I stumbled out of bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and gingerly made my way to the bathroom in the darkness. The early morning coolness of autumn slid through my nightdress and I shivered as I sat on the icy toilet seat. It was still dark outside, but the birds had begun their early morning wake up calls. I heard my mother’s voice downstairs calling up to me to ensure I was awake. But there was no need. My stomach had been churning in excitement since last night and even if I’d wanted to stay in bed, the adrenalin pumping through my veins would never have allowed me to.
I was 8 years old. Every year, for the past 5 years, I’d look forward to this day. All year round, I’d watch my dad train and sweat and prepare for the Comrades Marathon. And every year, I’d anticipate the race, so proud that my father could run all the way from Durban to Pietermartizburg in one day. At 8 years old, that was equivalent to running around the world. My dad was superman. So at the crack of dawn we’d trek down to the start line and join the throng of spectators all cheering on as the runners set off in the dark on the world’s toughest footrace. We, along with the rest of the crowds, would set ourselves up at various check points along the 89km’s of rolling hills to encourage the runners, pass out water and energade sachets and generally give our support to the courageous men and women who chose to embark on this painful challenge of the body and mind. The overwhelming support from hundreds of thousands of spectators, the never ending displays of sportsmanship from fellow runners as they encourage each other to keep going when quitting seems like the only option has earmarked the Comrades as the world’s greatest human race… a race where challenges and difficulties bring a divided nation together for one spectacular day and a race that attracts more and more international competitors each year. Although the Comrades has proved to be one of the world’s most demanding races, it not only attracts top athletes but ordinary people who long to take part in South Africa’s most cherished competition. The Comrades is not just about winning or losing, its about mankind’s heartwarming spirit in the face of adversity, it’s about bringing people together from all walks of life to overcome the impossible together. At precisely 11 hours and 59 minutes the director of the Comrades Marathon Association would emerge from a tent and march to the finish line. With his back turned to the oncoming runners, he raises a gun and counts down the final seconds. At this moment pandemonium breaks loose. The crowds are heard chanting “Go, go, go…” as the frantic flow of runners push themselves farther than they thought they could go to beat the cut off time. Some run with their hands raised in joyous triumph, others limp and crawl on their hands and knees, some have their arms draped around one another, dragging each other one painful step at a time to reach the finish line. The atmosphere is electric, the suspense unbearable, and the camaraderie so powerful it brings tears to almost every eye in the packed stadium. When the gun fires at exactly 12:00:00 there are still thousands of unnamed faces who didn’t make it but who’ll most likely keep coming back each year, determined to beat the clock. This was my dad’s last comrades. He barely made it over the finish line to receive his last ever bronze medal. Not long after this, he was diagnosed with brain cancer and passed away two years later. I still have a picture of my dad hanging on the wall, dressed in his Savages Club vest, looking strong and confident, a wide grin splashed across his face, as he ran the world’s greatest human race. This is how I remember my dad, not as a body riddled with cancer, but as a superhero in his prime crossing the Comrades Marathon finish line to proudly receive his medal.
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AuthorI am a professional photographer. The ocean & nature inspire me. I am passionate about life & the people close to me Categories
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