The sun rises over the hills like a slow motion explosion. I glance at it and the silhouettes it creates around me and, refreshed by the light, I put my eyes back to the concrete hill I am already climbing.
I came to South Africa to run. To feel the Valley of a Thousand Hills step by step. To smell the air of a world on the other side of the world. To quench a need I’m still trying to define.
Eighty-nine kilometers in memory of men fallen - comrades - victory or defeat. But it soon became clear that this race was as much hope for the future as it was memory of the past.
South Africa bleeds for their mighty race. They come out early to watch and celebrate. And each hopeful spectator, it seems, prays that this is the year they’ll catch a glimpse of the next Bruce Fordyce – whoever he may be.
“How do you like our country? Where are you from?” The blue number I’m wearing tells them I’ve come a long way for this. They hand me sliced fruit and ice and chocolate and fill my hand with salt – just to be a part of it.
Children line the road for miles and all they seem to want is the touch of my hand as I go by. So I run with my arm extended toward them and they smile and jump and dance at the connection our hands make for that small moment. Black hands, white hands, brown hands. For the crippled boys lined a dozen wide with smiles as big as the hills around us, I slow and give them both my hands and their long touches send an energy through my body that I’ve never felt before.
My body aches and it makes me feel alive.
I came to South Africa to run. To see the sun from a different point of view. To feel life pulsate through my body step by step. An entire country yearning for the best in all of us. And I hope I found a little bit of my best along the way.
