And the Age of BC Comes to An End

The Comrades Marathon. Watching it was the first thing I did after touching down on the continent in June 2008. My two years here have been BC- Before Comrades.

And Sunday is the big day.

It's 89 kilometers. And this year-it switches direction every year-is downhill. I am told that what you gain in the 10-20 minutes of speed, you pay for in utter pain.

I am told that it is especially painful for little runners. I asked for the definitition of little. It is 10-20 kg bigger than ME. So I joined the gym (an even bigger stretch for me than running 89 k). The gym is one of the local expat crossroads. Invariably I run into people I know at the gym and invariable they ask if I'm running. (I hate treadmills!) No, I tell them, I getting big (is it not obvious)?

I am told you have to relax and pace yourself. But not too much. If you don't reach certain points at certain times (most notoriously the finish line by 12 hours), you are forcibly removed from the course and loaded onto the bus of shame, a pathetic vehicle piled with the carcasses of devastated runners and reeking of vomit. You try to lie down, but a race official hauls you to a sitting position to rip the racing numbers of your shirt...

I am told it will be freezing in the morning, sweltering in the afternoon, and for the most part, beautiful.

I am also told it is the ultimate human race.