Principle of the Hiding Hand

Before.

After!

This race report is overdue - largely because I vacillated between the approaches to a race report.

Option A was a detailed, kilometer-by-kilometer analysis which would I would set forth, in lawyerly fashion, every pointilistic detail which went into the making of the experience. 

This would have meant:

•     every Zulu mining song in the pre-dawn dark of the Durban start line,
•     every high five,
•     every energy bean;
•     every brim-full cup of Pepsi spilled on my right shoe at km 66,
•     every weird blister (not unrelated to the Pepsi incident?),
•     every skinny dude in super short shorts sitting with his head between his knees, moaning low, awaiting medevac.... (you see the trajectory dimming a bit).

Happily (for you, gentle reader), I managed even to bore myself with the draft versions of Option A.  Instead, I have chosen Option B, which can be subtitled "Things I may have learned from this".

The things I may have learned can neatly be placed under the Principle of the Hiding Hand (PHH). 

PHH states, simply, that most things which (may) prove worthwhile are so costly and so hard that it is best not to overthink the hurdles at the outset.  PHH is, in origin, a tool of economics, applied to such undertakings as national highway projects or dam building. 

Post WWII, planning experts were routinely wrong about the cost and operational assumptions that went into such projects, by a factor of 1000 or more.  In fairness, the sorts of projects they were undertaking had never before been done by our species. Once concluded (ridiculous cost over-runs and blown deadlines notwithstanding) however, many of these project benefited huge portions of humanity both directly (cheaper transport, more water, the Internet!) and indirectly (by adding how-to (and how-not-to!) knowledge to our planet). 

The fact is, PHH is eminently relevant to our day-to-day lives inasmuch as running Comrades is not dissimilar (for one person), really, to building a national highway system. PHH applies, to the 9th dan, to child rearing as well:

•     you really don't know what you're signing up for,
•     your diligence is sketchy and your assumptions rosy,
•     you commit the hell out of your personal life and public personna (inseparable from your inner self-image, really),
•     and yet, despite all this, you just have a vague but unshakeable sense that, once engaged/completed, this will be fundamentally good for you. 

In this light, here's what I think I learned:

1 Do, rather than think. Self-explanatory, really.  But I generally divide my annual goals up into 'Mental' and 'Physical'.  That architecture is dead for me.  My 2014 list will be couched exclusively as 'actions to be completed'.  My mind is a nice tool for solving discrete tasks, but not for the initial parceling required of larger ones. 

2.  My ability to internalize staggering pieces of information is high.  For instance, the concept of 3D printing is, now, to me, barely cool.  Yet, just six months ago, I thought it was a poor science fiction deus ex machina.  Similarly, in November 2012, the thought of running an 87 kilometer race was like science fiction.  But I just sidestepped the parting clouds, the blaring trumpets, the 'Oh I couldn't possibly', and got down to the nuts and bolts (and tedium) of preparing.

3.  I care desperately what people think.  Finally, and I think this is key to the PHH yielding positive results, I declared my intention to run Comrades, in a way not dissimilar to the way a government announces a 5 year plan, or that it is hosting the World Cup: we stake prestige and self-belief in a public way.  With this public flag planting ceremony, unforeseen hurdles are tackled in creative and resourceful way, and not as personal crosses to be borne. 

Und so, a propos of nothing, and by way of closing celebration, I give you the following impromptu magic/puppet show:

Twas the night before Comrades - Live from Durban

LIVE from Durban

As I’ve mentioned before in these pages, I have been training for the Comrades Ultramarathon on June 3, which is roughly 87km from Durban to St. Petermaaritzburg (called, the ‘up-run’) and the following year vice versa (called the down-run).  2013 is an up-run.  It is the oldest ultra in the world (1921), and was instituted by WWI veterans to try and recreate the camaraderie they required to get through the horrors of the first great war – in which such technologies as barbed wire, machine gunnery, and chemical warfare were first deployed on a large-scale basis. 

For the tough bastards who made it through all that, running 90kms in flannel suits and leather soled shoes while having the occasional pint along the way by way of hydration must have seemed a quaint little lark to be undertaken on a whim, or perhaps as a tipsy wager.

Naturally, they didn’t worry about putting bandaids on their nipples (yes, this is a thing in endurance sports) or how I only have lime-berry flavoured eduro-gels (a gross, malodextrin based concoction that one chokes down to ensure no spikes or troughs in blood sugar levels) left.  So it is with a certain humility that one approaches Comrades, both out of respect for the distance, and the people who have come before you.  I never felt this when I ran, say, the NY marathon, which, while fun, felt a little shop-worn in comparison.  

My friend and neighbor S. the Runner from Swaziland (hereinafter ‘SR’, to avoid confusion with S. the kindergartener), who has run this race 4 times, has been instrumental in planting the seed of this idea, sharing training techniques, encouragement and generally conveying his passion for the race.  Without him, Comrades would be something I would merely read about in an in-flight magazine.  He is the kind of person who actually gets a buzz out of seeing others prosper – I had heard of this phenomenon but have yet to embrace it as a personality trait. 

In this sense, SR embodies all that is best about endurance running – generous with time and experience, competitive (but only with himself), and totally beyond being concerned by such silliness as who finished a particular race first (he generally does, for the record) or pacing or generally the kind of thing you would associate with an accomplished competitor.  I experience this zen-ness every now and then (for a few minutes) but generally I spend the longer runs whinging and/or worrying about where to go the bathroom.  

A word on the training.  I had to stop Karate (more, in another post, on this topic) altogether because my knees started to hurt, and because I needed to be running 3-5 times a week, most during the week, one recovery run with A. on Saturdays, and a long run with the team (there are 3 of us signed up) on Sundays.  The long runs range from 25km-ultra-marathon distance, although we generally measure time-on-feet as being between 3-5 hours.  Our longest team run was 60kms up and down the ridges of the mist-shrouded coffee plantation slopes of Thigoni. 

What do I think about on these every-weekend endeavours, you ask?

• Kms 1 – 5: I wonder if there will be any crepes left when I’m back.  Did I give S. her eye drop before I left? I think I have to pee.
• Kms 5 – 20: I am a world class athlete.  Just look at the foliage whipping by me, I must be doing sub-4 minute kilometers. Oh. (upon consulting the actual pace on my wrist watch)
• Kms 21 – 40: It is hot (by now it is 1030ish).  I really hope they put the crepes in saran-wrap.
• Kms 40 onwards: Brain observing body, without active complaints, but with narrowed and calculating eyes. 

If you’re not from or haven’t lived in an African country, odds are you haven’t heard of Comrades.  This is largely because of the fact that, due to apartheid, South Africa was an island when it came to (what we used to call, gigglingly, at the Model United Nations) international intercourse – and especially in the field of sports.  Consequently, South Africa seems to be a Galapagos for sporting events – with an event like Comrades being nationally televised, graced by several thousand runners, and yet with limited profile internationally. 

It has also been an interesting insight into South African culture.  I remember in my passport when I was younger, an all-caps cautionary statement that “This document is not valid for travel to Israel or South Africa”.  Both places remain, therefore, in my mind, where naughty people are doing naughty things.  This is not a political scree, so much as it is a remark on how much things you experience in childhood mark you.  


It is also an insight into the remarkable churning of your brain which is brought on by the experience of travel to new places.  

Specifically, while waiting for my flight at Jo'burg airport, I walked by a small group of people milling about in front of a large television screen.  On-screen, was an image of a broad-necked white man with savagely cropped hair.  He jabbed the air as he spoke (the TV emitted no sound), and a vein throbbed malignantly along the side of his head.  It was my instinctual judgment that this would probably be a broadcast of South African parliamentary debate, and so was impressed that the general citizenry would think these proceedings (particularly on mute!) to be worth watching.  

Imagine my surprise, therefore, when camera panned out a second later, making it clear that the segment I had thought was a right wing politician giving an impassioned anti-something-or-other speech was in fact one of those human-drama segments on a WWF wrestlemania programme.

Takeaway - I am a racist dog (and an idiot), and the brain is a funny thing.  I walked away quickly, worried that someone in the crowd would somehow out me.  

Another amazing travel experience: 20 minutes after take-off from NBO, the captain of the plane (who, on South African Airways, is called 'Commander', as in "This is Commander from the cockpit") - can I just say how much I prefer this nomenclature.  

Anyway, Commander urged us to look out the right side of the plane, where Mother Nature had prepared a rare treat for us:

 

It was as though we were doing a helicopter drive-by of Mount Killi in the golden light of the late African afternoon.  I could make out the base camp, and even the shiny-backed profiles of some climbers. My only regret is that, on my new phone (thanks A.!) I didn't know how to get rid of the front-and-back images (hence my excitement is also recorded, in its full vapid glory). 

I am still grinning from the view.  With any luck, that grin should last until about kilometer 60 of tomorrow's race - but fingers crossed on that. 

Race report to follow. 

Commander OUT.