Deep in the bush, the silhouette of a herd makes its last stand against a spectacular African sunrise. Those in front jump, snort and buck with athletic prowess. It is understood they will lead the charge. In the middle, challengers follow, quietly confident that they will keep up. At the back stands a giddy mix of young and old, all waiting for a sign.
A recording of a lion's roar comes over the intercom. The sweat is pouring off me and I haven't even started. The Kruger Half Marathon has begun. What on earth was I thinking?
Every year some 1,000 athletes gather to undertake this challenging race, set in and around the village of Skukuza in the Kruger National Park. Marketed as a unique race in a unique place, the event attracts runners from all over the world.
My thirtysomething self clings to this slogan in the midst of what can only be called my mid-life crisis. The past few years have been a haze of births and babies and this year’s race is happening on my birthday.
With two women’s mini-marathons done five years earlier and a father who was a competitive runner in his youth (yes, I did just dig that deep), I convince myself that three months’ preparation was enough.
In front of me is Gladis, a silver-haired running machine sporting a Comrades Ultra Marathon 1980 T-shirt. She becomes my marker and I her race entertainment. Running in the bush is a reboot for my senses. The air is hot and dries my mouth minutes into the race. Blizzards of bugs buzz and bounce off me paratrooper style as I gasp between sharp breaths inhaled through my flaring nostrils. The sun hangs high in the sky, catching my eyes along the glistening water of Lake Panic. It is here I encounter my first sense of big game territory. I run past four hippos bobbing in the water. It’s a surreal moment that reminds me this isn’t the Marlay Park Run.
Overhead SANParks rangers hover in their helicopters, signalling to their grounded colleagues of any pending danger. At the 14km stage, my weary legs hit the tar road and I drift from Gladis and the herd like a lame animal. Why didn’t I use the plentiful supply of deep heat that fogged the village that morning? I pass a ranger shrugging his shoulders to the helicopter overhead and recall a particular pre-race announcement:
‘Please make sure to run in groups as running solo will make you vulnerable prey to the animals…’
The bush is dense and allows only glimpses of the odd bemused springbok, impala and warthog, reminding me once more I am not alone.
Finally, I see my herd strung out in long single columns as Gladis cheers me to the finish line. With medal in hand and muscle seizure taking effect, the sense of achievement washed over me. I can actually say I ran in Kruger and survived to tell this story.
