Karmen Wiid

Heart pounding, feet aching, smile widening, an elation building in my chest that feels like electricity. Then – people, music, blue skies, arms in the air. I did it. I actually did it! I ran the Two Oceans half marathon.

When you stand at the precipice of a journey with the moment of initial commitment still raw, success seems so far away. Unreal, unachievable, almost. You can’t possibly imagine actually doing it. For months, I had to tell myself to simply focus on the next run or the next week of training because imagining the end goal would make the entire process feel like a gulf that could not be traversed. But I kept at it, not least for the fact that I really did fall in love with the process. By the time I ran the actual race, it didn’t seem like The Big Thing I had been training for. In fact, it rather felt like a celebration of the process, which in the end, was the real achievement.

My favourite thing about the whole day was the people – the runners and spectators. I’ve never experienced so much encouragement and solidarity. Coming from a limited sporting background, I’ve always had this idea of what a runner or athlete should look like – shining, strong, with confidence emanating from their very being. An impermeable club with their own way of being in the world. And schools only serve to amplify this illusion. The A teams practice on their own, have their own seats on the bus, and even their own language, it sometimes seems. They make it look easy, even though you know it isn’t. Sports felt exclusionary for a perpetual C-team, back-of-the-pack, less-than-average athlete like high-school Karmen. But running the Two Oceans changed my entire perception of the running world. It shattered my preconceived ideas of what a runner should be or look like. That race was an ocean of diversity, and we were all in it together, cheering for each other on the uphills, making small talk with strangers on the straights, and whooping on the downhills. Every runner’s name was printed on their race bibs, so when people conversed through ragged breaths, they called each other by name as if we were all one big family. In joint struggle, there is often a beautiful coming together. People embrace a familiarity with one another, whereas, in everyday life, there seems to be more of a wall than a bridge. There is something about running in a crowd, with strangers cheering your name like they are really invested in your success, that makes the “struggle” feel less like anguish and more like euphoria. Of course, I am writing this a week later, my muscles already recovered from the seemingly unending hill between kilometres ten and fourteen. Retrospect tints everything rosy, I know, yet I do remember feeling that I could’ve continued running the whole day. Maybe not my legs, but at least my spirit.

It also helped that it was the perfect day for a race. We started just as the sun was rising. Thousands of people were flooding towards the starting point on the corner of Newlands and Dean Street, yet Cape Town itself felt sleepy in the dim morning light. I was still in the queue for the bathroom when I heard the words “Go, go, go!” sounding over the speaker from the starting line. By the time I left the bathroom, I just ran blindly in the general direction of other moving bodies. After about 600 metres of confused and anxious running, I turned to the woman beside me, who was also late, and asked: “Have we crossed the starting line already?” “Yes,” she laughed, pointing towards a receding street corner. The start was rocky, but the vibrant atmosphere of the other runners and spectators quickly evaporated my worry. Even around the first bend, Cape Tonians lined the road, arms crossed over their chests against the cold, cheering us on. As the morning progressed, the spectators only grew in numbers. Some were camping out with gazebos and music, others had a braai, and little children were sitting atop their parents’ shoulders holding up banners that read things like: “Should I call you an Uber?” When we reached the suburbs, families sat drinking their morning coffee on camping chairs outside their homes, enjoying their front-row seats to the race. All the bystanders seemed genuinely proud of us. I was amazed at how the town embraced the runners. It was a beautiful experience.

The route itself was breathtaking, lending us little glimpses into Cape Tonian life. Inner city streets led to meandering oak-covered suburban roads. At one point we even ran on the highway, with toots and cheers coming from cars going in the opposite direction. After a notoriously long climb, we were rewarded with a downhill wounding through Rondebosch. Views of the Table Mountain slopes peeked out over the trees, beckoning us forward. When I finally crossed the finish line on the UCT rugby fields, I couldn’t feel my legs, but my smile was achingly wide. Everyone around me was red-faced and glowing, exchanging hugs and high-fives with anyone nearby. What made the moment especially beautiful was that through all the cheering throngs of people lining the sides of the finishing line, I spotted my boyfriend right at the front. He pushed through everyone just to see that moment and be there when I finished. I slept for a long time that afternoon and ate two big bowls of pasta. I did it, I kept thinking. I doubt fifteen-year-old-me would have believed that we ran a half marathon and (by the way) entered a full marathon this coming October. It felt like an incredible leap of faith when I made the initial commitment to run the Two Oceans. But as soon as I embraced the process and focussed on each day as it came, the end result seemed almost inevitable. Like I was always already capable. And I was.

After that race, I realised I was never alone. The struggle towards a goal isn’t a solitary one. All those sunrise runs before class, I might have done by myself, but I wasn’t isolated. Across the country and even the world, thousands of people were on the same journey leading up to the same race. I will carry that powerful insight with me forever. No matter how difficult or lonely the process gets, somewhere, someone is going through it with you. And so many people had gone through the same thing before you and reached the other end.

Someone recently asked me what training for the Two Oceans has taught me. I can now certainly say that the training and the race itself induced distinct lessons. Through training, I’ve learnt that no matter how big and impossible a goal seems, you can literally succeed in anything by just succeeding the day. Every little step in the journey is essential in its own right. I’ve also learnt that you can turn your passion into purpose. You can give back while pursuing personal goals, making the whole journey much more meaningful. For instance, I used the race and my training to raise funds for Girls with Wiings, an incredible women’s charity organisation that offers entrepreneurship workshops, job opportunities and sanitary products to homeless and less-fortunate women in Cape Town. The race itself has taught me (or rather reminded me) that people can surprise you with their kindness and camaraderie. Moreover, I learned that a runner does not have to look a specific way, that we can literally be anything we want if we just decide, and that we’re never alone in dreaming or working towards those dreams. No matter what you pursue or are passionate about, there is a community out there waiting to embrace you and cheer you on.

Moving forward from this race, I take much more with me than just my fitness. I feel like I’ve been given an insight into the purest of human nature, something I think the world needs much more of. This week I have paused. I’ve relished the self-respect that comes from enduring discomfort and doing what you said you would do. I’ve taken time to reflect and be proud of what I have accomplished. And on Monday, I start training for that marathon.

They were right all along – once you cross your first finish line, you can’t really ever stop.