The Tjômrades

English Version. (Afrikaans further down)

With its 65 km running leg, 24.8 km walking leg, and my own 200m crawling leg, the Comrades is easily the toughest triathlon on the continent. This 90-kilometre ultramarathon stretches from Pietermaritzburg to Durban. The experience is so intense, it takes the average person two years to recover from the post-traumatic stress. That’s also why the organisers wisely alternate the direction of the route every year. No amount of training can truly prepare you for this survival mission.

“Comrade!” says the man to my right as we shuffle nervously in the dark starting pens in Pietermaritzburg. “Your shoelace,” he adds, pointing downward.

Wearing my you-talking-to-me frown, I glance at the man and then at my shoe. “Eish! Thanks, tjôm,” I say as I bend down to tie my loose lace.

“You know you’re allowed to say ‘comrade’ without voting ANC, brother?” he teases.

I look up, unsure, and ask: “I said ‘tjôm’, did I?”

“Yes, you did. But we can call it the ‘Tjômrades’ if you prefer,” he grins.

“That’s really funny, Comrade Tjôm,” I shoot back.

We laugh, chat easily, and wish each other well. But when that rooster crows and the race begins, a chill runs down my spine. I freeze and think of my sins: “What have I gotten myself into!?” A spirit of solemnity grips me as we shuffle forward toward the start line. It was right there that I realised—one never, ever jokes about the Comrades. The temptation to laugh at the little naked Greek figure on the Comrades logo is understandable—most people don’t get it at first. But you can get into serious trouble mocking that flamboyantly waving, light-footed man skipping shyly across the laurel ribbon.

The deeper meaning of the logo only reveals itself once you notice the winged sandals around his ankles, the Asterix-style helmet, and the winged staff tucked under his arm.

The deeper meaning of the logo only reveals itself once you notice the winged sandals around his ankles, the Asterix-style helmet, and the winged staff tucked under his arm. The truth is mythological—almost supernatural—and it only makes sense after ninety kilometers, once you've been stripped of all dignity. But at that moment, I had one hell of a road ahead of me...

There is one thing the organisers might want to reconsider: the logo would make a lot more sense inverted—a black figure on a yellow background instead of a yellow figure on black. Think about it: when, if ever, has a Greek last won the Comrades?

The first leg of this triathlon is ironically the only time the legs still function. My only inner debate was how fast I should run to avoid getting too cold and not burn my legs too early. I wondered whether that one plate of pap could carry me all the way to Durban—and how much I should be eating along the way. Running numbs the brain. Maybe that’s a good thing—thinking burns unnecessary energy. I tried to do the math, but the minutes, hours, and kilometers refused to add up. I even asked myself, smartly: why aren’t there 100 seconds in a minute, 100 minutes in an hour, and maybe just 10 or 20 hours in a day?

Time evaporated as the running drained my brain. At halfway, I realised I’d just run the furthest I’ve ever run in my life. A massive digital clock showed my official time: four hours, thirty-two minutes and a few seconds. I tossed out the two minutes and the seconds to make the math easier and doubled the four and a half. Shoh, I thought: if I can keep this up, a nine-hour Comrades would be brilliant!

But the Comrades doesn’t work with your math. Those discarded few minutes and seconds don’t take kindly to being ignored.

The second leg of the Comrades caught me off guard. “She wanted to sit, so she already sat,” jokes the Afrikaans poet A.G. Visser about Fat Aunt Sien. Well, I still wanted to run, but I was already walking. And ‘Fat Aunt Sien’ who passed me at the 65 km mark, is probably still happily trotting along. Initially, I planned to run the whole way and only walk through the water stations. But there are so many water stations—and the temptation to walk the whole way made me feel guilty—so I kept running most of the time until 65 km. At that exact point, my strategy changed radically. From there, I decided to walk the whole way and jog through the water points—because, I told myself, I didn’t want to disappoint my supporters!

And so, step by step, I tackled the second leg of the Comrades. Like day two of any new diet, I gave in to everything that looked remotely edible: jelly babies, boiled potatoes, bananas, oranges—even a chunk of boerewors and a sip of beer a supporter offered me. I didn’t care about those blue energy drinks anymore. I even downed a sachet of traditional amasi! I said no to nothing—and it worked. The power of jaw muscles must never be underestimated. I quite literally ate my way through the second leg of the Comrades.

The nine-hour mark came and went. I decided that ten was a rounder, prettier number anyway—but ten also started fading. Then I figured that eleven—with its two neat little legs—had its own kind of mathematical beauty... and everyone knows that after twelve, your coach turns into a pumpkin. My shoes certainly felt like they were made of glass as I carefully measured every step to avoid dying of pain.

Everything was in motion—walking motion, of course. And so, like a prince in glass shoes, I waltzed into the stadium after ninety kilometers. I wasn’t expecting the third leg of my Comrades triathlon. I’d seen this moment on TV many times, but it still caught me off guard—and it was unavoidable. When my knee hit the ground, I finally understood why the Comrades ends on a sports field: the grass is far more forgiving on hands and knees than tar and concrete. My crawl had begun. I got back on my feet somewhere, but not for long.

I now know that the barricades aren’t there to keep supporters in place—they’re to keep the stragglers on course. When I crawled that final step across the finish line, I was in heaven—or rather, on Mount Olympus. No words can better describe that feeling than the wings on the Comrades logo figure. I was flat on the ground, but soaring like an eagle. A minute or so later, after I received my bronze medal, I felt a hand tap my shoulder, followed by the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard:

“Well done, Comrade Tjôm!”

Die Tjômrades

Afrikaanse Weergawe

Met sy 65 km hardloopbeen, sy 24,8 km stapbeen en my 200 m kruipbeen, is die Comrades gemaklik die strafste driekamp op die vasteland. Hierdie negentig-kilometer marathon strek vanaf Pietermaritzburg tot in Durban. Die ervaring is so impakvol; dit neem die gemiddelde persoon twee jaar om te herstel van die post traumatiese stress en dis ook om hiérdie rede dat die organiseerders kies om die roete al om die ander jaar in die teenoorgestelde rigting te stuur. Geen hoeveelheid voorbereiding kan jou slyp vir hierdie oorlewingstryd nie.

"Comrade!" sê die man hier aan my regterkant toe ons in die donker wegspringhokke in Pietermaritzburg staan en rondtrippel. "Your shoelace" en hy beduie met sy vinger.

Met my praat-jy-met-my frons kyk ek toe vir die man en toe vir my skoen. "Eish! Thanks tjôm", sê ek toe, terwyl ek afbuk om my los veter vas te maak.

"You know you're allowed to say 'comrade' without voting ANC, brother?" Sê hy toe tergend.

Ek kyk toe onseker op en vra: "I said 'tjôm', did I?"

"Yes, you did. But we can call it the ‘Tjômrades’ if you prefer," het hy geskerts en groot geglimlag.

“That's really funny, Comrade Tjôm", kap ek hom toe terug.

Ons het lekker gelag, los gesels en mekaar voorspoed toegewens en toe daai haan kraai, vries ek en dink aan my sondes: “Waarin het ek my begewe!?" 'n Gees van erns het my oorval terwyl ons vorentoe skarrel om oor die beginstreep te kom. Ek het daar besef dat mens nooit-ooit grappies maak oor die Comrades nie. Die versoeking mag bestaan om te lag vir die kaalgat Griekse-figuurtjie op die Comrades-logo, maar dis net omdat meeste mense dit aan die begin nie verstaan nie. Jy kan in elk geval in baie groot moeilikheid kom as jy sou spot met die kaal mannetjie met sy flambojante wuif wat so skuins, skaam en ligvoets oor die lorierlint galop. Die dieper betekenis van die logo word eers ontsluit wanneer mens die vlerkstrikkies om die man se enkels agterkom. So ook die Astrix-hoedjie en die gevleuelde staf onder die linkerarm. Die ware betekenis van die logo is mitologies en boweaards en eers na negentig kilometer, wanneer jy kaalgestroop is van al jou waardigheid, sal jy verstaan. Maar op daai oomblik het een maar-moerse pad my voorgelê... Daar is tog een ding wat die organiseerders behoort te oorweeg: Die logo sal veel meer sin maak as mens dit in die inverse beskou; 'n swart mannetjie op 'n geel agtergrond in plaas van ‘n geel mannetjie op ‘n swart agtergrond. Dink mooi: Wanneer, indien ooit, het 'n Griek laas die Comrades gewen?

Die dieper betekenis van die logo word eers ontsluit wanneer mens die vlerkstrikkies om die man se enkels agterkom. So ook die Astrix-hoedjie en die gevleuelde staf onder die linkerarm.

Been een van die driekamp is ironies die enigste tyd wat altwee jou bene funksioneer. Al waaroor ek met myself stry gekry het was oor hoe vinnig ek nou eintlik behoort te draf om nie te koud te word nie en nie die pap, te vroeg, te dik, aan te maak nie. Toe wonder ek onwillekeurig of daai bord mieliepap my sou dra tot in Durban en hoeveel ek langs te pad behoort te eet. Hardloop verdoof die brein. Dis ôk maar goed so, want, om-te-dink verbruik onnodige energie. Ek het probeer somme maak, maar die minute en ure en kilometers kon nie klop nie en ek vra myself toe ewe slim: hoekom is daar nie honderd sekondes in 'n minuut, honderd minute in 'n uur en tien of miskien twintig ure in 'n dag nie? Die tyd het vinnig verdamp algaande die draf my brein dreineer. By die halfpadmerk het ek besef dat dit die verste was wat ek nog ooit op een slag gehardloop het. Die groot digitale horlosie het my offisiële tyd vertoon; vier uur en twee-en-dertig minute en paar sekondes. Ek gooi toe die twee minute en paar sekondes weg om somme makliker te maak en maal die vier-en-‘n-half met twee. Sjoe, dink ek toe: Sê nou ek kon hierdie tempo volhou - 'n nege-uur Comrades sal bakgat wees! Maar die Comrades laat nie met hom sommetjies maak nie. Daai twee minute en paar sekondes laat nie met hulle mors nie.

Die tweede been van die Comrades het my onverhoeds betrap. “Sy wou gaan sit toe sit sy al”, spot die digter A.G. Visser met Vet Tante Sien. Wel, ek wou nog hardloop toe loop ek al. Ja, en ‘Vet Tante Sien’ wat op daardie 65km-merk by my verby is, hol seker nog steeds vrolik voort. Aanvanklik was my beplanning om heelpad te hardloop en slegs deur die waterpunte ‘n stappie te maak, maar daar is so baie waterpunte en die versoeking om heelpad te stap het my ongemaklik laat voel en toe hardloop ek maar meeste van die tyd tot by die 65km-merk. Op presies daardie oomblik het my strategie radikaal verander. Van daar het ek besluit om heelpad te stap en die waterpunte binne te draf, want, het ek gedink, ek wil nie graag my ondersteuners teleurstel nie! En so al-stappende het ek die tweede been van die Comrades aangedurf. Soos op die tweede dag van enige nuwe eetplan het ek ook besluit om myself oor te gee aan alles wat soos kos lyk. Jelliebabies, ertappels, piesangs, lemoene en selfs ‘n stuk boerewors en ‘n slukkie bier wat ‘n ondersteuner my aangebied het. Blou energiedrankies het my niks meer geskeel nie en ek het selfs ‘n sakkie tradisionele amasi weggesluk! Ek het eenvoudig vir niks nee gesê nie en dit het gewerk. Die krag van ‘n mens se kaakspiere mag nooit onderskat word nie. Ek het myself letterlik deur die tweede been van die Comrades gevreet. Die nege-uur baken het gekom en gegaan. Tien is in elk geval ‘n ronder en mooier getal het ek gedink, maar tien was ook besig om te kwyn. Toe reken ek dat elf, met sy twee ewewydige beentjies, vir sy eie wiskundige skoonheid sorg... en almal weet, dat na twaalf-uur, jou koets in ‘n pampoen verander. My skoene het hoeka gevoel of hulle van glas gemaak is toe ek versigtig elke tree moes afmeet om nie van pyn te dood nie.

Alles was op spoed, stapspoed natuurlik. En so het die prinses met sy glasskoene na negentig kilometer die stadion inwals. Die derde been van my Comrades-driekamp was ek nie te wagte nie. Al het ek dié toneel al meermale op TV aanskou, was dit steeds onverwags, maar ook onvermydelik. Toe my knieg die grond tref, het ek ‘n eerste keer verstaan hoekom die Comrades altyd op ‘n sportveld eindig; die gras is baie meer genadig op die hande en knieë as die teer en beton. My kruiptog het aangebreek. Ek het êrens weer op my bene gekom, maar dit was van korte duur. Ek weet ook nou dat die barrikades daar is, nie om die ondersteuners op hul plek te hou nie, maar om die strompelaars op koers te hou. Toe ek daai laaste tree oor die eindstreep kruip was ek in die hemel, of moet ek eerder sê, op die berg Olympus. Geen woorde kan die gevoel beter beskryf as daardie vlerkies op die Comrades-figuurtjie nie; ek was plat op die grond, maar het gesweef soos ‘n swael. ‘n Minuut of wat later, nadat ek my brónsmedalje ontvang het, voel ek skierlik ‘n klop aan my skouer, vergesel deur die mooiste woorde ooit:

“Geluk, comrade Tjôm!”