Why Comrades?

THE Race.
It is the oldest and largest ultra in the world. A WWI veteran, Vic Clapham, wanted to commemorate his fallen comrades in a unique way.  He wanted to put physical frailties to the test in a spirit of camaraderie and display of will. He asked for permission to stage a 56 mile race from Pietermaritzburg to Durban and was denied two years.  The third year, permission was granted and the first Comrades Marathon took place in 1921. This year 18,000 people have registered.

It is called “The Ultimate Human Race.” It has been number one on my running (and life) list since I read Amby Burfoot’s article, “The Famous Comrades Marathon” in Runner’s World several years ago.  The route is historic: it runs “up” from Durban, SA to Pietermaritzburg, then the following year runs “down” starting in Pietermaritzburg.  There are groups called buses (runners no wheels)- you “get on a bus” to chat and help each other when it gets tough, and it will. You can get on and off the bus, find a different bus or run alone. No intro to Comrades would be complete without a nod to the worldwide sports momentous ending- the twelve hour cutoff. Any runner not finished in 12 hours by the clock, not chip time, does not get a medal and will not be counted. For years, many runners tried to help steady and even carry fellow runners across the line.  It is no longer allowed due to the danger of moving someone that may best lie still.

Africa.
In my first (and only) visit to southern Africa (Zimbabwe and Zambia) I felt as if I was exactly where I was supposed to be.  Whatever I was doing, writing, riding a bus, running, I was doing it exactly where it should be done.  All of my senses were in the front seat. In the bush- the smells of burning wood, cornmeal, lemons -in town, babies wrapped in bright scarves on their mothers backs, the dust, the baobab trees, the Southern Cross.  It was both stimulating and calming, if you can believe it. There was a contentment and seemingly unjustified familiarity that I can neither explain nor deny. When I close my eyes and recall being there- my shoes squeaking on the waxy tile floors and the smells of citrus and soot, I liken it to the feeling my friend described having as he walked into his grandmother’s house for a visit and smelling her Sunday sauce on the stove.