Carol’s Column

Who said running is fun?

MARATHON runners are tough, strong and hardy.

Believe me. I speak with the voice of experience.

I also ache with the pain of experience. In every muscle, joint and tendon I own.

Everywhere.

“There's a fun run,” said Sam Mirwis about a month ago. “Why don't we enter a Sunday Express team,” he added.

Now Sam Mirwis is a man of many talents. Sports editor and marathon runner, he is also a great persuader.

With a glint in his eye, he called me aside: “Carol, I heard a rumour,” he said.

“Really?” I answered, “tell me, tell me.”

“You know that 702 Fun Run I mentioned before?”

I nodded.

“I hear that Beeld is fielding eight teams. Each team consists of three runners, so I thought it would be a wonderful idea if the Express entered a team too.”

I could only agree.

“Right,” he said, “you're the team captain.”

And that's how it all began. It didn't take me long to rustle up two teams. Just the mention of the possible R3 000 prize did the job.

When I got home that night, I proudly announced my new position to my family. I mean, it's not every day that I become a marathon runner and a team captain.

After they'd all stopped laughing, Jamie said: “Ma, how far have you got to run?”

Good question.

I asked Sam the following day. “Oh, it's a very short distance,” he said, “just a fun run — nothing serious. Only eight kilometres.”

“Eight kilometres?” my legs were already weak with shock. “Sam, I get exhausted just walking from my front door to my car,” I gasped. He thought I was joking. I wasn't.

“We'll go for a small training run around Wemmer Pan tomorrow,” he announced. “Eight kilometres is nothing.”

The other team members were ridiculously fit. There was one provincial squash player, one ex-professional boxer, three regular marathon runners. And me, the team captain who couldn't run half a block without getting a stitch, cardiac arrest, palpitations, sore toes and everything else that middle-aged mothers of four get.

In two weeks, my life changed. My children worked out training routes and took it in turns to accompany me. “I appreciate your concern,” I wheezed to Ralph, as we trotted around Zoo Lake for the sixth time.

“Ma, we know if we don't come, you'll chicken out,” he answered. How true.

Each evening I returned home, limping, aching and breathless.

And each day, I surveyed my team-mates at the office. They didn't train. They drank beer. They stayed awake until the early hours jolling each night away.

“Have you trained?” I'd ask them beseechingly.

“Tomorrow,” they'd reply.

And then came the night before The Day. Team-mate Rob Taylor phoned me just as I was doing toe exercises to improve my circulation.

“Carol,” he said, “we've got a slight problem. Peter Wallington's got flu and Sam Mirwis has a crisis — he can't make it. Can't your kids run?”

“They're swotting for exams,” I replied in despair. Two-thirds of a team gone in one fell swoop.

And then I remembered Barry, my oldest son, home on vacation from university. Even better, I remembered his friend Isaac from Cape Town, who had the great misfortune to be holidaying with us. And then I had the ultimate brainwave.

I thought of Barry's mate Ian — a true-blue marathon runner.

“Don't worry, we'll be at Milner Park at 8.45am tomorrow,” I told Rob.

And so we were. It didn't matter that Barry, Isaac or Ian had been up until 3am the previous night. It didn't matter that we were the only two teams to pin our numbers on with nappy pins.

There we stood at the start with 6 000 other runners, including one Beeld team who positioned themselves cunningly in front of us.

And then we were off.

Mind you, for the first kilometre or so, it wasn't possible to run. We were swept along with the swarms. Then came the hills and the harder shot away leaving the rest of us panting behind.

Oh the agony of the uphills and the ecstasy of the downhills. On and on we ran. “Just another seven kilometres to go, Ma,” muttered my son, running beside me. Oh, how I longed for a car, a bicycle, or even a wheelbarrow in which to sit.

“I'm dying!” I groaned after two kilometres.

“I'm dead!” I moaned after three.

After that, I couldn't speak, I had no more breath.

And then, after the longest 50 minutes of my life, the top entrance of Milner Park Showgrounds loomed — large and loving.

Also ahead, equally large but not so loving, loomed the Beeld team.

“Come on,” yelled Dave and Barry in my ear, “let's sprint. Sprint? Oh, my God, they were serious.

As we entered the arena, I saw the finishing line. What a glorious sight. Ten metres before the flag, we watched the Beeld team fling their arms around each other and run towards that line.

“Run, Carol, run!” yelled David. So I did. And we pipped Beeld on the line. What joy!

I'm afraid I have to cut this column short now. I'm in training for the Comrades.

Just a mere 90km or so — that's all.

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