any other way, because
it gives my life purpose, and provides me with a
chance to earn my salvation… even though the Bible
says salvation is free. I chose all those years ago to
roam in the darkness and live among the shadows,
but now I have chosen to run in the light and shine
bright in the darkness.
Now I think back to my first ever race. A Wednesday
evening, in the warmth of late summer, provided
me with the perfect opportunity to see what running
was really about. I arrived at the venue, the Sea
Point Promenade, 20 minutes before the start of the
10km race and it was swarming with people brought
together by a love of running – there were all skin
colours and many different shapes and sizes. I learnt
a very valuable truth about running that day: It’s not
prejudicial. Running is a sport that makes the playing
field level, and only through hard work in training will
you reach your full potential and perhaps shine above
the rest.
“Registration and late entries to your right, tog-bags
to your left next to the port-a-loos, thank you!” There
was an excitement in the air that made me feel alive
as I got my race number and handed my bag in at the
tog-bag area, before finding a spot on the grassy part
of the promenade, with the blue sea to my right and
the majestic Table Mountain to my left, looking down
with a knowing eye at the spectacle unfolding before
it. Cape Town seemed to be putting on a show just
for me, flashing her extravagant perfection at me like
a stripper flashes her secret places at an intoxicated
customer in one of the many strip clubs I used to
frequent in my past life.
I breathed in the refreshingly salty sea air and kept
to myself, but I watched in fascination as runners
21