Best of the Best - The South African Coxed Four

World Championships Rowing Mega Under 19, Under 23 and Seniors

St Catharine’s, Canada

Jake, Quinton, Rhett, Matthew and Warrick

THE RSA Boat (coached by Chris Paynter)

• (bowman) RICCARDI Giacomo
• (2)             KYRIAZIS Warrick
• (3)             MARKETOS Quinton
• (stroke)     JASSON Matthew
• (cox)         ZILLEN Rhett

There were many rowing races at Worlds. This story is about one race in particular: the finals of the U19 Men’s Coxed Four (JM4+). And taken from various perspectives. There were only six countries that entered a boat in this category. Expectations were that each country would bring back a medal. How hard could that be?

THE HEAT

Before Sunday’s long-awaited final, there would be a Thursday heat to determine seedings for the final. All eyes were on Italy, the defending champions. Australia, however, flexed some muscle and was quickest out of the blocks leading at the first 500 metres. Italy was close on their heels followed 2 seconds by the USA and South Africa. Canada and Ireland were unable to respond to the initial speed.

Australia led to the 1,500m and gave up the lead in the last quarter to a hard-charging USA who took the fastest time of 6m27s followed by Australia’s 6m28s and Italy’s 6m29s. South Africa was a little roughed up and had nothing to show for their efforts other than a 6m33s with a trailing Canada (6m37s) and Ireland (6m40s).

South Africa’s expectations were violently readjusted. The team - now officially blooded in the big leagues – were confronted with the stark realization of what comprised the world standard.

Seedings for the Final

• Lane 1 – Canada
• Lane 2 – Italy
• Lane 3 – USA
• Lane 4 – Australia
• Lane 5 – South Africa
• Lane 6 – Ireland 

THE FINALS

The stories that follow are of the Finals taken from three perspectives:

1. From World Rowing’s synopsis of the A-Final
2. From Jake Riccardi, the South African bowman
3. From me, Jake’s dad, watching from the grandstands alongside the Martindale Pond.

1. WORLD ROWING

U19 men’s coxed four (JM4+) – Final

It was a fast start from the reigning champions, Italy, but then Australia made their move and moved to the front of the field. Australia were still leading at halfway and South Africa had moved into silver medal position ahead of Italy. The Aussies had clear water with 500m to go and were looking well in control while South Africa were starting to feel the pressure from Italy – would we see that familiar sprint? The USA were also chasing hard and certainly not out of contention for a medal. Here come the Italians! They had overhauled South Africa and were even starting to put Australia under pressure. A huge final sprint from the USA had also got them into the medals with South Africa missing out.

Result: AUS, USA, ITA, RSA, IRL, CAN

2. JAKE (The Bowman)

(Transcribed from a recording of Jake 30 minutes after the race.)

“So by the time it started, soon after that, it finished,” said Jake looking out with smiling eyes across the Martindale Pond.

Jake sucked in some air. Sweat was still rolling off his temples.

“I just remember going balls to the wall. Once I got to the 500 metres, I don’t remember what happened. And then I was in the last 500 metres, and I was going as hard as I can. And then we finished.”

Jake’s eyes matched his smile.

“And my heart broke into a million pieces, because it was the best race of my life,” he said swallowing his words.

“And it wasn’t good enough.”  

 

3. ROB (The Dad)

Sunday 25th August 2024, The Finals (Martindale Pond, St Catharine’s)

We left the beach house off Lake Toronto’s Watercrest Drive and drove the 30ks towards Martindale Pond. As we passed Grimsby I turned on the car radio to ease the tension and silence. Canadian radio stations have an old-time appeal and play music anywhere between elevator music and hard rock. It was Sunday morning and traffic on the QEW was purring. U2’s Sunday Bloody Sunday came on.

“I can't believe the news today

Oh, I can't close my eyes and make it go away”

An Irish protest song about bloodied bodies strewn across a dead-end street and broken bottles under children’s feet. The weight of the regatta and racing was beginning to press on the shoulders. How much suffering can you permit children to endure before you step in and say enough is enough?

Finals at World Champs is a day like no other.

Best of the Best

This is how it begins. To get to the start line of a World Champs final an athlete needs to endure a series of comfort deprivations. Less sleep, less soft beds, less ice cream. More hardcore, more blisters, more early mornings. Rowers are less athletic scholars, more elite soldiers. Less Ghurkas. More Japanese Samurai.

Athletes need to be toughened by 4 years of rowing. Then after securing a fistful of medals at SA School champs in their senior year, they put in a 2k ergo time for selection. The list allows only the top times. Then a few weeks of rowing followed by cuts. Then a list is selected for the Gauteng team.

Then Tzaneen training camp, boat selection and seat racing. Then trials. Then chasing progs to meet World standards. Then seat boat racing. Some final cuts. Then winter arrives with its cold fingers on cold oars. Smokey breaths on black mirrored water.

Then another Tzaneen training camp and dodging hippos. Pushing for times, faster splits, faster water. It is the pursuit of precision engineering and the smelting of iron ore in the boat. The tempering of steel by coach blacksmiths.

Once you have your green blazer and pass your medicals, red-eye flights to Toronto are procured. Things move quickly from there. Cramming rowing suits into satchels. Wrapping protein powders into mule packages. Filling thin green containers with fizzy vitamins like bullets in gun cartridges. A few happy snaps at the airport, and you’re ready for Worlds.

And physically, if you get the timing right, you’re ready to row through a brick wall.

The Race

I did the math. In the heat, the USA beat our boys by six seconds. That’s a thumping and the SA boat had to make a plan if they wanted a medal in the 2,000-metre race.

I saw two choices:

1. Do what the plan says.
2. Burn the plan and do what is required.

Winners, I thought to myself, always choose number 2.

We had seats in the stadium. Most chose to stand. Too many nerves. Too much on the line. The inevitability of the race. The inevitability of suffering. We kept our eyes on the big screen as they called out the team names. The stress brimmed. The buzzer sounded. They were away.

I saw the stroke rate of our South African boys and could see from the initial flash of blades that they were all in. There is nothing quite like the all-out fury of the start. From zero to suicide pace in the blink of an eye. We waited for the 500-metre interval positions to be shown on the screen. We held our breath as the boys leaned on their blades.

- 500m - 

The first 500-metre splits came in. There were positive murmurings from the South African supporters. The SA boat was in third. Australia was in first with Italy, the former coxed four champions, in second. The winners of the heat, the USA, trailed the South Africans by a second.

Canada and Ireland lingered in 5th and 6th on fumes.

Time stretched like dream fragments. A dream second splintered into a billion parts like Damian Hirst’s cow-in-glass sliced down the middle. The score from Interstellar plagued my mind with its strings and piano. The choir started its murmurings. The black hole rotated and swallowed stars.

- 1,000m - 

The crowd roared. The Australians had put another second into the field and South Africa moved by Italy into second place. The USA trailed by a second.

I thought of our boys. Second place is where they build insane asylums. The swoosh of reality and the drilling of pain into the body’s core, making Swiss cheese of the muscles. And the pouring of gunpowder into the holes and igniting incendiary flashes that scream phaw-phaw. Hail Marys are on repeat in the boat.

“Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”

Salvador Dali skinny elephants begin walking the dry black Dystopian deserts of time travelers. We are now at the crumbling sand castles in dream level 5 of Inception. Silver morphs into bronze. The brain has its own heartbeat. We can barely watch.

“Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”

Hail Marys are on repeat.

 - 1,500m - 

The end is near. Australia is holding its lead but there is a price to pay for brutal speed. Italy are charging and move past South Africa into second. The South Africans hold off the Americans who remain in fourth. Canada and Ireland are four seconds away. Their day is done. Making up four seconds with 500 metres left has to be impossible.

They say that going in the red zone is like dipping your hands into the lava. This looks like full-body submersion. Like a third-degree burn lava plunge. The race feels like it is prying open the fabric of the universe and entering The Upside Down in search of Demogorgons.

“Hail Mary full of grace….”

In the last few hundred metres, time stops and I see what is about to happen. The South African have to pay the ferryman. There is a reckoning for the effort they put into the first 1.5 kilometres. Death pennies are being added to the end of the blades. One for each stroke that remains. The South Africans hold on and deal with the added weight on the blades. They hold the pace and stroke rate despite everything willing them to give up the fight.

The USA have backloaded this race. They are throwing everything at it and moving faster than the South Africans. The bronze medal for a World Championship is on the line.

“Sunday, Bloody Sunday.”

The boats are in the 250-metre red buoys now. Australia has a grip on gold despite Italy’s efforts to close the gap. Italy will hold onto Silver for sure. So it’s Australia gold, Italy silver. Bronze remains undecided. South Africa are currently in 3rd but the USA still have 20 strokes left in them. The South Africans move at the same pace as at the start. 15 strokes remain. This is madness. And within the madness, the USA go faster. They have momentum and turn the screws.

With 100 metres to go, the boats are side by side. The USA rates up to 41 and is maxed out. The South Africans have been maxed out at 37 since the 1,500 but find something to take it up to 38.

With 5 strokes to go, the USA inched its way into bronze.

Five strokes later, the race is done.

Broken bodies are strewn across the sterns and bows of boats. Sucking in air. Gasping. Cramping. Like civil rights protesters on a bloodied battlefield.

“I can't believe the news today
Oh, I can't close my eyes and make it go away”

The results reveal themselves on the scoreboard.

Beyond the 2,000 metres

The aftermath of the Worlds race is the physical manifestation of where our limits lie. Nothing is left behind. All that remains are limp bodies requiring time to recover and heal. The victors and the vanquished. And all you get for your efforts are masterly corrugated medals with bright ribbons to hang around your neck. For some, not even that.

It is difficult to comprehend to understand how four athletes are driven down a 2,000-metre course under the forceful and stirring commands of a coxswain navigator if you have not experienced it. The boat is greater than the sum of its parts. It is greater than any one athlete. Strength and technical ability are paramount. However, it is only when the boat moves as one organism under the tentative nurturing of the cox and the rhythmic exertion of the blades that the boat becomes transcendent and finds its true speed.

The pursuit of excellence is paved with the skulls of dead enemies, the lamentations of your parents and every fibre in the being that God has bestowed upon you.

If you are one of the fortunate ones – and you have the stirrings within you to swing blades and make the boat sing, then that is a fine thing. 

That is all you need. 

You should nurture it, feed it and drive it forward. If you are one of the fortunate ones - and there are a few - and the passion beats deep within your chest, then now is the time to be brave, to believe, to brace yourself, and to go for it.

Do what is required. Go for it.

~RobbyRicc

Rowing in New Hampshire and Massachusetts - October 2023

Natalie and I travelled to Boston in October 2023. It was primarily to support Jake aka Man Child and the St Benedict’s boys in their two rowing regattas: New Hampshire Champs and Head of the Charles. 

NH Champs are held on the Merrimack River and caters for about 2,000 local rowers. The HoTC takes place on Boston’s Charles River and is an international event with about 11,000 rowers. The regattas are held a week apart. Both courses are 3-miles (just under 5ks) long. The Head of the Charles is seen by many schools as an event which takes years to perfect.

Due to the number of boats in the regattas, prudence dictates a heads race. This means boats are seeded and fed down the river one by one a few boat lengths apart. The faster-seeded boats go first. Then everyone else. Fastest time wins.

The races are based on age groups and boat classes (sculls, pairs, fours, eights, etc). The St Benedict’s rowers raced in the competitive Men’s Youth Eights. That is a story for another time.

This story is about my sculling races at the same regattas.

I raced the Masters sculls events in the 50+ age group, an age group competitive - not in name - but by nature.

New Hampshire Champs (Sunday 15 October 2023)

My family used to attend a church in Kensington which everyone called “The Italian Church”. In addition to the priests all speaking Italian, the church was surrounded by a number of Italian delis and trattorias. Up the road in Bez Valley was a school called Sir Edmund Hillary where we endured Italian school on Saturday mornings.

One of the buildings on the Italian Church property was a movie theatre the priests had built in the seventies. I remember watching Battlestar Galactica and Heidi in that theatre. Annexed to the theatre was an auditorium behind which there was a magnificently proportioned mural reflecting the painter’s perception of heaven. There were wild yet somewhat docile animals, a festoon of flowers, a snaking river and forests that rippled through the scene. Families nestled along the riverbanks as they basked in eternal paradise.

New Hampshire, and in particular Memorial Field where the New Hampshire Regatta Champs are held, remind me of that painting. The Merrimack weaves its way through the mist and fiery orange and green trees that line the riverbanks. The water does not flow, it moves and meanders like the long-exposure of a night camera revealing the gentle swirl of the galaxy. It is the river version of van Gogh’s The Starry Night.

Between green leafy trees, kids string up aerial structures out of their multi-coloured hammocks as they await their races. Lines of Hudsons and Resolutes, all polished and shiny, line the pathways to the water’s edge, perched on the shoulders of scholars with their 1970s hairstyles many wearing pyjama flannels which are trending. Oars neatly stack themselves in rows of whites, pinks, blue and burgundy like a rainbow of Sharpies on the first day of school. Aromas of homemade food - sausages, onions, eggs and pancakes - waft through the campsite tents. The smoke mingles with the Merrimack’s morning mist before being burnt off by stray beams of morning autumnal sunlight.

Mike from Amoskeag Rowing Club was kind enough to loan me the same scull I used in last year’s race: a lilac Peinert shell. Peinert shells came out of Vermont in the 70s, Mike reminded me. They are hardy, not as expensive as the European brands. Rowing a Peinert feels like riding a Raleigh Chopper in my childhood. The rower goes as fast as permitted by his technical prowess and the size of his testicles.

There were only three of us in the 50+ 3-mile sculls race. The winner of last year’s race was from Quinsigamond which is a rowing club just west of Boston. Quinsigamond was first off the start. I started several boat lengths back with the final sculler, a tall precise fellow from Maine, close behind me.

In 2022, Quinsigamond beat my friend Ben by 6 seconds in this race. Quinsigamond had one of those sneaky rearview mirrors on his cap which kept Ben – who was ahead of him - in his sights. In the last k or so, Quinsigamond employed the use of his miniature mirror to sufficiently narrow the gap to Ben to take the win. Skullduggery at its finest.

In 2022, I came 4th. Eighty seconds behind 1st place. In one year I had sharpened my technique and increased the training volume. I learnt a few rowing tactics:

· be brave

· do not go out too hard at the start

· hold the racing line at all costs

· attack before the halfway mark

· finish like your life depends on it.

Before the halfway mark of the race, I opened up the taps. With oxygen aplenty I focused on the drive down of my quads. “Snap, snap”, I repeated to myself in a rapid-fire mantra. The pace was on and with each stroke I visualized my boat closing the gap to Quinsigamond.

“Thwack!” My boat was brought to a stop. I thought I had either collided with one of the shells rowing upriver or that I had beached the scull. Thankfully it was neither. My trajectory – off by a few degrees – caused my stroke blade to broadside the massive orange buoy that demarcated the up-and-down rowing lanes. A maniacal laughter escaped my throat.

“Rwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

I sounded like the Joker who in a moment of lucidity realized the backdoor of the asylum was ajar. Relieved to avoid a swim in the Merrimack, I extricated the oar from under the buoy and reignited my frontal assault.

Alas I could not close the gap. Quinsigamond won in 18m56s. I was 24 seconds back and finished in 19m20s. Third came in on 19m49s.

I was stoked to finish so close to first place. Almost a minute closer than last year.

That’ll do rower. That’ll do.

Cool stats

• My heart rate maxed out at 177bpm which is 97% of my max.
• My best pace on the course - with its strong flowing current - was 1m55s for 500m.
• Crabs = 1

New Hampshire Men’s Junior 8+ Results

· St Benedict’s A – 1st place in 13m53s (A Flight race)

· St Benedict’s B – 2nd place in 15m27s (B, C & D Flight race)

***********************************************************************************

Head of the Charles (Friday 20 October 2023)

I wandered through the neatly racked boats in the Weld Boathouse looking for my scull. With the Newell Boathouse (located on the south side of the Charles River) under construction, all Harvard crews - and a few select international crews – were using boats from the Weld Boathouse located on the Cambridge side of the river. Imposter syndrome is only a problem if you acknowledge imposter syndrome.

Without my buddy, Ben racing by my side, I was in a pickle. I know very little about boats and blades and how you tinker with them to fit your frame. An incorrectly sized boat can be like riding a bike that is too big for you. Sure you can cycle it, however it doesn’t really aid performance. I went full nerd and wrote down a list of the components I needed to be aware of for my boat:

· Boat size

· Oar settings (length, inboard and span)

· Oar type (blade type, handle size etc)

· Footboard

· Gates

· Rail setting

Failing to resolve any of these points not only results in a slow row but leads to bloodied knuckles and calves.

So with my sneaky notebook, I did my best to replicate the settings from back home in the Ravens boat shed. Ravens is a St Benedict’s Old Boys and Parents rowing club which rows at the Victoria Lake Club in Germiston. After tinkering for an hour, I decided to text Ben for advice hoping for a window between our international time zones. Our conversations sound like gobbledygook and went something like this:

Rob (after noting boat measurements with a tape measure and pencil): I wangled your boat from last year. Changed span to 159. Croker blades. 286cm with inboard of 88cm. Took it for a spin today on the course. Great morning for rowing.

Ben: That sounds perfect. What are the shape of the spoons?

Rob (after a quick check of the rowing terminology book): Normal spoons I think.

Ben: Cool yup - should be all good. If headwind on day just go a little lighter on inboard.

Rob (after referencing the rowing terminology book to understand the difference between inboard and outboard and when the blade is heavy and when it is lighter and what that means if there is wind on the day): Ok cool. So 89cm on inboards if headwind?

Ben: Yup anywhere between 88.5 and 89. Then look for length you were getting in the double.

Rob (after doing an internal fist-pump of elation in having understood rowing terminology and what that means for the boat): Ok cool. Thanks my boy.

Rowers are a tribe.

The Race 

Having done the 2022 edition of the race, this time I felt composure. What a wonder a year makes. I focused on racing a tight line around the course without using big zig-zag turns like I did last year. The race seemed palatable.

I started the HoTC in the middle of the field and within a few minutes had overtaken my first sculler. The pace tasted like copper batteries in my mouth. A few minutes later I overtook my second. The feeling was remarkable. I had never really overtaken anyone and it did wonders for the confidence. I employed a tactic I use in open water swimming: pretend you know what you are doing and take the most aggressive line possible. It works in swimming so why not rowing?

After successfully navigating the treacherous turns under the Weeks and Anderson bridges, I knew there was no reason to back off the pace. I let in the nitrous. I overtook a pair of scullers in the last kilometre and manoeuvered my way around the last buoy under the shifty Eliot Bridge.

Thoughts of Valentino Rossi placing his knee on the inside chicane of the Mugello with the gentleness of a choir boy blowing out altar candles entered my mind as I nudged the stroke rate to 30 and then to 32.

“The Doctor,” I muttered to no one in particular, “is in the house.”

I emptied the quads and through force of will held my consciousness over the finish line. I tucked myself forward into a recovery position as the acid and mercury seeped out the body. The boat, with my body in it, drifted. The autumn trees had greyed in the last few hundred metres and the river bubbled the colour of blood.

I finished 69th in 21m52s.

Good enough, I thought. Good enough. An improvement from 2022’s 97th place in 23m24s.

Cool stats

• My average strokes per minute was 31.
• My best pace on the no-current course was 2m06s for 500m.
• Crabs = 0
• Winner: Greg Benning 18m46s

HoTC Men’s Youth Eight Results

· St Paul’s “A” – 1st place in 15m13s

· St Benedict’s A – 20th place in 16m20s

· St Benedict’s B – 72nd place in 17m58s

The "ability to yield, to bend, to give way...was sometimes a source of strength in men as well as in wood." George Pocock

Keep an even keel,

~RobbyRicc

Spartan Baby Badass Ultra 2023

Ben of the Flightless Eagles completed 8 SBBU loops 

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

From Dulce et Decorum Est, by Wilfred Owen

Monday 1 May
– 2am (Loop 17)

The black tar road spreads out to infinity at about 2am. Shards of splintered bone shiv their way into the sinew and muscle fibers. My legs reduced themselves to a walk for a few hours now. The running in them causes the ankles to detach from the shin bones. I cannot hear any cracking in the ankles but I can feel the cracking.

The night’s embrace is turning into my own nightmare on Elm street. Suburbia is becoming dystopian. Leaves of trees lolling in the gentle breeze resemble ashes wafting from funeral pyres. Postboxes resemble heads on pikes. My fellow comrades, Spartan soldiers on a mission, are shrinking in the distance. Still wrestling with their bodies and minds and chasing finish times.

My body and I are not speaking. We are going through a trial separation.

 

Johnny Cobra's magic chilli-whiskey potion

Yesterday…

Sunday 30 April – 9.45am (15 minutes to race start)

The barracks are filling up with challengers. Bright colours like Coachella or maybe Afrika Burn. Sleeping bags are unravelled onto sleeping cots. The legs of camping chairs are unfolded and snuggled next to blue cooler boxes filled with dried mango, biltong, sandwiches and energy bars.

The smell of popcorn and coffee wafts across the room. A cowbell rings and everyone raises their heads. The time has arrived.

Cristy also known as Dudette is wielding her film camera. She pins a microphone onto the lapel of Johnny Cobra’s orange T-shirt. Johnny Cobra opens the proceedings:

“Massive welcome to everyone to the SBBU 2023. It feels like ages ago that we starting to plan this event.”

Johnny Cobra grows the hottest chilis in the world in the back of his garden. So he is not to be trusted. He thanks everyone for attending. He then calls out the three key rules.

“Rule 1. The cowbell will ring and signals 3 minutes before the lap start. That is your safety factor. The next sound you will hear is the Spartan war cry. If you are not at the start line by the end of the Spartan war cry, your challenge will officially be over.

Rule 2: You’ve got to finish the allotted route in the hour irrespective of whether you’re running the 4.2ks or 6.7ks. You’ve got to be back in time at the line before that war cry finishes. You don’t make the hour, your challenge will be over.

For the 100 milers if you want to drop down to the 100k challenge you can, but then your official challenge is over.”

Shouts come from Warmonger in a German accent “Nein, Nein!”

Crazy Hazy joins in “No, No!”

The 100 milers are adamant they will not quit. Murmurs emanate from the crows.

“They’re idiots!” someone whispers from a clump of supporters which ripples laughter through the barracks. Tension fractures but is not totally broken.

Johnny Cobra, stroking his ginger Viking beard, goes through the various routes that the runners will follow for the next 24 hours. These are split into day and night loops. The routes have names like Spartan Heart, Two-Spirit and The Triple Stitched Aero.

“Rule 3. If anyone pulls out, you must ring the tap-out bell. That will signal that your challenge is over. And Alistair will play taps on the bagpipes.”

Ger from Ireland, who is in South Africa on holiday, is the first person out of the barracks and makes his way towards the holding pen. He is an unofficial entrant who has procured spare kit and agreed to run the first loop with the runners. The SBBU has found a kindred spirit.

The Spartan war chant is played. The competitors wish each other well. Goose bumps prickle the arms. Everyone is in good spirits. Feet cross the start line and head out past Settebello restaurant, out the gates of the Italian Club and into the leafy suburb of Essexworld. The race is underway.

The first loop is festive and easy. It’s at a talking jovial pace.

After finishing loop 1, we found out that Marc The Shark did not start the race due to an unpredictable ITB. The SBBU had taken its first victim.

It is later announced that, Simzo and the Flightless Eagles, when it was evident that they were both running in teams, were disqualified. Everyone knows the law that Spartan Babies need to complete the SBBU solo.

 

Ben keeping dad company

Several hours later…..Sunday 30 April – 3pm (Loop 6) – The Munger

The Munger is leaning against the railing of the stairs, sweat dripping down the contours of the stress lines of his face. He is one of the 100 milers and is barely making the cut-offs. Someone has called me to convince him to quit. He had been vomiting in the bathroom for 5 minutes.

“4 or 5 minutes. Lots of vomiting. He’ll listen to you. He better pull out so he doesn’t kill himself.”

I walk over to The Munger.

“My boy, you are sweating too much. I heard you are vomiting. Drop down to the 100ks. Let your body recover.”

The Munger looks up at me.

“I either do the 100 miler or I fail. I didn’t come to do the 100k run. I’m all in.”

The Munger’s eyes blue like an Alaskan wolf show me he is telling the truth.

“Make a call on the next loop. Don’t break yourself.”

The Munger, overwhelmed by nausea and shortening hours, quits after finishing loop 6.

The SBBU carves another notch into its belt.

Sunday 30 April –7pm (Loop 10) Matthew

Matthew, a baker from Bedfordview, decided to attempt the SBBU as an unofficial entrant. His brother joined him for a few loops to assist with morale. Matthew made it to loop 10 but could not go any further.

Matthew wrote a message a day later, “It was so so awesome and thank you for doing what you do, definitely a memorable event and I can't wait to give it another go 😂

I made 10 laps and then all my joints and ligaments gave up on me, a learning curve for sure.”

 

Sunday 30 April –Loop 12 (9pm) Johnny Cobra (100 miler)

Johnny Cobra found himself in a vicious circle. The harder he focused and pushed, the more time warped and began to trickle through his fingers. The 100 km runners could see it happening. They had time to go to the ablutions, to get an ankle strapped, to get a hot drink. John barely had enough time to peel a naartjie before the cowbell rang.

We thought he’d quit at about loop 9. But he didn’t. He made it back to the barracks in time to have a sip of water and dry his brow before going out once again into the fray. He scraped out loop 10 and then finally decided to call it quits on loop 11. He walked to his cot and sat down. A few seconds later the cowbell rang.

John immediately sprung to his feet. “One more loop!” he shouted. And off he went.

We laughed like madmen and went out into the dark night.

Finally, after having completed 12 loops, John pulled the pin on his 13^th loop. He had been sprinting down the only downhill section of the course when he stopped. Abruptly.  

“That’s all I have to give. What a ride!”

Or something similar that only an asylum escapee would scream when surrounded by straight jackets.

John finished his loop, fell onto his cot and passed out for several hours. He would tally up his numbers to over 100ks, and leave the barracks with the title of “Baby”.

 

The Warmonger, Johnny Cobra and Belloc72

Sunday 30 April –Loop 14 (11pm) Warmonger (100 miler)

Running a race with competitors and friends around you is one thing. Running when others around you have capitulated to the distance can only eat away at your resolve. Warmonger was finishing each loop in good spirits and with a zip in his step. But he seemed to have too little time to fuel and hydrate. After settling himself into his camping chair, he would only have a sip of water or something small to eat. It didn’t seem enough. For the energy he was exerting, I thought he would be shovelling in the carbs. 

Just before midnight, after having completed over 90kms
, I saw a smile on Warmonger’s face.

That’s me, his eyes declared, and he fell down onto his thin rubber mat on the cement floor and went to sleep. He looked like the victim of a skydiving accident. Mothers can only dream of their newborn infants sleeping like Warmonger slept that night. 

You can't hold back The Warmonger

Sunday 30 April –Loop 14 (11pm) Princess

Princess was running like a champ. Small tight steps gliding on the tar. He was leading the way for his son, Bricius, whose methodical running style was turning into a grimace. A father and son running an ultra is remarkable and something to behold. Love and courage. Exemplary discipline and infinite love. Every loop that we saw them together was a warm buzz to the stomach.

And just before midnight, Princess pulled the pin. It was the same time as Warmonger had abandoned his 100 miler. He’s off to help Crazy Hazy, I thought to myself. If someone called The Warmonger abandons anything, it’s clear you better assess the situation. Princess opted to look after his wife, Crazy Hazy, who was still on the move. Crazy Hazy does what she does, I have always thought because she has Princess as an accomplice.

When we heard Bricius was still doing loops, it cemented what I had thought. Pops look after mom, the son carries on. At midnight, when the moon was burning away the clouds, this all made absolute sense to me.

So much love in the world, I thought.

Bricius and Princess

Monday 1 May –Loop 16 (1am) Bricius & Terminator

Bricius and Terminator finished their 16^th loop and both chose not to carry on. It was a good call. Either you make the call or the SBBU will. Irish Spartan would go on to find that out the hard way on his 24^th and final loop. 

 Monday 1 May – Loop 23 (9am) Irish Spartan

Irish Spartan is 64 years old. He is the oldest SBBU runner. He was running and walking like a champ. Few chinks in his armour. And yet somewhere out there on the 24^th loop, the victory loop almost, the SBBU took another soul.

The rest of this story - pieced together from witnesses who saw the incident and who can no longer be located - should be taken with a pinch of salt.  As with all legendary tales.

Irish Spartan was found ambling somewhere in the suburbs. A dad pushing his kid in a pram found the Irish Spartan on the side of the road. Things did not look good for Irish Spartan. So the dad took out the kid, placed Irish Spartan in the pram and pushed him up the hill towards the finish line several kilometers away.  

15 minutes after the race had ended, in hobbled Irish Spartan who has being propped up by the guiding hand of Claudia the Great’s husband. Irish Spartan stumbled in leaning heavily backwards, his chin to the sky, like a drunkard being drawn back to the pub by magnets. The cheers from the crowd and challengers carried Irish Spartan and his mischievous smile over the finish line.

Several hours later, Irish Spartan sent Johnny Cobra a text, “When can I enter for next year?” 

Monday 1 May – My last loops

Bia Figmo kept me company in the wee hours of the morning. We chatted about families and how to fix the world’s problems. When the sun refused to rise at its designated hour, Bia Figmo acted in its stead and would buoy up my hopes and spirits with her positivity and humour. We could only laugh at the desperate situation in which we were entangled where our bodies slowed down as time sped up.

One of my rowing friends, Nuno, walked with me for the last few loops. I was in a bit of a tricky position and he was helping me stay fuelled, hydrated and, more importantly, upright.

I am not 100% certain I could have finished the SBBU without the help of Bia Figmo and Nuno.

A year ago, I told Johnny Cobra that doing the SBBU was not that hard as long as: you paced yourself, rested when you could, and kept fueling the body.

Somewhere out there in the wee hours of the morning, I added a caveat to this:

If at any stage you show weakness, the SBBU will chew you up, grind your bones and break you. Mess with the SBBU at your peril.

Nuno, Belloc72 and the Walshinator

Bia Figmo

This is where we fight. This is where they die.

~RobbyRicc

SBBU Press Release: On Sunday 30^th April 2023, 40 runners will be attempting the Spartan Baby Badass Ultra (SBBU) at the Italian Club in Bedfordview, Johannesburg. It is a 100-kilometre self-supported running race where 36 runners will run 4.167 km every hour, on the hour for 24 hours. In addition, 4 runners will run 4.167 miles (or 6.7 km) every hour, on the hour for 24 hours to achieve the 100-mile (or 161 km) target.

The runners will do a variety of loops around the beautiful gardens of Bedfordview and through the grounds of the Italian Club, past the unique SetteBello restaurant and alongside the neighbouring Italian retirement village, Casa Serena. The runners are everyday non-professional runners doing the Ultra to test their limits in a safe community environment. All money raised is part of a CHOC Cows event. All money will go to CHOC who help kids with cancer.

Any runner who cannot finish the SBBU will need to hand in their race number and stand to attention while a bagpiper plays Taps confirming their abandonment of the race.

SBBU 2023 fundraising page: https://www.givengain.com/ap/the-cow-herd-raising-funds-for-the-cows-57844/

You can follow SBBU race updates on Instagram at: https://www.instagram.com/sbbu_official/