Tough, tougher, toughest

The previous week's oddball cold weather in mid-November made an exit out of Jozi just in time for the city's tough event of the year. I've been told by numerous people that it lives up to its name. 3500 enthusiastic runners thronged to the start line outside RAC, nervous first-timers such as moi and seasoned participants gunning for their permanent number. Phutt! The gun goes off, stopwatches are set and a wave of bodies sweep up the hill on Jan Smuts Avenue. At the turn into Republic Road the big kahuna awaits, 2 km of dominant uphill, and this is just the start. Only one and half km in and a 'oh-no' numbness in the left foot and familiar a burning sensation in the right ankle that tells tales of lactic acid and insufficient warm ups creeps up on me. I know from experience that this can last for a while and worsen if I don't slow way down, so I slow down just a little. It's a long, long way to go, baby.

At about 3 and a half kays on the top of the hill I'm more or less on target at 6min/k and now it's just time to engage 4th gear and cruise. The soft waves of gradual downs and ups along Malibongwe Drive takes us up to about 11km before turning into Witkoppen. I'm feeling strong at the 10km mark and making good time, the numbness and burning decided the pace was too slow for them and moved on, but a pitstop put a spanner in the wheel, though I was grateful for the convenient stone wall on an elevated empty stand amongst the vegetation. Though there were portaloos, they were mostly occupied. On the downhill on Witkoppen whilst trying to make up for the few lost minutes at the pitstop. I saw a couple of men who had apparently answered to the call of nature on the empty stand before the turn, and then conveniently took a short cut through the bend. It got me wondering facetiously whether the reason why the winning men are always so many minutes ahead of the women in races, is because, one, their physical make up is so much more practical in many ways, and two, they get away with a little bit of cheating. Of course this is not true. In every race I do, I see at least one truly inspirational person. It was along this part of the route that I saw a 60-year old male runner, and I wanted to greet him, say well done, pat him on the back, just something to encourage him and show my respect. And then I thought, he probably does this all the time. No big deal. But it is a big deal. It's a very big deal the older you get, that is why I am in awe and endlessly inspired by older athletes such as these, and not a fraction of an iota by the young guns.

During this race I found much to be grateful for. The fact that we got respite from the rain, and the cool weather and clusters of cloud sustained just long enough for at least two-thirds of my race. I was grateful to my body that day for not letting me down in many ways. I sometimes experience sharp knee pains, distances of more than 15 often give me blisters, stitches happen after drinking, over a long race any one of these ailments could have occurred, but the only niggliness was the tender hot spot in the ball of my right foot in the first half of the race. I tried to make up my mind whether I should ask for a moleskin patch from my second when I see him for the first meeting point at the 18km mark. I decided to push through. I had only done one 21km race before this and never ran anything longer. I remember a point around the 22km mark going up Main Road between the Clay Oven and the Bryanston post office, I deliberately kept my eyes reverted down so I couldn't see the hill ahead of me, but for a few minutes I looked up, looked around me, at the stream of amazing people ahead of me, many who were 60 + and I couldn't help smiling. I was really doing this. There was no more pain, and no more fear. I was here.

Every step of the way, I was grateful for the people who gave me encouragement, mentored me, and believed in me. I was even so priviledged to have been seconded. And even though all I needed from my second was a drink of energy whenever I saw him, seeing him was the best part of the race, besides finishing. There were those who said, with great emphasis, that the Tough One is tough. That is true, for I saw the strain on their faces, I heard the heavy breathing, the laboured foot falls as I passed by. There were just as many others who said, "No! don't listen to them. It is not tough, tough is in your head." In the month that followed after I entered this race, I kept this in my mind and it became my mantra. Yes I was nervous, I didn't know how I would fare, I'm experienced enough to know that anything can happen, at the back of my mind I knew that I could do it in 3:30, but I wanted to do better. Not just for myself, but for all those people who gave me the confidence when I myself had little.

I ran past some walkers and I heard "Go Run/Walk For Life!" and looked back to see a RWFLifer beaming and cheering me on. At the top of the hill on Main, when I saw my second, I stopped to walk and take in a drink, and it was there that I realised my legs had turned to lime jelly. I couldn't feel them and they wobbled a little, I had to focus for a few seconds to keep them going in a straight line. But since I couldn't feel them, I figured, that's a good thing too, at least they don't hurt. The body is strange. Remarkable, but strange. You can keep hammering it and you can make it keep running for hours on end and it will just keep going because you ask it to, because you will it to. And then when its all over and you give it permission to stop, it really does come to a grinding halt. For most of the race, I cannot say that I felt real pain in my legs, but five minutes after crossing the finish line, I could barely walk. One valuable lesson I learnt to do after a long race: do not just sit down and rest. You will not be able to move after that. You will require a wheelchair, you will turn into a cabbage.

Just before the 31km mark I felt a dreaded squeezing sensation of cramping muscles. Only one more kilometre, don't do this now, cramp all you want later, breathe deep, think calm... and then I saw my club manager's smiling face and the panic stopped before it began. That last short steep hill was worse than the 10km climb prior to it. Many runners were walking up, huffing and puffing up, I just wanted to make it up. To this day I still don't know how. How the cramping stopped, how I managed to keep running up that hill, how I found the last bit of energy to pick up speed as I passed through the entrance of the RAC. Some women on the side cheered me on as I raced to the finish line, knocking down a couple of men on my way! My second was there, ready to pick up the pieces. I clocked 3:17. I had finally arrived. Some people may only feel like a true runner once they've done a marathon, I felt like a true runner then. That's the Tough One, it brings you down to earth, it gives you damn good idea of your true abilities and achievements, it's tougher than most marathons. Yes, it's tough, but tough is in the mind.

The Many Metaphors of the Learning Curve

Often it feels like the faster I peddle the less I go anywhere. The web has opened up a plethora of possiblities and opportunites, but it is also opening them up at an exponential rate that unless you're the Lance Armstrong of learning curves, it's either switch to granny gears and try and keep up or turn around and bail out, but one must keep up with the Joneses and the Joneses I know are always the ones way up front on the cutting edge of that damned sickel.

It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks, and though I am old in chronological years, I am as frisky as a Jack Russel. One who has 29 years of post-matric work experience behind her is undoubtedly old. I get shouted at rather regularly when I state this fact, as if I was admitting to stupidity. It's odd really. But I do sometimes tackle the learning curve like a puppy dog with a shoelace, which, to another human being, can seem something like an exercise in stupidity.

At other times, my ever present companion sits next to me like a shadow that forever stretches into the distance. Sometimes it's fat and short and shaped rather unattractively. Squatting out in front of me and reminding me of how much work I have to do to achieve my goals. Other times it's long and thin and runs along side me and laughs with me. I have learnt to embrace it, yet oh yes, I am still learning to make real peace with it.

My formative years have been, to say the least, unusual. Unusual in a way that a middle class White South African would call unusual. I am not White, I am neither Black nor Coloured, nor any other colour one may choose to use for a person's race. As a Chinese South African pre-94 I had a little more opportunities for education than a Black person, but for reasons only my parents themselves know, schooling was second fiddle to working in the family business. So I studied little, and scraped and squeezed through matric kicking and screaming. If you ever ask me and I tell you I have no regrets. Don't believe a word. I won't believe you. I regret,
wholeheartedly and unashamedly, not paying attention at school. Enough said. And so the stage was set for my entire working career to come. Needless to say, the lack of meaningful education and alphabets to the end of my name always subconciously, (and often consciously) hindered me, made me feel inferior, and created a mountain that should have stayed a molehill. Forever and a day that mountain is a part of the learning curve that I am constantly climbing.

So here I sit with 29 years of work experience, an infallible track record for attendance, and a folder full of (whoopie) certificates that are worth less than the space they take up in my study. What should I do with a NPC3 qualification in photolithography, numerous certificates in various print and web software applications, and certificates for this and that design course or another from a previous life when all I do when I'm not working is learning about "the next big thing", because I have come to the revelation that actually, that current next big thing - social media - is what I have been passionate about since the inception of the internet. Everyone is going on about Web 2.0 as if it's a new concept. It is and it isn't. UseNet groups in the history of the internet were made up of individuals who developed a communication style that didn't come from grammar books and English professors with marketing or journalism degrees. And then later came the Chat rooms like Firefly which got me running up the agency stairs to boot up the Mac. The internet has come full circle and grown up.

I am proud to say I've grown up with it. I know how web users think, and I know how they like it. I will even have the audacity to say I was one of the first. This would somehow make me qualified to a certain degree to write copy for the web, to manage content in various social media sites and to do it predominantly well. And I do. And I have. But it's not enough. Not enough to answer an ad that glibly asks for 3 years experience, plus degree/diploma in journalism/copywriting/marketing, plus samples of, etc. And so I sit on the inside of this learning curve that looks like a tunnel, and I peddle. I pedal because it's the only thing I know, and hope that I can pedal faster than that damned curve.