Picture this.
Six-year-old Meg sitting in front of the TV, hearing the opening notes of Chariots of Fire as the Comrades Marathon filled the lounge.
Watching strangers dig deeper than seemed possible. Watching people refuse to quit. Crying with people we’ d never met as they crossed that finish line.
That was my childhood.
Every year, Comrades Day wasn’ t just another Sunday – it was something special. It was tradition. We watched together as a family, and somewhere in those years, a little girl quietly decided: One day that will be me.
But this dream was never only mine. My mom had always wanted to run Comrades. Life had other plans. Injury happened, circumstances changed, and she never got her opportunity to stand on that start line.
Instead, she taught me. She taught me to run. She taught me pacing – lamp post to lamp post up a hill. She taught me resilience before I even knew what the word meant. And somewhere in childhood, I made her a promise: One day, I’ ll run Comrades for you.
Then life happened. Marriage. Work. Kids. And before I knew it, almost 10 years had gone by without properly training. The dream stayed there in the background – not gone, just quieter.
Becoming one of those childhood dreams that starts to feel more symbolic than real.
Until August 2025, when something shifted. I decided: Comrades 2026. If not now … then when?
So I started.
Two months later, I lined up for my first marathon. It was awful. In hindsight, two months of training was perhaps not my strongest life decision. To make things more interesting, I’ d developed a stomach ulcer and spent most of the race surviving on water and pure stubbornness.
Marathon number two came three months later. Still terrible. Possibly worse. But my Magnolia clubmates talked me off the ledge and kept me believing.
Then came marathon number three. Four days after finding out I had a heart block.
That one messed with my head. Every strange feeling suddenly felt significant. Every heartbeat became something to think about. Eventually around 32km, I pulled out. By then, I’ d accepted that maybe Comrades just wasn’ t happening for me. I still hadn’ t qualified.
But then came a last-ditch decision, thanks to a new patient who walked into my practice: Enter the Irene Ultra. It wasn’ t on my training calendar. It wasn’ t in the plan. Suddenly … my first ultramarathon. And it was hard, but I qualified. Comrades was real.
Three weeks later, I ran Loskop, a 50km ultra. And somewhere in all those kilometres, all those early mornings, all those moments of wanting to stop but not stopping … something changed. I stopped dreaming about Comrades. I started becoming a Comrades runner.
Getting there had already been hard, but a few weeks before race day, came one of the toughest stretches of all. My dad landed in ICU after things went sideways in theatre before they could perform a heart procedure. Waiting. Hoping. Trying to train while your world feels suspended.
Eventually, he came through … only to have to go back to theatre and do the procedure they had planned to do. That first week in ICU, I decided my race was over. I couldn’ t imagine doing this without him. He’ s always been one of my biggest supporters. First kudos on Strava. First person asking how training went. The one who never stopped believing I could do this.
But Dad came home. Training resumed but only for a few days. With sick kids and fighting illness myself, the final weeks became less about tapering and more about surviving.
Then race day arrived. And six-year-old Meg finally got her turn. The start line felt exactly as magical as I’ d imagined.
I wasn’ t running for a medal. I was running for my mom. For promises. For family. For all the years I thought life had stolen this dream.
Then Comrades did what Comrades does. It got hard. Then harder. And eventually it became about one step at a time. By the final 30km, I was digging somewhere deeper than fitness. My feet felt like the Little Mermaid walking on blades. My chest was tight and didn’ t want to respond to my asthma pump. My body was negotiating. But I kept moving.
Then Polly Shortts. I reached the top. And they told me I had 30 seconds left. I looked ahead. Less than 100 metres away, I watched them fire the gun. Game over. Eighty kilometres done. Six still to go. And I broke. I burst into tears.
The sign Megan was planning to carry across the finish line.
COLUMN
Not because of the medal. Not even because of the finish line. But because in that moment it felt like little six-year-old Meg had come all this way and missed it.
Then, there, at the top of Polly Shorts I met Richard from Modern Athlete Magazine. He saw the devastation and just knew I had a story. He wanted to hear it. And he promised me he’ d make sure I got over that finish line next year.
And suddenly I realised something. My story wasn’ t the 6km I didn’ t run. My story was the 80km before them. The stomach ulcers. The failed marathons. The heart block. The ultras. The ICU waiting rooms. The sacrifices. The early mornings. The moments I wanted to stop but didn’ t.
No one can take away the fact that I stood on that start line. No one can take away 80 brutal uphill kilometres. No one can take away the promise I kept. Because the truth is … My mom has already run the ultimate human race. Life. She’ s faced challenges and disappointments and moments that would stop most people – and she keeps moving forward with strength and courage I can only hope to emulate.
She has always been my hero. And this race was always for her. I didn’ t get a medal.
But I got proof. Proof that dreams are worth chasing even when they don’ t unfold exactly as imagined. Proof that I am capable of more than I thought. And proof that this story isn’ t over.
Next year … I’ ll be back. And next time, I’ m getting over that finish line.
Megan Crouse is a 38-year-old physiotherapist from Pretoria. She has two girls, aged four and seven. She ' s a goal-driven individual, and although she only started running towards the end of 2025, she felt that Comrades 2026 was a good goal to push for.
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