Chapmans Peak 21km
Why did I choose to do a 21km and why this race in particular?
Well let’s start with why 21km, and simply, I had been toying with idea of it for a while, and a lot of my friends have gotten into running over the last year and they all encouraged me to join the running culture in cape town. So I did.
Now, bear in mind I have been somewhat of a decent runner for most of life, having won medals doing the Long Run event in lifesaving competitions, which ranges from 1-2km on sand. I should mention through considerable grit and a burning desire to push myself and to win, I had taken home several gold medals in this event during my teen years. In my later teens, during my high school years, I took it upon myself to silence a particularly cocky peer in the 3000m athletics race. He had had no competition in the long distances in our first year in the big pond, and had a rather loud mouth about winning it all again in grade 9. So I ran barefoot and beat him, and in the end it wasn’t close. I repeated this feat again the following year, running only one second slower than I had the year before, just so he knew it wasn’t luck the first time.
Let’s deviate for a second. I had spent hours scrolling through the previous years rankings of the race, scouring to see how fast most people ran, how fast I would need to run to make top 200, top 100 etc. That’s how I came up with the outrageous idea to run my first half marathon in a time of 1 hour 49 minutes and 59 seconds or better, on a course steeped in hills and elevation changes. Most of my friends said I probably wouldn’t do it, and that it was just too fast or the incline was just too much. You don’t know me son. I’ve got enough willpower to shatter vibranium.
And so, at the ripe age of 23, I started running again, once or twice a week, mostly 5km at a time. I am considerably less fit and fast than I was as a determined, everything-to-prove 15 year old, but now I had a goal. I entered into the Chapmans peak half marathon race, and I chose this race in particular because the route is one of the most beautiful in the world. Something that did fly straight over my head was the 350m of elevation (roughly 2000ft) throughout the race. I had disregarded this fact because 350m up seemed like very little over 21000m far. Haha. Over the next few weeks I was reminded by many about the treacherous incline of this race, though I did very well to not let it phase me much. I was all belief and positivity, and nothing was going to stop me.
I wrote down how many days I had until the race. I drew up a 7 week calendar and planned out runs and training sessions. I picked a time I wanted to run in, that would push me and I avoided any thoughts of incline or altitude maps. I had my goal set very clearly, the time in which I had to reach it, and what I was going to do to make sure that I did. And boy did I start out hot, consistent and feeling stronger and better than ever.
Then one weekend I went on a boys trip. Let’s just say we drank a lot and I didn’t train during nor for 3 straight days afterwards. I got back on the grind after poisoning myself severely and got my shit together. Then I missed a day. Then I went away for the weekend two weeks later. Repeat scenario. Then I missed a day. Lo and behold my bad decisions were catching up to me. Two weeks until race day. I got sick. I shit water for a week straight and didn’t run a single meter. Then just as I was getting better, I got sick again. Nose alternating between running or blocked. Heavy chest cough. I quit smoking months ago but it felt liked I’d been smoking a pack a day for 20 years. And race day was around the corner. Still I refused to take medicine and chose rest and ocean plunges to heal myself. It wasn’t working fast enough. At this point my running buddies were concerned for my health and weren’t sure whether it was a good idea for me to take part. I told them nonsense, I’m fine and I’ll be fine.
The day before race day. Put a braai on, ate lots of pasta as well, drank 3 liters of beer for extra carbs and because the day called for it. Slept like a log.
Race day. Woke up at 3:45am, before my alarm. Started my morning well, brewed some coffee, got all my things ready, made and ate two boiled eggs, and set aside some time to envision myself running across the finish line in the time I wanted. Luckily my sister had told me to buy energy gels, to fuel with during the race. I can’t begin to explain to you how much they helped. And the Plato Coffee flavour of the USN gel is top notch by the by. I was feeling really good about the race, all things considered. My mind was in the right place, I had no stiffness from training seen as I hadn’t run in two weeks, and I felt I was otherwise very prepared.
Needless to say the hills were exactly what everyone had made them out to be. But those hills didn’t know me either, and I ate up meter by meter, only feeling stronger as the race went on. Around kilometre 9 I broke away from my running partner and motored up the final hill before the halfway mark. After starting the second half, I squeezed a gel down and set my mind to tackling the next 10 or so km. I think I would be remiss to omit the fact that I had not run further than 10km during my two months of training, nor dabbled in any serious hills. But let me say that that hindered me not. I dug deep, I used every ounce of my titanic willpower to regulate my breathing; in through the nose for three steps, hold for one, out through nose and mouth for three steps, hold for one. By doing this I kept my heart rate low enough to prevent fitness fatigue. And my goodness was I glad I had quit smoking months ago. My lungs felt like they were invincible, and they performed like it too. I figured out this elite connection between movement and breath during my years practising karate and doing lifesaving ‘long runs’. If I timed by breathing with my moving, in this case my strides, though it works for all movement and is essential for high performance, I could go on forever. My mind is utterly convinced of this and I attribute most of my performance to my mental game. My legs, my calves and quads and knees, however, were starting to feel the strain that 21 long km puts on them.
I could feel my legs burning, screaming at me to slow down, to give up, to quit. Never in a million years would I do that though. I pictured the number 1:49:59 in my head, white numbers on a black background, clear as day. I dedicated all of my focus to my breathing and my goal, so vividly envisioned in my mind’s eye. I gave the pain and the strain very little attention for the last 7km or so, and I’m quite convinced that that played a huge role in my not giving up or slowing down. Every time I felt like I was slowing down too much, or when somebody passed me on the downhill (at this point I was humbled over and over as people overtook me, because I didn’t have the leg strength to go faster, even on the downhill), I reminded myself of my goal.
Once I reached the last turn and I caught sight of the finish line, probably only 30 meters ahead of me, I gave it horns. Sprinted that last little stretch and finished strong. It was only as I was about to cross the line that I looked up at their clock, the bright red number 1h51min beaming at me. Instant despair, followed by an intense feeling of wasted time and effort, the effort of the race finally seeping in to my legs, a waterfall of sweat beginning to form all over my body, a light-headedness equivalent to the first hit of a 5% Airpops disposable vape as a teenager, followed by a small relief that it was over and then the dire need to hydrate. I stumbled around the other side of the line in search of water, though there was only Coca-Cola and Powerade in sight, so I drank those. Then, on the speakers all around, I heard an angel sing.
The sound of the commentators voice filled my head, and one word rang true above the rest: beer. I didn’t quite catch what he’d said before after mentioning free beer but it didn’t matter. My pain aside, I set off in search of the magical beer tent. Moments later I hobbled into the SaggyStone Oasis and punished two cold glasses draught beer. My vision had returned from its blurry state, the burning in my lungs began to recede. I had my first clear thought since crossing the line. Then I found my running parter, who was looking just as broken as I. We sank two more beers in quick succession and talked about the race, both relating our struggles and laughing at our similar tales. I discovered that I had in fact, reached my goal, according to my Strava recording. I got a push notification saying I had a new PB in the half marathon: and it read 1:43:38. The feeling I had at that moment was worth everything I had endured to get it. Not only had I reached my goal, I smashed it, in one of the more difficult races in Cape Town. We managed to find the rest of our crew, have one last beer, and then headed for the car. After 21 gruelling kilometres, it was 9am and I was now definitely a little bit tipsy, and I had the absolute pleasure of knowing that a stupidly large portion of Donny’s would soon be entering my system.
So, with a clear goal, an unbreakable mindset, and a pair of 10-year-old Puma running shoes, I finished my first half marathon.
