Dear Nikes, We've known for some time that this day would come sooner rather than later. But the inevitable is not necessarily easier to accept than the possible. And so it is with great sadness that I write you this letter. Thanks for the 1000+ kilometres out on the road during the past 5 years. Thanks for protecting the old flat feet from pebbles, sand, dirt, scorching tar, warts and verucas, leftover road kill particles and all the other running route nasties out there. Job well done! Thanks for carrying me through the uphills and the downhills without complaint. Ok, I realise you can't actually speak, but I'd like to think that if you could, you'd be the kind of shoe who would have sucked it up during the tough times and left the bitching for pink Pumas and other sissy shoes. And that toenail I lost as a result of our first Gun Run together...water under the bridge, mates. I admit that it was partly my fault for not getting you in a bigger size. Know that I love you and will miss you. Ok, I probably won't miss you too much because I need to focus my energy on the new Asics. But I will not forget the good times we had together and the newbies will know that they have some big impressive predecessor shoes to fill (pun intended!) Have a ball in running shoe heaven my dears. Your loving feet, Left Right Before [caption id="attachment_11" align="alignleft" width="480" caption="Out with the old"][/caption]                                     After [caption id="attachment_12" align="alignleft" width="480" caption="In with the brand spanking new!"][/caption]                                  

I'm conflicted. And I'll tell you why, dear pioneers of my future fanbase. I'm suffering from a mild identity crisis. On the one hand, I represent you.                         Average Joe. Everyday Jane. The man on the street. The woman behind (apparently) the man on the street. I never came first in any high school running events. When faced with a choice between getting up at 6am and drooling into my pillow for another hour...I'll wake up to a soggy pillow at 7am. The only professional athletes I can name are Caster Semenya and Speedy Gonzales. I had bacon, eggs and a cappuccino+cream for breakfast this morning as opposed to bran flakes+dried fruit with something equally healthy and horrible-tasting on the side. Five minutes later I felt guilty for having had bacon, eggs and a cappuccino+cream for breakfast as opposed to bran flakes+dried fruit with something equally healthy and horrible-tasting on the side. I represent the inherently-lazy-and-guilt-ridden-because-of-it jo shmo. Then there's the alter ego. Though it started as a shallow attempt to hush the guilty voices in my head and justify my wine consumption, I've actually started to enjoy running. Gasp! Shock! Horror! I know. At first I wasn't too worried. Because much like blogging, it's quite the in thing to be fit and health-conscious. So let's score me some Vitality points, me thought. But then this weekend I took a turn for the worst. I bought a box of Oats. That saw dust stuff that look about as appetizing as paper. But I bought it anyway. Because it's slow-release energy and approved by the Heart Foundation and minus 10 kilojoules per 100gr and Superman has it for breakfast and all some such melarchy. It didn't taste like paper. It tasted like nothing. But I ate it anyway. What's next, I ask? Getting up at 6am on a Sunday to go running? *guilty* If it wasn't for the 6 mini cupcakes I devoured in one go on Sunday afternoon, I'd have been seriously concerned that the original me had finally succumbed by drowning in my own endorphins. It's all good though, this slow transition. If I'm meant to become a healthy fitness freak, if that's what nature intended, who am I to fight it? But if I should ever give up marshmallow Easter eggs or start looking like this crazy lady, please go get the gun.                                    

I have a running buddy. On some days partner in pain is perhaps a more appropriate title. Or equally crazy individual, if you like. But I prefer to call her The other lady*. To keep this blog all mysterious-like, her true identity shall remain under wraps for now. Also because I strongly suspect...to the point of certainty...that she's an undercover superhero. The other lady lives in a cool loft-like house where she has recently been sporting some pretty nifty gadgets. I sometimes use the other lady for her nifty gadgets. But I've told her so. Superhero that I suspect she is, she's probably already aware of the crippling dependency tendencies of mere mortals. She's cool with it. I also, and more importantly, use The other lady for the purposes of good company, camaraderie and motivation to persevere when running through wind, rain, pain and swarms of flying ants (which can turn into unwanted sources of protein if not careful.) Like most superheroes, The other lady also comes with a sidekick. Sidekick** lives in the loft too and him and the lady both wear cool matching metal bands on their left hands to stay in contact. If you ask me, I think there's something going on there. Sidekick is responsible for providing the other lady with her nifty gadgets. I wonder if he has his own lab or workshop...I'm not familiar with the techno-gadget procurement processes required from superhero sidekicks but in a Third World setup I imagine purchase would be cheaper than invention. He claims to be a city planner but that could very well be a front. Now that I think about it, I've never actually seen him plan a city. Although he does like investigating running routes and their profiles (to establish escape routes for secret missions perhaps?) Contrarily, much like myself, The other lady prefers limited awareness (aka denial) of impending suffering out on the running routes so she leaves Sidekick to his own planning devices. On the odd occasion Sidekick will join us for a run but more often, we are accompanied by The K9. The K9 is cute, for sure, but also of use. She's The other lady's first line of defense in warding off potential thugs out on the trails. And she provides that extra pull and tug her lady claims she needs on lazy-day runs. In my case, the K9 keeps my clumsy clogs on their toes by making me dodge her sporadic doggy-like positioning on the left and then the right and then the left side of the running path. It's a necessary exercise since two tumbles in Jonkershoek nature reserve, leaving me bruised and blue, has proven that - as Sidekick aptly put it - I'm "not an off road model".   [caption id="attachment_102" align="alignnone" width="210" caption="The K9 look-alike"][/caption] And then there's Nooga. As of yet, Nooga is but a dream in my head, a tug at my heart and an impending sparkle in the eyes of two unknowing Golden Retrievers. But though he still only exists in name, he will join the running club as soon as a) he is born and b) I can find a home with a big enough garden for Nooga to practice his speed sessions whilst I'm at work.   [caption id="attachment_103" align="alignnone" width="210" caption="The Nooga mock-up"][/caption]     And there you have it. My superheroes. My running clan. My conscience. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- * There is a story behind this title but one for another day. ** Not sold separately.

I have noticed that many a newbie runner is often scared by the idea of the organized race. I don't blame them. For me, personally, the word conjures up nightmarish memories of athletics trials in high school. I wasn't the best athlete. But I also wasn't the worst. Which - contrary to what you might assume - was even worse than being the worst. Because being cursed with even a microscopic smidgen of potential potential often resulted in just making the team. This meant that, come race day, all those lucky bastards who fell off the bandwagon at trials, got to sit their slow behinds on the pavilion, happily chomping away at hot dogs and Kit Kats whilst the poor "mid-range" kids like myself had to be out on the field to actually participate. Against the kids with actual athletic ability! The lucky little slugs got to while away their time singing "Jamblikke Visblikke" in the shade whilst us mid-rangers were out in the harsh February sun getting what little adolescent self-esteem we had left obliterated by the embarrassment that came with being the last one to cross the finish line in the 400 meters. Oh, the shame of officially earning the title of...loser! But as time passed, irony turned that same smidgen of potential potential that sparked my hatred for school athletics, into an annoying, irrepressible itch to... move. And one idle day in April, at the ripe old age of 26, I got tired of supporting my then-boyfriend from the sidelines and decided that I - little old slowpoke nonathletic I - wanted, longed, ached and was going to run a half marathon. What really changed? Well... I guess it took me 10 years to get over my teenage angst and realize this tiny but life-altering truth: In the real grown-up world...nobody cares how fast or slow you are. These days, my generation's cool factor is dependent on money and status. And since neither of those are at play when it comes to social running, it's a moot point. So despite still being somewhat screwed in general life due to a lack of money and status, at least I now get to automatically qualify for a race, run it at a leisurely pace (without some cruel PE teacher unleashing her mid-life crisis on my fragile self image), and get a medal, a cold Coke and a warm fuzzy feeling in my gut after crossing the finish line. A second point I must stress about organized races. Most people who have never taken part in one have serious misconceptions about the kind of people who participate in them. Allow me to illustrate... THE NEWBIE'S PERCEPTION: [caption id="attachment_116" align="alignnone" width="230" caption="The chics who came first in high school races. "][/caption]   [caption id="attachment_128" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="The all-American super-athlete"][/caption]   [caption id="attachment_118" align="alignnone" width="235" caption="Bruce Fordyce"][/caption]   Well, dear fanbase, I present to you - a REALITY CHECK. Who really participates in races? Well, all of the above, sure. But also...   [caption id="attachment_119" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Kiddies"][/caption]   [caption id="attachment_127" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Old omies"][/caption]   [caption id="attachment_122" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Crazy naked men"][/caption]   [caption id="attachment_124" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Strange pancake-baking ladies"][/caption]   [caption id="attachment_123" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Famous superheroes"][/caption]   [caption id="attachment_129" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="The chicken (how did you think he crossed the road?)"][/caption]   [caption id="attachment_125" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Cute puppies"][/caption]   Yes, dear fanbase, it is true: The race these days is fear-free, free for all, filled with friendly faces and a fan-flippen-tastic feel-good factor 10. And that sure ain't what it used to be in high school...      

Tonight I feel like a little indignant rant*. You might have noticed me trying to look all intellectual-like by adding a Currently Reading widget in the sidebar of this blog. I started with Be your best at marathon running from the Teach Yourself series. Truth be told, the only reason for my choice was that I paid 20 bucks for it at a closing down book sale. But I was still excited at the prospect of drawing some inspiration from author Tim Rogers who "has run 62 marathons and is the world record holder for the Global Challenge." The first few chapters did indeed get me psyched and excited about my impending marathon plans and I read on, eager to discover Tim's insight and advice on the topic. But alas! Woe was me when - 112 pages into the book - the realization dawned upon me: I was still waiting. I was forced to admit to myself that, if my goal was to stimulate the old cranium, then this choice in reading material really was notsogood. Like most eye-openers, this realization came swiftly and unexpectedly and once my brain had processed the message, it was like a revealed secret that could not be untold. And it became worse! (And reminded me of this episode of How I met your mother) What were at first merely dull statements slightly annoying me on a semi-conscious level, had turned into red-flagged targets begging me to shoot them in their unoriginal little platitudinous heads: "The highest [price] does not always mean the best but more often than not you get what you pay for" Bang! "You can choose whatever length shorts you prefer, which will differ depending on what you are prepared to be seen in. Don't wear anything that is too long..." Bang! "...you will be amazed by the choice of running socks from at least six brand names. Each of them will have seemingly endless options, giving you a huge headache - which ones do you really need? Speak to one of the staff and get help..." Bang! 8-| I cannot help but wonder weather Tim has done any real research for this book or solely relied on his running experience? Surely writing a chapter on a topic and then merely telling your readers to obtain the information from a sales assistant should not be enough. I didn't have to pay even R20 be told that. His annoying little habit of repeatedly stating the boring obvious without elaborating on the matter, is particularly noticeable in the chapter on Running Gear. Sunglasses: "This is a piece of kit where there really is the most incredible level of choice." Leggings: "There are many different types of leggings on the market as you would expect..." Gloves: "As with all running gear [we've noticed!!], there are numerous different types of running gloves available..." Gels: "There are a large number of gels on the market..." Watches: "Running watches come in all shapes and sizes and can be as multifunctioned as you like." Duuurrrrr!!! We live in the 21st century. We're spoilt for choice. We get it. We got that even before we read your book. For some that might've even been a reason why they bought your book. (And I think the word is multifunctional) But where I breathed my final frustrated "Come on!" aloud, is when the chapter entitled "Your Marathon Training Plan" started - even before an introductory paragraph - with the following Top Tip: "Rest is an important aspect of your training - be sensible and enjoy your time off..." I want to train for a marathon and that is the first thing you tell me? Oyoyoyoyo! A world record holder Tim might be, but what he's definitely not, is a good writer. Thus far the only thing this book has achieved is insulting my general intelligence and distracting me from finishing the third Harry Potter. Personally, I need a bit more meat on my literary bones... *Breaking glass* [caption id="attachment_172" align="alignnone" width="250" caption="Not if it depends on this book"][/caption] ---------------------------------------------------------------- * Disclaimer: I never intended this blog to be a platform for self-righteous personal judgment of products, races, gear or books. I have opinions about these things that I will no doubt share on occasion, but only because it's difficult to remove the personal and subjective from my writing. And even on the best of days I'm just too darn opinionated for my own good. But by no means do I intend others to take my word alone on anything. That being said, I'm not exactly what you'd call a crowd pleaser. It is after all my blog and I'll bitch if I want to.

Dear diary, Long time, no speak. So... how've you been? I'm sorry I've been scarce. Truth be told, I've been a little...down...as of late. Melancholy. Blue. Woebegone... Without wasting time, in a nutshell, bottomline, the conclusion is this: I'm jealous. At least that's how I felt reading all the post-run-high-on-life Facebook updates and Twitter feeds of what seemed like the gazillion friends and acquaintances who took part in the Two Oceans races last Saturday. I'd love to be irrational and resent them their endorphin-induced happiness. But, truth be told, I have nobody but my lame ass self to blame. My reason for not running it myself, boils down to nothing more than a big stubborn self-pituous sulk. Two Oceans 2010 was a low for me. I drove to Cape Town at the usual 4am in the morning. Solo. I got psyched to Black Eyed Peas' Let's get it started and crossed the start line in the ridiculously overcrowded Main Street. Solo. (Okay, there may have been 11 000 other runners but they only seemed to emphasize my loneliness). I started the infamous ascent up Southern Cross drive. Solo. I crossed the finish line at a personal Two Oceans 21km best (out of 3) of 02:08:58. Solo. And then I hobbled back to my car and returned home. Solo. If you've ever had the opportunity to experience the atmosphere surrounding the Two Oceans events, you will understand that it's a race where pre-race jitters, mid-race sorrows and post-race smiles are meant to be shared. That year, at the 18th kilometer I had hit an all time low. Though my legs were fine, I felt utterly alone and pathetically sorry for myself. My heart naively hoped that maybe, just maybe, a familar face would magically appear around the corner to give some roadside support. And even though my head knew better, I still felt disappointed when no such face came into view. It was at this point that I turned stupid. Feeling unjustifiably neglected, I vowed at that 18th kilometer that that would be my last Two Oceans half-marathon. If I were to return, it would be to run the 56km Ultra or it wouldn't be at all. And so it happened that on 23 April 2011, I found myself - not trapsing around Cape Town with 12 000 other crazies - but someplace else, stuck in a lonely self-created rut! With Murphy and his sidekick Irony hiding in the wings, I ended up feeling exactly the same way I did last year: miserable. This time just from the wrong side of the line. And once again lonely without being alone. Not surrounded by 12 000 runners, but instead by a litter of chocolate Easter bunnies accompanying me in my rut. In a wave of masochistic self-pity I ate them all. Then I almost drowned myself in the resultant wave of guilt. My only saving grace being the conviction that I helped the bunnies to fulfill their Easter bunny destinies. At least someone in the rut accomplished their goals this month. But apart from the chocolate bunny massacre, I am ashamed to admit I also substituted my oats with rusks, my carrots with chips, my long run with a long nap and my swim session with a marathon sitting of House. And so woe is me, dear diary... I've lost the bounce in my step! Which is ironic considering the dozen chocolate bouncers that have found a home in my stomach... Is this a mild case of SAD or the onset of FOMO (which I was convinced I did not suffer from) ? Or perhaps an evil ironic form of self sabotage a week before the Safari half-marathon for which I've diligently been following a demanding training programme for the past 6 weeks? Whatever the reason, I want none of it! I want out! Its lonely in the rut now that the bunnies are gone...   [caption id="attachment_242" align="alignnone" width="236" caption="(And these are the lucky ones)"][/caption]   ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

How it works: 1. On April 5th, don’t wear any shoes to work or play. 2. Donate your old shoes at your nearest collection point (i.e. Rooiplein on Stellenbosch campus). 3. Experience the joy in spreading the love. Visit the One Day Without Shoes website for more information on this worthy cause. Excellent timing this! My old Nikes will go forth to fulfill stage 2 of their shoe destiny by becoming the comfy companions of someone less fortunate.

Happy birthday, blog!

In celebration of surviving the first 2 weeks on the interweb, I’m introducing a…
Feature!

Feature?

Feature:
“Mac slang for ‘Shit we should have done in the first place.” [Urban Dictionary]

Since the blog has only been up and running for a blink of the eye, I’m hoping that an early head start in adding cool ‘Shit’ to the site, will speed up my journey to becoming a weblebrity. My personal cool “shit” will be a feature showcase of cool celebs who also run on a non-professional level like the rest of us mere mortals.
So without further ado, I introduce to you…
Cool running mortal #1: Bear Grylls
Crazy adventure-seeking wilderness man and star of Discovery Channel’s Man vs Wild.



For those who don’t know this reality tv show, the plot goes a little like this:
Chopper drops ex-British Special Air Service man Bear in middle of nowhere wilderness.
Bear must make way to civilization with no external aid.
Bear must sleep in extreme cold/heat and eats strange plants/reptiles/raw meat/insects/soil to survive.
Bear narrowly escapes death in attempt to cross river/quicksand/mountain/dessert/glacier.
Bear discovers trail/road/hut/human = civilization.
Bear wins!

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“Sit on the stoep and get a boepie – no!” [Danie Crouse]

During last year’s Two Oceans half-marathon, I ran past Danie Crouse, his 3 sons and 3 grandchildren. Danie’s family were all carrying signs reading “Oupa 81″* with arrows pointing down at him in the center, surrounded by his proud loved ones. It was inspirational to say the least!
I’m not saying that I did, but I might or might not have become a tad teary-eyed at the sight.
Maybe.
Perhaps.
Possibly.
Hey, I’m not a baby, YOU’RE a baby!

Anyway…In celebration of the upcoming Two Oceans, it is apt that 81-year old Danie Crouse be the second individual featured as a Cool running mortal here on I speed you not.

Runners World did an interview with this charming young oupa after the 2010 race (see below)

Best of luck to all who will be running the world’s most beautiful marathon and it’s 21km baby brother this coming Saturday. I’m not joining this year but will, however, be strategically placed at the top of Southern Cross Drive, braai-ing a lekke worsie whilst cheering you on.

Please don’t break any legs.
But do have an awesome time! :)

---

* Oupa = Afrikaans for granddad

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