From the Morningside Mile to the Comrades Ultra – a dream has been born

Yesterday, my daughter, hubby and I “ran” our first race together. I say “ran”, because there was zero actual, one-foot-on-the-ground-at-a-time running that happened. But it was, nonetheless, a race, with race numbers, timing mats and start and finish lines.

It was the Morningside Mile. http://www.morningsidemile.com

Morningside is the neighbourhood that we live in and this race is basically just a large collection of prams, dropped socks and take away coffees.

One mile? Seriously? I know I know… back in the day, before babies started invading my uterus, I used to run more impressive distances (including a few ultra marathons of up to 90kms -55 miles). However, with a 23 week baby bump and a 1 year old in a stroller, 1 mile seemed like a good place to start. And despite the brush-it-off perception that this seemingly insignificant distance might hold, this race now carries a sentiment that has sunk very close to my heart. Here’s why…

I started running when I was nearing the end of high school. I remember my first official, non-school race. It was a ladies 10km, which I did with my mom, Shirley. I was much older than my daughter is now of course and the distance a fair degree further, but the sentiment remains…it was my first race and I ran it with my mom.

It took retrospect to realise that this first start line was a magical one, because, at the time, neither of us knew where our running would take us.

I must just pause at this moment to point out that running never took us anywhere close to winners podiums. No, we are very proud and very loyal back of the back runners – the ones you watch on tv with bated breath.

However, I can say, with sentimental stars in my eyes, that I ran my first 10km, my first half marathon, first marathon and first ultra marathon with my mom. In fact, my first marathon was the original 42.2km – from the city of Marathon to Athens, Greece. We got all dressed up in our South African flag colours, entered that historic stadium together and crossed the finish line holding hands. I hated just about every second of that race, but that moment was priceless. There was barely a sole cheering us on (spectators are not allowed into this ancient ruin), but we felt Olympic-level victorious.

Our first ultra marathon was the Comrades Marathon. This is a world famous race, run between 2 cities on the east coast of South Africa – Pietermaritzburg and Durban. It is just shy of 90km – no joke – and is a mental and physical challenge that, in my opinion, comes closest to the challenge of natural childbirth (childbirth stills wins). http://www.comrades.com

This is not a race that you hold hands and skip through together. Hell no. So, it was pure serendipity that we ended up sticking near each other for most of the race. She would hobble past me on every downhill and I would curse past her on every up.

Unless you are superhuman, there is no way you are having a wonderful time on this race for the entire 90kms. At some point, humour fails impressively, everything and everyone pisses you off and you begin to picture the demise of anyone who supported this stupid decision. But, with one foot painfully in front of the other, mental strength takes over from the physical strength you lost about 6 neighbourhoods ago and you power on to the finish line.

It wasn’t planned (mainly because at certain moments in the last 20ks I wanted to elbow my mom in the stomach for making me do this ridiculous race), but we found each other in the final stretch and, in the sweat of a beautiful coincidence, we made yet another running memory and finished together.

So yes, the finish line of a one miler may seem like nothing and, when looked on in isolation, I guess it is. But this mile has set in motion a dream of countless miles and finish lines as a family. As I sat on the couch last night, thinking back over the day, I couldn’t help but smile at the possibilities that could lie ahead – the memories that could be made.

Who knows…perhaps, one day, I will lining up, under the dark city streetlights, and singing Shosholoza with Derek (hubby) and our 2 kids, nervously awaiting the cock crow that signals the start of Comrades. Now wouldn’t that be something?