By 9 am, the sun was shimmering on the Knysna lagoon and a gentle gust of wind over the water offered welcomed respite. After nearly 9 hours of relative solitude and focus in the forest, we were suddenly submerged in a cacophony of city noise. Cars sped by on our left while morning runners trotted by on our right, and it scrambled my brain to negotiate the sidewalk traffic as mountain bikers rolled up stealthily from either direction. The long, flat promenade was a relief for my leg muscles and, as I started to recognize the surroundings, I felt as if my body could shift into auto-pilot while I enjoyed the ride for a few minutes.
Earlier this year in July, I completed the tough but rewarding Knysna Forest Marathon: 42.2 km of exhilarating running along the dirt roads of the Knysna Forest. The wicked climbs and daunting descents made for one of the toughest races I had run yet, and the place where Roelof and I were running now was the very end of this challenging marathon. As we started on a certain bridge, I remembered seeing the final 2km distance marker, grabbing a banana and making my final sprint to the finish with the few molecules of strength remaining in my legs.
I brought myself back to the present and realized that we must have run at least 70 km by this point. I congratulated Roelof on running the furthest he had ever run yet (which was 65 km at the Ultra Trail Cape Town where he took 3rd place). I remembered how nervous I had been going into the Comrades Marathon of 87.7 km in May, my longest run before then being 50 odd kilometers. I had no idea how my body would respond after this distance. I had no experience of managing the mind-body negotiations at 51, 60, 70, 80 km! I just had to deal with whatever arose as it came and I wondered what was going on in Roelof’s mind as he passed this significant checkpoint.
Finally we reached the turn off to Simola hill. The support vehicles met us with ice cold cool drink but we did not stop for long before beginning the climb. Slowly and steadily, we jogged for about 30 minutes on the narrow, tar road keeping the golf course on our left. Eventually we came to a steep section and began our first power-hike of note. Alternating between a brisk walk and a gentle jog, it took perhaps 30 more minutes to reach the top.
Or was it the top?
The midday sun was now penetrating our senses in full force, hovering more directly above us and providing little protection from shade. The mild but continuous incline contributed to our rising body temperatures and I became aware of my heart beating more firmly against my chest. We ran silently for some time and with each turn of the corner, for what felt like hours, I began to slide deeper and deeper into a place of discouragement. Surely there couldn’t still be more “up”! Where were we going?!
I asked Roelof when, approximately, we might reach the top of this climb, and could hear a hint of frustration in my own voice. It was impossible to hide anything at this point. My mind had entered a battleground and the arguments between my logical brain (nothing goes up forever; you’ll get there) and my irrational brain (this really might go on for the next 50 km…) took over my entire head-space. Because I had no knowledge of the route profile, I was absolutely clueless as to when we might reach the welcome crest of the hill. My mind had nothing to hold onto and it took all my focus not to lose it at this point.
Finally we met again with Roche and James at our turn off into a more densely forested section of road. I struggled to sit and could feel the blood pulsing in my feet, so I asked James to help me down.
“Hold my wrists, I’m gonna sit.” I asked and leaned back, bending my knees. “OK I’m gonna fall, I’m gonna fall…” and then I plopped down and extended my legs forward, folding over them with a spine stiff and rounded like an armadillo. I felt the relief of pressure dissipating from my lower body, if only by an ounce and if only for a minute. I pried my swollen fingers into the inside of my shoes and massaged the arches of my feet, which were fatigued but not in pain. We drank more water here and discussed our plan for the miles ahead. We would meet the support team again in about 10 kilometers where we’d find the trail head to a special forest section and James would join us for the rest of the way.
So we pressed on. Roche and James sped ahead to meet us at the trail and so it was just Roelof, me and the road for the next couple of hours. Yes. It was hours. The incline continued mercilessly and shade was sparse. We ran from one side of the road to the other, taking any sliver of shade that appeared on alternate sides of the road, if even for 50 meters. We walked. We ran. I don’t think we spoke very much. I was aware of the doubt and dismay that sat in my chest and processed it silently, knowing that if I were to share it aloud, I might only affirm the struggle and become less and less capable of managing it.
It felt like 2 hours before we saw Roche and James again. They had actually reached the meeting point and turned around when they became worried we were taking too long to arrive. The two also took note of the trying terrain and lack of protection from shade, and so drove back to tell us that we were nearly there and that we’d be okay. Roelof and I agreed that, had they not done this, we both may have hit the breaking point! Still, there were about 2 more kilometers to go and they would not be easy. Each time we rounded the bend to see the white vehicle sitting in the distance, I’d feel that sense of momentary hope but then immediately be hit with the instant gravity of seeing the car turn and disappear around the next corner. This happened three times before finally – FINALLY – the white vehicle did not move and I could see James in his bright blue shirt walking across the road. We had run approximately 13 km since our last stop.
To have James jump in at this point was a breath of fresh air and it added a newness to our journey. The fresh company along the route – one whose foundation in mind and body was not yet beginning to crack – was powerfully motivating. For the next 15 kilometers (which we thought was to be 10), I was incredibly grateful for the positive and encouraging energy James carried and shared with us. He told us about the different ferns and talked about the man who knew the elephants in the forest. We hiked most of the steep inclines and I found myself thoroughly enjoying some of the technical descents, noting I still had a tiny spring in my step as I leaped over a thick root here and a mud puddle there. The shade was a savior.
The sensations in my joints were starting to shift at this point, and rather than a discomfort in my knees and inner arches, I became aware of a tightening in the outside of my feet, most noticeably on the right side. James lightheartedly told us he had some information to share, and was wondering if we would take it well or badly. We continued to run easily, coming to a crest where we could see way yonder in the distance to a tightly packed and completely forested hill. That was “Fisantekraal”. James informed us that would descend now, climb up and over Fisantekraal, then tackle a few more kilometers of descent before we’d find the exit gate. We’d run along a dirt road for another kilometer or two and finally meet the support vehicles again. Then James described the last 2 treacherous climbs which would embody the final 25 km of the race in glorious, grueling detail. It is quite possible that James just mentioned the hills, but at this point, all I could hear was disaster. It wasn’t going to get any easier.
“It sounds like you’re joking.” I stated blandly, after a moment of silence.
“Why would I joke about that?” James laughed.
There was more silence, and some discussion between Roelof and James. I didn’t hear anything. I was waiting for the punch line.
“I think you’re waiting too long to say you’re kidding…” I pressed. But it was no joke. More silence. I had been holding the porcelain vase of my togetherness and felt it shatter. We had clocked about 105 kilometers by this point and I was clumsily treading in new territory for both my mind and body. Surely there was another route to Plettenberg Bay that didn’t involve said hills. It was becoming obvious that our original route of 121 km was stretching to 125, perhaps even 130 kilometers and I expressed to James that I didn’t think it was necessary to torture ourselves just to take a more scenic route. Surely – SURELY – there was a more direct way, even if it involved tar road… James indicated that the path we were on was indeed the most direct. My mind refused to digest this fact and I clung onto my breath again, like a baby koala on its mother. In-two-three, out-two. In-two-three, out-two. I ran in silence, feeling emotion swell in my chest and behind my eyes. After a few minutes, James asked, “Are you okay?”
“I’m just sad.” I confessed. My eyes were wet by now. We carried on in silence for a few more minutes as my confidence tread desperately above the rising tide in my chest. In-two-three, out-two. In-two-three, out-two. All of a sudden a sharp pain from my outer right foot shocked me back into the moment. My whole right side twinged and collapsed by a half foot. I continued for a few more light paces feeling a tenderness in the arch before it spasmed again. A quiet, anguished cry escaped my mouth as a runaway train of imaginative fear gunned through my mind: A fracture! A dislocated ankle! A torn ligament! The what-if’s began to pummel down in an unsympathetic storm: What if I can’t finish this? What if I CAN finish but injure myself to the point where I can’t run for months? Have I already done irreparable damage? Do I try and finish injured, so that at least it’s not all for nothing, or do I stop now, shattered not only in my body but also in my pride as I throw in the towel? Pain shot through my foot again and I limped to a walk. The guys asked if I was okay.
Through tears and a wavering voice, I told them what was going on. I felt like I was lying and wouldn’t have believed myself had I been a witness to this. I had just expressed my uncertainty of completing the last 25-30 km and only then did this injury arise. I knew in my heart (and my foot!) that it wasn’t some psychosomatic pain I was creating – it was very real. But the timing of it all made me feel like a big liar. James encouraged me and after a couple minutes of walking, I changed my stride to put more pressure on the inside of my forefoot, which seemed to be manageable. It seemed the trigger for the pain was when my foot supinated slightly to balance on the uneven terrain. Later Simon would tell us that he saw me stumble earlier in the day, where my ankle bent out in this direction, which must have stretched my muscle or tendon and weakened it. James promised honestly that we were very near to the gate and tried to take my mind off of my struggle. I imagined myself arriving at the support vehicle, opening the green grocery bag I had with Yvonne and Chris, and taking a rest while I ate the salted red skin peanuts and ice cold cherry tomatoes I had packed but had yet to tap into. I held onto this thought with the cold sweat of desperate fists in my mind and could hardly believe it when Roelof exclaimed that he could see the metal fence just ahead.
James had talked with Roche on the phone and indicated I was injured, asking them to drive closer to the gate. After passing the fence, we turned left onto the dirt road and I slowed to a walk as the support vehicle rolled nearer. I couldn’t hide my uneven gait and felt angry that my body and mind were so dramatically developing this “lie”of an injury. My rational mind knew that the pain was real, but I couldn’t get over how conveniently it occurred and didn’t expect anyone to believe me, especially because I barely could. As Chris, Simon, Yvonne, Mark and Roche emerged from the cars, I limped towards them and warned them with a voice as steady as I could manage, that they were all about to see me cry.
I sat on a rock as Roche brought out his gear and helped take off my shoe. Pressing on different parts of my foot, he reassured me that it wasn’t a fracture. He got some muscle ointment and sports tape and began to work on sorting out my foot. I told him I was worried about injuring myself further over the next 25 km and expected him to agree and advise me to stop. Instead, he quietly told me that I had come this far and that I could finish this. I wanted to shake him by the shoulders dramatically and cry, “DOCTOR! TELL ME I NEED TO QUIT!” But he reassured me that I would be okay. They would follow slowly for the next few kilometers and I could see how I felt. I had to try.
Yvonne asked if there was anything she could bring me. With a wave of relief, I remembered the peanuts.
“The green grocery bag in your car!” I exclaimed hopefully.
“There’s no green bag….” Yvonne replied.
“No no, the one with the vegetables.” I described.
“We brought that to Simon’s house to put in the refrigerator. The vegetables were getting warm…” She explained.
“But there were peanuts in there…” I pressed, refusing to believe her. Surely the peanuts were still in the car.
I could tell Yvonne was starting to panic and I felt like a dramatic bride losing it with the wedding party a day before the ceremony.
“I have some roasted almonds in the car you can have!” She offered generously.
“We have Simba peanuts in our car…” added James. But neither alternative would do. I wanted the fat, salted redskin peanuts that were sitting in Simon’s fridge at the finish in Plettenberg Bay.
“Do you want me to go get them??” Yvonne asked. She was serious. I paused. I didn’t expect her to do that.
“No no… no…” I trailed off, “I’ll be fine.” I couldn’t understand why this information was so hard to process and how quickly I had dropped into this head-space of drama and doom – over PEANUTS! While Roche dug through his medical box for a minute, I limped away to my backpack and shoved a piece of cheese in my mouth as I mixed up a cupful of hemp protein, yogurt and peanut butter. This would have to do. I ate an extra spoonful of peanut butter for good measure and returned to Roche where he strapped my foot in more tape.
As I stood up and started to walk, I was aware of a tenderness in my foot but the pain was gone. Yvonne asked what I was going to do: Would I go ahead? Was I going to push forward?
“I can finish,” I stated. “If I have to walk the whole way and the guys go ahead, I can do it.” Afterall, I had just eaten a half cup of peanut butter. And what else was I going to do with it?!
Eat Run Bee 