It was on my bucket list but never happened — to run the Comrades Marathon.
My long-suffering wife, Naomi, would readily confirm that throughout my 30s after each run I would solemnly declare, eyes aglow with zest and zeal, that I would be in the field for the next run.
And each year she would throw her eyes heavenwards and mutter: “There he goes again!”
In my 80s the zest and zeal, now admittedly somewhat diluted, are still there but alas, even a shuffle along the passage to the Berea Gardens dining room from my flat seems like a marathon in itself!
To this day, though, I remain in awe and admiration of those intrepid souls who toe the line at some absurd hour of the morning every year to pound the tarmac either between Durban and Pietermaritzburg or vice versa.
And in a few short weeks, it will be Comrades time again when a 20,000-strong swathe of slightly insane but happy humanity will emerge into a Pietermaritzburg dawn to risk life and limb in the quest to run about 90km downhill to Durban in less than 12 hours.
And as they shed blood, sweat and tears, I will again be with them in watching happily from in front of the telly — in my pyjamas and dressing gown!
At the Dispatch in my time were a number of colleagues who had completed several Comrades.
Among them were chaps like Glyn Williams and Binks Arnold, who after the run always had harrowing tales of self-inflicted woes of one kind or another, and saying things like “never again”.
But every year, driven by the amazing camaraderie inherent in long-distance athletes, there they were again lined up at the start!
One year, Binks told us how he had chased five-time Comrades winner and Helsinki marathon Olympian, the legendary Wally Hayward, then an old man, but couldn’t catch him.
“All I could see for mile after weary mile was the sight of these huge thighs ahead of me pumping like well-oiled pistons uphill and down dale!”
I know what it takes for a serious athlete to run a marathon and it’s no picnic believe me.
For several years just before moving here to Berea Gardens, we lived with my late son, Perry, and his wife, Karen, a former Eastern Cape athletic coach of the year.
With them for a designated period of time before a major run was Lusapho April, a standard marathon superstar — an athlete whom Karen had nurtured and trained ever since she “discovered” this 13-year-old lad on the dusty streets of a Kariega township.
Karen’s meticulous training regime turned Lusapho into a double Olympian.
For a time, I was a small part of that world, having often been designated to transport Lusapho before dawn to some designated point to hell and gone on the Macleantown or Komani roads for meticulously planned and timed training runs.
Weeks before a big marathon this routine was relentlessly increased.
And then there was Shaun Micklejohn, Comrades winner in 1995 and holder of 10 Comrades Marathon gold medals.
Shaun was dispatched by the army authorities to Komani as a young man just out of university to do his two-year national service and liked the place so much he decided to stay on.
He joined the Queenstown Harriers Athletics Club and his promise as a long-distance athlete was soon evident, winning the Bongolo Marathon among other races.
I got to know him well. When he decided to run Comrades, I promoted him by phoning the relevant media sources in Durban. “Shaun who?” they scoffed.
Well, they soon found out later didn’t they, when he won the race.
Shaun (now 60) was a regular visitor with the great Bruce Fordyce to the Surfer’s Marathon in East London.
And who can forget East London’s Zeb Luhabe who ran 11 Comrades but finished within the time limit only once — his last, at the age of 76 in 2003.
TV viewers that year saw the dramatic and heart-rending spectacle of the lion-hearted Border runner staggering towards the finish line, nose bloodied by an earlier fatigue-induced fall.
The race official was already holding aloft the cut-off gun and counting down the final seconds.
Zeb fell across the line with literally one second to spare to cheering applause from the huge crowd gathered at the Kingsmead finish line in Durban.
Zeb was presented with the special Comrades trophy for his gallant run. He died in his early 90s not long ago.
Rest in peace, my friend. You were a gentleman and an inspiration to hundreds of Border’s township children.
But let me take you back 100 years through the mists of time and tell you something of the very first up-run of the Comrades Marathon in 1922 and of the participation of a truly remarkable man and Natal legend — a physical and intellectual giant of a man, Bill Payn.
The beloved teacher of generations of Durban High School boys and a former Natal cricketer and Springbok lock forward, among other sporting accomplishments, saw action in two world wars.
As a matter of interest, Sgt Bill Payn was possibly the only man under the rank of general to have a shell-hole named after him.
I was greatly privileged to have known him as an English tutor and my cricket coach at DHS.
When Bill died in October of 1959, the streets from his home to the cemetery 3km away were lined with mourners and at the graveside a crowd of 2,000 had gathered, reported by the Durban press to be the biggest ever to attend a funeral in Natal.
His exploits in that 1922 Comrades Marathon, when he finished eighth, are still spoken of in awe, admiration and a great deal of respectful mirth and more than a 100 years later the things he did on that grinding, heartbreaking 86.9km from Durban to Maritzburg run still turn long-distance runners pale with disbelief.
Here is Bill’s account of that race in his own picturesque phrasing:
“When Arthur Newton [winner of that 1922 Comrades run and four more] wrote to me in 1922 to tell me of his resolution to run in the second marathon from Durban to Pietermaritzburg, I decided that I too would enter, for was not Arthur 10 years older than I and what he was prepared to do I could in no way shirk.
“He came to Durban and stayed with me and was shocked to learn I had done no training. He persuaded me to have at least one practise run with him and so at an unearthly hour one morning we went out for some 10 miles [16km] along what was called, with delicious irony, the main road.
“I marvelled at his easy, shuffling run. Had I been sensible, I should have realised that discretion demanded my withdrawing my name from the contest. I was, however, young and foolish and ignored the shepherd’s warning.
“My name was not withdrawn and on a bleak May morning of 1922, I toed the line at Toll Gate. There was a huge field and to give some idea of its magnitude, it is sufficient to state the number allotted to me was the authentic Nelsonian one of 111.
“Some civic dignitary fired a pistol and then very sensibly beggared off back to his bed. When the shot rent the morning air off we sped like a crowd of Armenian refugees fleeing from the wrath of a Turkish army.
“When I got to Hillcrest my feet were giving me so much pain that I took off my rugger boots [yes, rugby boots!] to make an inspection in loco. Things were pretty gloomy and I was not just a little perturbed at the “undulation” of blisters that had formed on the soles of both feet.
“Some kind fellow handed me a pot of brilliantine with which I anointed my feet and then I repaired to the hotel and knocked back a huge plate of bacon and eggs.
“This done, I felt much refreshed and pushed on for Botha’s Hill. The old road went directly up the hill and when I got to the top I found “Zulu” Wade sitting on the bank and looking in pretty poor shape.
“We exchanged notes and then took stock of ourselves. I fear we did not move with the freedom of younger athletes but rather resembled two old ducks.
“Zulu, however, assured me that our condition would improve as soon as his supporter came along on his motorbike.
“We had not long to wait for the good fellow to arrive. He took a wicker basket from the carrier, and took out a delicious curried chicken lying in a huge snowdrift of rice.
“Zulu and I shared it out equally and threw the lot down the hatch and then slogged along in happy companionship together for Drummond.
“Here we bent our steps to a pleasant oasis — the pub — and according to Harold Sulin, I had a dozen beers lined up on the counter.
“Zulu and I were determined not so much to celebrate a victory as to drown our sorrows.
“A race official came in and said: “Bill what are you doing here? Why don’t you push on? There are only five runners ahead of you and only Newton is miles ahead of the field and going like a bomb.”
“I looked at my number, 111, and wondered what had happened to the rest of the field. I could hardly believe what I was told.
“Zulu’s sorrows, I noticed, had gone down for the third time and he assured me they were completely drowned and wished me the best of luck and Godspeed. I set out alone for Maritzburg.
“Somewhere along Harrison Flats, I noticed a frail little lady with pink cheeks standing at the side of the road. She held up in one hand a bottle and in the other, a glass.
“I stopped and with old world courtesy bowed low, saying: “Madame, your servant to command.”
“It’s peach brandy,” she volunteered, “and I made it myself.”
“I gulped down a full tumbler of this homemade brew and in a second realised I had swallowed a near-lethal dose of the rawest liquor I had ever tasted!
“I remain convinced that to this charming little woman must go full credit for inventing the first liquid fuel for jet engines!
“Very fortunately I was facing Maritzburg but I was too far gone in my cups even to ponder on whether this assistance was consonant with the prescribed laws of amateur marathon running.
“When I passed over the Umsindusi Bridge, I was hailed by my wife’s family, who were taking tea on the veranda.
“I went off the road and joined them in their tea and cakes. While thus happily engaged, two of my “hated rivals” went past up Commercial Road and so it was that I ended the course at number eight.
“In the changing rooms of the Showground, I discovered that the soles of my feet were now two huge pads of blood blisters.
“A friend then came in and said: “Bill I hope you haven’t forgotten Old Collegians are playing Rovers tomorrow and you have to play. He gave me a lift back to Durban on his motorbike and I played the match at fullback in ‘takkies’.”
In this manner, legends of the famous Comrades Marathon are born.