Paul Reese MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON @ 95

From the outset, my battle plan for doing the race was predicated on finishing. Yield not to the temptation to try to excel in my age division. I’d done that in the 54-mile London-to-Brighton race at age 61 and wound up wobbling to an 8:12 finish.

MILEAGE IN THE BANK

Leaving home for South Africa, I felt that I’d logged sufficient mileage during the three months preceding the race to get me throughit, and my confidence was also bolstered by some races I had survived.

In the 112 days prior to leaving home on May 24, I had logged 1,138 miles for a daily average of 10.16 miles, load enough for my 72-year-old body. My long runs in February were 20, 16, 38, 22, 20, and 16 miles; in March, two marathons and a 50-mile race; inApril two marathons, two SOK races, anda 50K training run. In May I slacked off with five 12-mile runs and six 10-mile runs. I picked up confidence for the 90K Comrades distance from having survived 60 ultra races, plus more than double that number of marathons.

Calling on my racing experience of 24 years (first race in 1965 at age 48), I made all the logistical preparations I could think of to ease the race. Following my custom, I wore a lightweight racing flat. Knowing that my body would find the 6:00 a.m. start cold, I wore a long-sleeved polypropylene top and a tank top over it. Over my nylon shorts, I wore a pair of Sporthills. Aware that I would be shedding the Sporthills early in the race, and planning to make this whole enterprise as simple as possible, I had my wife cut the Sporthills from waist to toe, then sew Velcro on both sides of the slits. That done, we simply fastened the Velcro; when it came time in the race to shed, I could do it with one quick yank.

Thus it was that I arrived in Durban, South Africa, where the race finished, girded and well prepared for battle. That was on a Friday. On Saturday, to paraphrase Robert Burns, the best laid plans of man went astray. I was seized with a violent case of what the Aussies call “the squitters,” Marines call the “galloping gizmos,” and tourists call “Montezuma’s revenge.” That’s right— Thad diarrhea.

Immediately, I called upon my friend Kaopectate. But it was not effective because for the next four days, right to the very morning of the race, my running, with some urgency and vigor, was focused on the bathroom. All the time, I kept losing strength and, with each day, my anxiety about starting the race, let alone finishing, mounted.

Paul Reese MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON Mf 97

As Paff and I, carrying duffel bags with our clothes, walked the mile from our hotel in Pietermaritzburg (also known as Maritzburg, being named after Pieter Retief and Gerrit Maritz), I was drooping with disappointment, thinking, Hell, I’ ve got to give it a try and see what happens.

A CARNIVAL OF 20,000 FEET Arriving at the start, Paff and I found the atmosphere pretty much as Tim Naokes describes in Lore of Running:

“The atmosphere is carnival. We are an eccentric family doing for one day what we like the best. And no matter how humble the results, for eleven hours we are loved and applauded for it. From dawn until the sun sets in Durban, we are the children of the road, to be succored, encouraged, praised, protected. Today there can be only one outcome, each runner a winner, each a hero.”

Before lining up for the 6:00 a.m. start, I had to make one last frantic dash to anearby vacant lot and some bushes. To stand waiting in a portable potty line would have resulted in disaster. I appreciated the solitude of the lot and the concealment that the bushes and morning darkness afforded.

When Paff and I hurried to the starting line, we had no trouble lining up with the 8:30 to 9:00 pace group. As we stood waiting for the start, I found myself thinking, I really don’t need this dose of diarrhea. After all, I’m bringing enough excess baggage to the starting line with my asthma, 36 radiation treatments for prostate cancer two years ago, and a bad back.

THE THREAT OF CUTOFF TIMES

Another thing I thought of was the hurdles that all of us wannabe finishers faced in the race: the distance, the hills, an 11-hour cutoff time for finishing, and cutoff times at three places along the way: Drummond at 45K (five hours, 30 minutes), 20K to go in nine hours, and 7K to go in 10:30.

I made a pace chart gauged on an 11-hour finish, which called for a pace of 7:20 per kilometer (or 11:44 per mile). It was reassuring to reach into my pack at the start and confirm I’d remembered to pack the chart.

About then I discovered gold: the Comrades refreshment stations, the first of 55 along the course. At each station runners were offered Coca Cola, water, an electrolyte, biscuits (cookies), chocolate, and a water trough for splashing. The aid stations became my lifeline to the finish.

By now I became aware that I was beginning to attract attention because of my vintage and my number. Respecting my age, runners passing me yelled encouragement: “Keep going!” “Hang in there.” “Good work.” Never in over 24 years have I received more encouragement from fellow runners.

20 TO 30K I took stock and was surprised, while doing a body systems check, to find no signs of rebellion from any body component. Seeing that, at 30K, I was 20 minutes ahead of the cutoff time hoisted my morale flag. By now I had shed my Sporthills and polypro top.

40 TO 50K By now nobody has to tell me there’s a lot of uphill on this downhill course. “Oh beautiful world,” I was thinking as I arrived at Drummond 50 minutes ahead of the cutoff time. I was halfway through the race and was now giving myself a 50/50 chance of finishing.