The cluttered hodgepodge of Grahamstown’s running contingent gathered last Tuesday evening for the Victoria Girls' High School Old Girls' Union 5km Fun Run. Rallying young and old, man and beast, the race sought to benefit its host school and the local branch of the SPCA. In true Grahamstown fashion, it was both friendly and festive and well, a bit of a dog show.
The cluttered hodgepodge of Grahamstown’s running contingent gathered last Tuesday evening for the Victoria Girls' High School Old Girls' Union 5km Fun Run. Rallying young and old, man and beast, the race sought to benefit its host school and the local branch of the SPCA. In true Grahamstown fashion, it was both friendly and festive and well, a bit of a dog show.
The gun shot off without warning and the discombobulated masses stumbled their way out onto the street, making two swift left turns before starting up the hill towards Beaufort Street. It wasn’t long before the front runners strung out ahead. The throng heedlessly followed as the leaders charged yet another, much larger hill, past the dam, up, up, away and out of town. As we went, little evergreen vests began to unite and organise like a cluster of cells – these, I recognised, were the children of Amasango Career School.
My notion of a friendly little midweek 5km began to dissolve as I felt the lactic acid release into my quadriceps surprisingly early on in the race. Of all the routes those Victoria Old Girls could have chosen, this was among the more punishing. But I dare not question the directional authority of Grahamstown’s finest athletes, and up ahead I spotted Terri-Lynn Penney picking off another male contender.
And who was I to protest? Especially when the little bodies occupying those green shirts pressed on fearlessly – many of them having doubled their vests over their necks to prevent the sizeable hole from slipping from their shoulders. As I neared a group of them, I noticed another defining characteristic: none of the children were wearing shoes.
I remained within two meters of the green guild, admiring their every barefooted step as we descended the steep downhill. Every so often, when one of the little boys would fall behind, an older boy, dressed in casual street attire, would reach out and the two would run hand-in-hand. Incredibly, they would speed up. I trailed a consistent distance from the boys the entire race, noticing their camaraderie through my bouts of self-pity.
At the finish line, a running friend was there to greet me, looking strangely composed. That’s odd, I thought, I hadn’t seen her throughout the entire race. She broke the news that we had tacked on an extra three kilometres or so when the course marshals failed to direct the first runners through Bot Gardens. She handed me a Hi-Q squirt bottle, my consolation prize. I skulked around for a while, catching my breath and waiting for, well, I don’t know, a bit of recognition for the additional effort. Alas, all the spot prizes had been awarded. I found my little green running companions, toasted them with orange cool-drink and shared disbelieving sighs and shakes of the head.
Eventually I wandered out of the school grounds just as the final competitors trickled in. Through the twilight, I could see the familiar shape of Frith van der Merwe speeding towards me in perfect form, clad in pink running garb. As she neared, an overly earnest marshal began waiving her flag vehemently, trying to direct the Comrades record holder toward the finish line along with the remaining fun-runners. Indeed, the girl would have slapped Frith in the face if her reflexes had been less sharp. “I’m on my own run!” yelled the pink streak, without missing a step.
In the parking lot I spied Jane Bradshaw, the principle of Amasango. I greeted her as she beamed with pride. “Our runners came in first and second place!” she said, holding up two envelopes, “They’re so chuffed they’re going to have dinner at the Spur!”
As I jogged home I couldn’t help but reflect that the evening had been a concentration of all that it means for me to live in South Africa – the tiring logistical inefficiencies, the in-your-face inequality, the injustice and the haphazard bouts of justice served. Yet all challenges seemed somehow tempered by the collective spirit, and the sense of humour they invariably cultivate within you – something that nobody dares run the race without.
