The Veteran

Older than God. Has done every Oceans Ultra since the year after he started running (and he started running the year before Fordyce’s mom bought him his first pair of long pants). Resembles several sticks of biltong held together with packing twine, smells faintly of Deep Heat all year round. Denies the existence of the Half.

Considers poly shorts to be cutting-edge, is suspicious of any technical innovation since the invention of Velcro, and in fact has not purchased a new piece of running gear since 1986. The only person in the world who actually likes club kit. Looks forward to The Nek, because suffering is character-building. Hates tech fabrics, marshals, energy drinks, deodorant, anyone younger than himself.

The Newbie

Grew up standing on Wynberg Hill with his parents, cheering on the runners, and has made the natural progression through the kiddie races to finally entering the Half. Displays a bouncy demeanour, blindingly bright new race kit, and barely discernible facial hair. Pre-race nerves cause him to laugh too loudly for too long at jokes that weren’t that funny the first four times the announcer trotted them out. Does frantic stretching exercises until seconds before the starting gun.

Chest-bumps anyone who can’t get away, and bellows loud words of encouragement to fellow runners until he trips over a kerbstone in the dark on Paradise Road. Levels of fresh-faced enthusiasm decline over the length of the course. At the finish line, stops dead in his tracks to take a selfie and causes a major pile-up, resulting in several injuries. Wonders why The Veteran is so grumpy.

The Millennial

Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but trendier than a barista’s beard. Has decided to take up running in a determined effort to get in on the ground floor of the Next Big Thing, having missed the boat with coffee, cycling, and craft beer. Maintains hipster-runner image with wildly expensive gear, his ‘Blue Steel’ look, and residual fitness from school.

Desperately tries not to sweat. Desperately wants to have a ‘crew’ rather than belong to a running club, but none of his equally shallow mates will join him until some ‘alternative’ manufacturer in a ‘reimagined’ condemned warehouse comes out with hemp running gear that looks like it’s made of deconstructed wholewheat bread. Maintains icy composure for the whole race despite feeling like death before he’s even left the suburbs. Lectures the water-station volunteers about how eco-unfriendly their sachets are. Then takes four. Obviously, The Veteran hates him.

The One-Timer

Does squat except the Oceans Half every year, but considers the new ballot system for entries to be a crime against humanity. A promising runner as a teenager, until he discovered beer and cigarettes and four-in-the-morning shwarmas at Kuzmas. To prove he still can, he sometimes drags himself out for a jog, often terminated prematurely by fits of coughing.

This usually happens in Dry January, a month that tends to end in shame and failure with a beer-and-takeaway blowout when he gets paid on the 25th. Hasn’t actually run any organised event except the Oceans Half since… well, let’s just say they wouldn’t let him be a prefect anymore. And yet, every April he drags his evil-smelling tekkies from the depths of his cupboard where he chucked them after last year’s Oceans, and lines up with the rest of Group E. The Veteran would hate him if he could be bothered.

The A-Grouper

He’s a Very Serious Runner.

How will you know? He’ll tell you. But his toned physique, Very Serious gear and air of grim-jawed determination disguise feet of clay – or at the very least, a training regime with more holes in it than a string vest. He trains furiously, and qualifies for Group A – but because he already knows everything, he ignores advice, whether from fellow runners, coaches, Runner’s World, his wife, or the bergies who derive great entertainment from watching him doing interval training in Keurboom Park.

As a result he looks the part and starts strong, almost keeping up with the Kenyans for the first half of the Ultra. Then he falls apart, blaming the weather/dodgy nutrition/that old Washie injury/every other runner, and staggers on at half speed, limping over the line just before the cut-off and never understanding why. Grudging toleration from The Veteran at first, degenerating over 56km into barely-disguised contempt.

The Party Animal

Usually a student. Usually still half-zombied from the night before, exacerbated by having not yet gone to bed. Had no intention of running and did not enter; but his buddy, who had every intention and did enter, is back at res lying face-down in his underpants, surrounded by two-minute noodles and empty Black Label quarts. Some guys whose names he can’t remember suggested he use his unconscious mate’s entry.

In high spirits on the starting line, and ignores the slight headache waiting in the wings while he amuses the crowd with his antics; but feels progressively worse as the kilometres pass, culminating in throwing up spectacularly on Rhodes Drive. Perversely, he feels much better after this and is rampant on the home straight at UCT, high-fiving spectators and doing an ill-considered dance on the finish line. Still manages a respectable time, because he’s young and stupid. Naturally, The Veteran hates him. By late afternoon, so do the cleaners at the refreshment tent.

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