Well it would never be one or the other. Couldn’t be really. The two, working together,  got me through Comrades 2011.

Perspiration

Without inspiration working hard for nearly 12 hours wouldn’t be possible. No point to that sort of effort without a splash of grandeur. Without the work, without dogged, jogged steps, the inspiration would be a wisp.

So I worked hard, amazed now and again, at how, without complaint, my feet could grind in my shoes, how my body held itself more or less upright for so long, up those long hills and down, when there were downs.

The effort lit the inspiration which made the work  worthwhile.

It was’t just the effort on the  big day either. In each step was the effort the training runs, of forcing myself from bed, of pushing up the hills.

Inspiration

My aunt reminded me before the run that it took place on my parents’ wedding anniversary date. Unexpectedly that became part of the day’s song.  They came to fetch me after my first run 21 years ago. Them of little faith and greater realism about me. They looked first in the medical tent then waited where the the defeated were brought. Only later as the 11-hour deadline approached did my father wander down the road to the agreed meeting point – the gates of the high school we shared. I didn’t mind waiting in the cold, cramping, fondling the medal hanging from my neck.

Jessica wrote me a good luck message in her neat 9-year old writing.  At a gathering the night before the night before the race, her father tried hard to get me to commit to an 8-hour Comrades and drink more than two thimbles of red wine.

Ah, the ambitions of others for us; always beyond our abilities. And what is a good build-up temptation – lurking in most of us are ways to undermine our dreams. For so long my aim has been to resist anything but temptation. The wine was tempting.

The medal, a Comrades finish was a greater temptation, one I was unable to resist.

Michael, my 5-year old, constructed a short note too. I carried both notes to the end.

Much the inspiration on the run, though, came from deeper in me. Images of my family, Robyn, 1-year old Emily and Michael, appeared and reappeared.  They always smiled, they always had faith and were  always enough to ease me along.