Comrades Marathon Day: Beginning of the great run

A support-crew diary told from the centre of the road

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The City Yawns Before Dawn

The empty streets of Pietermaritzburg shake off their sleep at 02:47 when the first church bell strikes twice. Automatic timers do not care that the moon is still in charge. By the third clang, kettles hiss in kitchens throughout KwaZulu-Natal. Instant-coffee steam curls past bedroom doors and running shoes are tied - not by the athletes who will race, but by the people who will stand in the sun and hand out hope.

I am one of those people. My training block - the celebrated 120 km weeks - collapsed after last season’s virus left my left calf buzzing with pins and needles. The bib that should have been pinned to my vest tomorrow is still in its envelope, propped against a Hillcrest rental-cottage bookshelf as proof of plans gone sideways. Yet the 03:30 alarm rang anyway. By 03:45 the plunger is pressed and the kitchen smells of dark roast and defiant optimism.

Outside, the Toyota Cross nick-named “The Tuck-Shop” waits with its tail-gate open. Every bag and box is labelled, weighed, and wedged like a three-dimensional jigsaw. If we arrive even ten minutes late, the road closures will shut us out and 240 runners will miss their bespoke bottles. We leave at 04:03 sharp.

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Packing the Convoy, Riding the Detours

The rear cargo area is a mini supermarket:
- 240 still-water sachets packed between ice bricks
- 180 red energy cans, tabs already half-popped for one-hand grabs
- Twenty kilos of oranges, cut into eighths with the peel on so sweaty fingers have something to grip
- Seven kilos of baby potatoes rolled in coarse salt, served in brown paper cones
- Two loaves of white bread, 1.5 kg of peanut butter, 1 kg of strawberry jam - crusts discarded because no one in oxygen debt nibbles edges
- Four spray bottles of anti-inflammatory gel, three of magnesium oil, a litre of sanitiser we still carry from pandemic days
- Strapping tape, trauma shears, a thermometer, and five ice-cold bandanas

Google Maps promises 38 minutes to Winston Park. We have 56 minutes before the first boom drops. A wrong turn at Key Ridge and an unmarked construction zone send us bumping through a cul-de-sac. My co-pilot Thabo calls it “Mini-Baja”; I call it the warm-up lap of a day that technically isn’t mine. Two plastic cones part like theatre curtains and we squeeze through with centimetres to spare.

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Claiming Forty-Two Square Metres of Africa

We reach the 55 km post at 04:54 - six minutes ahead of the rolling roadblock. Yesterday’s masking-tape X has vanished, absorbed by tyre tracks or wind. A grandmother already occupies the prime grass verge, selling twist-top Fanta, pineapple spears, and Amapiano loud enough to power a small nightclub. Lungi, our negotiator-in-chief, approaches with two folded R50 notes and a smile that could sell ice to a polar bear. Ten minutes later her second gazebo flanks ours; we get our patch, she keeps the foot traffic. Everyone wins.

By 05:30 the station has tripled in size. Morningside Country Club arrives on our left dressed in lime green; Ikayalethu unpacks canary-yellow tables on the right. Folding legs snap open in sequence, domino-style. Without a meeting, roles appear: spotters clutch laminated lists, mixers swirl jugs of neon drink, handlers pull on gardening gloves to protect against orange-peel sting, floaters jog up the verge clutching bottles like batons. Phones flip to split-screen - live leaderboard on top, WhatsApp group underneath: “VB20, bib 2847, 5:25 pace, through Cato Ridge, ETA 08:47.”

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Elites Flash, Mid-Pack Feeds, Back-Mark Bleeds

08:19. A single siren fades south. Conversation dies. Heads turn. The lead motorbike crests the hill, headlights still blazing under a copper sunrise. Mbuti Mollo rides the nose of his saddle, motionless everywhere except his feet spinning at 190 rpm. Behind him Tshite, Maphepa, and Van der Merwe drift in a silent, elastic string. Thirty metres of stunned quiet snap into explosion: vuvuzelas, cowbells, a school brass band that has not yet found a key but has volume to spare. The vacuum returns thirty seconds later and we scramble back to our spreadsheets.

Our race is a matrix of 43 club runners due between 6:30 and 10:00 pace. A spotter under a purple umbrella calls out, “Bib 7938, Eric, light-blue vest, ninety seconds!” A handler slides orange slices and a crustless quarter-sandwich onto a bamboo skewer. I step to the kerb with a 500 ml bottle: 200 ml sports drink, 250 ml water, pinch of salt, dash of maple syrup. Eric snags it on the fly without breaking stride, shouts, “You’re angels!” and disappears. The bottle is rinsed, refilled, and tagged for bib 12067, 38 seconds back.

Micro-dramas unfold in the heat-rise:
08:41 Neon-green Nikes stops, vomits neatly into the storm-drain, wipes his mouth, runs on.
08:56 A mother with salt-streaked cheeks sees her child waving a glitter-sprinkled “Go Mummy!” and manages a ten-metre sprint before reality drags her back to a shuffle.
09:12 A barefoot runner - yes, barefoot on chipped tar - accepts one salty potato and pockets two ginger chews.
09:27 The temperature jumps from 16 °C to 23 °C in seven minutes. We drape ice bandanas around necks like medals no one asked for.

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Pipeline Hour: Between Walking and Queuing

From 09:30 to 10:30 the course becomes a moving sidewalk of humanity - 9-minute kilometres pressed shoulder to shoulder. Bottles change hands every four seconds; the roll of strapping tape whines like a fishing reel. We learn to read faces: stare equals glucose, clenched jaw equals salt, heel slap equals lacing issue. A Durban physiotherapist stationed twenty metres up yells “Spasm!” and we deploy Voltaren with battlefield urgency.

Logistics turn MacGyver. Bananas disappear at 10:05; Lungi barters six chocolate milks for the grandmother’s spare crate. At 10:14 someone asks for Coke-milk for nausea; we eyeball 200 ml Coke Zero and a splash of UHT. It looks like dishwater; he swigs it like communion wine. By 10:22 we run out of paper cups. A marshal delivers sterilised hospital specimen containers. Runners laugh, snap the lids, drink, discard. Absurdity becomes a performance-enhancing drug.

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The Hidden Treadmill

While we pour sugar and salt, a parallel city grinds on. Metro police wave late churchgoers down side streets, mystified that Main Road is still closed. A flat-bed truck inching north at 15 km/h carries empty portable loos so that by the time the 11-hour bus arrives, every queue is shorter. Drone pilots swap batteries every 18 minutes on the back of a bakkie, feeding SuperSport’s highlights reel. An ice-cream van does brisk trade with spectators who have abandoned diet plans because trauma calories, apparently, do not count. None of them will be on television, yet the race cannot breathe without them.

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The Last Cheer, The Final Sweep

11:07. Bib 28771, Lindiwe, predicted 11:30 pace, arrives at 55 km looking fresh enough to start over. She is laughing, high-fiving kids, wearing a crown the Drummond crew fashioned from a traffic-cone wrapper. She wants sunscreen on her shoulders; we oblige. As she trots off she shouts, “Tell the mountain I’m bringing it flowers!” We record the line on WhatsApp for posterity.

11:35. The final medical bus rolls past. Orange lights signal permission to dismantle. Folding tables collapse in reverse order. Gazebles contract like umbrellas. We sort rubbish into three streams - recyclables, compostables, medical waste - and the municipal crew arrives before we finish. Their practiced rhythm says tomorrow the city must look untouched.

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Re-entry: From Road to Pub to Reality

12:15. The first minibus taxis hiss past at 110 km/h. Spectators crane for any stragglers. One neon-vested athlete walks backwards to stretch hip flexors; taxi drivers honk encouragement, he throws a peace sign. The scene deserves a postcard captioned “South Africa in Transit.”

13:10. Waxy O’Connor’s in Hillcrest is wall-to-wall dusty calves and sunburned shoulders. Muted screens replay Gerda Steyn shattering her own up-run record. Nobody minds the silence - we lived the day in surround sound. A tally emerges: 42 of our runners finished, one DNF at 68 km due to dehydration. The grandmother’s grandson arrives wearing our spare crew shirt; the round of Castle Lite shandies he carries is payment for the Fanta crate. The runner who limped in with back spasms at 55 km walks in wearing a finisher’s medal and an ice-pack belt. The pub erupts. He buys the next round.

15:00. The dishwasher hums, the last potato peel lands in compost, and the WhatsApp group lights up again. Recovery jogs, 2027 entries, sleeping-cat GIFs. The race never ends; it merely folds into calendars, training logs, and quiet promises made over warm beer and aching feet.

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Venus and the Crescent Moon

On the N3 home, the Toyota Cross smells faintly of citrus and painkiller. Radio 2000 spins late-night jazz nobody asked for yet perfectly suits the mood. Above the yellow lane markers, Venus chases the crescent moon through a bruised violet sky. Between the hum of tyres and the flicker of distant city lights, it hits me: the banner that says “Ska Fela Moya” is not a command from above. It is a contract drawn sideways - runner to helper, yesterday’s finisher to tomorrow’s dreamer, the tar to every foot that will ever kiss it again.

[{"question": "

What is it like to be part of the Comrades Marathon support crew?

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Being part of the Comrades Marathon support crew is an exciting and demanding experience. It involves waking up very early, often before dawn, to pack food and drinks, then rushing to set up a mini-aid station along the race route. Throughout the day, crew members hand out water, oranges, energy drinks, and encouragement to runners. It's a day filled with problem-solving, from navigating road closures and unexpected detours to improvising solutions when supplies run low. Despite the hard work, seeing runners push through and knowing you've contributed to their journey creates a powerful sense of shared victory and accomplishment, often described as a 'shared victory'.

\n"},{"question": "

What kind of supplies do support crews typically carry?

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Comrades Marathon support crews carry a wide array of supplies to cater to runners' diverse needs. This includes essential hydration like still-water sachets (often packed with ice bricks) and red energy drinks. For nutrition, they provide oranges cut into eighths, baby potatoes rolled in coarse salt, and simple but effective options like white bread with peanut butter and jam (crusts removed for easy consumption). Medical supplies are also crucial, such as anti-inflammatory gel, magnesium oil, sanitiser, strapping tape, trauma shears, and ice-cold bandanas for cooling. Crews often adapt by bartering for additional supplies or using unconventional items like sterilised specimen containers when paper cups run out.

\n"},{"question": "

How do support crews find and set up their stations along the route?

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Finding and setting up a support station requires meticulous planning and often a bit of improvisation. Crews typically identify their spot the day before, sometimes marking it with a temporary 'X' that might disappear overnight. They must leave very early, often around 4 AM, to beat road closures. Navigation can be tricky, involving detours and unexpected construction zones. Upon arrival, they might negotiate with other vendors or groups already present to secure their desired patch of land. Setting up involves quickly deploying tables, gazebos, and organising supplies. Roles are often assigned organically, with spotters, mixers, handlers, and floaters working in sync.

\n"},{"question": "

How do support crews manage the different phases of the race and types of runners?

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Support crews experience distinct phases during the race. In the early hours, they prepare for the elite runners, who pass by quickly in a silent, focused string, often taking supplies without breaking stride. The mid-pack runners, making up the bulk of the field, require constant attention, with crews identifying specific runners by bib number and quickly preparing their personalised aid. This phase is intense, filled with 'micro-dramas' like runners vomiting or experiencing emotional highs and lows. Later, during the 'pipeline hour,' the course becomes a slower-moving stream of humanity, requiring continuous replenishment of supplies and addressing more medical issues like spasms or nausea. Crews learn to 'read faces' to anticipate needs, from glucose and salt to lacing issues.

\n"},{"question": "

What kind of challenges do support crews face?

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Support crews face numerous challenges throughout the day. Logistically, navigating road closures and unexpected detours is a constant hurdle, with the risk of being shut out from their designated spot. Supply management is critical; running out of key items like bananas or paper cups requires quick thinking and improvisation, sometimes involving bartering or using unconventional alternatives. The physical demands are also significant, involving early mornings, long hours standing in the sun, and constant movement. Emotionally, witnessing runners' struggles and triumphs can be draining yet incredibly rewarding. The rapid change in temperature and the sheer volume of runners also add to the complexity of their role.

\n"},{"question": "

What is the atmosphere like for the support crew after the race?

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After the last runner or medical bus passes, the support crew begins the process of dismantling their station. This involves efficiently packing up tables, gazebos, and meticulously sorting rubbish into recyclables, compostables, and medical waste, aiming to leave the area pristine. Re-entry into normal life often involves celebratory gatherings, frequently at a pub, where they can finally relax, share stories, and tally how many of 'their' runners finished. The emotional high continues as they witness runners, even those who struggled, celebrating their achievement. The day's experiences, filled with shared effort and success, linger long after, folding into memories, future training plans, and a deep appreciation for the Comrades spirit.

\n"}]