The torture chamber just got nastier

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my occasional attempts at tackling the Comrades Marathon, it’s that wouldn’t do well under torture.

Any grand notions I may have had in my youth regarding my potential as a special operative (ala James Bond) were quickly dispelled by my first feeble effort at the Down run some years back.

When you get it wrong, the Comrades Down run isn’t just sore. The monster at the heart of the race grabs you, sucks its teeth into your determination and sucks the life from your soul.

Alright, that’s a bit dramatic, but I’m not far off.

Hobbling down Field’s Hill feels like a Russian mobster has your legs trapped in a vice, and the most horrific image I can recall in my state of despair on the Down run was a sign that informed me I still had 23km to go.

That’s what gets you. It’s not the physical challenge as much as it is the additional mental obstacles you face along the way.

One year, so emotionally scarred was I from my previous experience, I got as far as Inchanga on the Up run and saw a sign stating that 43km of the journey remained. With no real prompting or arm-bending in a battle of will, I simply sat down, drank a beer and had a smoke. To hell with it.

Granted, I’m more lazy than

Wesley Bo on

most, but 89km is far enough, and adding another kilometre to the deal is just an unnecessary sucker-punch to the gut. I’m pretty sure they’ve done it on purpose.

In addition to the longer route, the organisers have tightened the screws by taking the new course past the old finish at Kingsmead.

Seriously? The Russian mobster on Field’s Hill wasn’t enough, now we have Hannibal Lecter lurking in the shadows with a sinister grin. “Hello, Clarice.”

Any mass-participation endurance event is a self-inflicted battle of good versus evil. The harder the race, the more enhanced the sense of self achievement.

But really, 89km is enough, and just the thought of anything further is almost too much for my flowery will to contemplate.

What’s done is done, and we’ll have to take it on the chin this year, but I implore the race organisers to consider their motives and allegiances in the ongoing battle between good and evil.

Call off your henchmen and let’s strive for a truce by aiming for the most efficient route between Pietermaritzburg and Durban.

Next time, instead of adding 900m to an already exhausting course, why not take 900m off?

Just consider your options, that’s all I’m saying.

There’s no need for vice-wielding mobsters or vicious psychopaths lurking in the shadows, ready to sneer at innocent runners who are in search of nothing more than small medals.

Let’s keep the finish at the iconic Moses Mabhida Stadium, but maybe have a glance at the map again. Maybe pick a few shorter roads. And you can keep your Hannibal-like threats by flaunting the ghost of finishes past as beaten runners trudge along.

Tell your monster it has won. It scared us at “hello”.