The Nostalgia of the 2016 Rotorua Marathon

I have to give a speech in a few weeks time.  I have been asked to give it because I am a woman who has run the 42km marathon distance around Lake Rotorua Marathon for the past 36 years.

I have actually travelled to the town for 37 years to run the marathon but in one of those years, 1999,  the weather was horrendous causing a civil defense emergency to be declared in the town.  Torrential rain had washed away some of the roadway around the course making it too dangerous for runners.  The organisers cancelled the event five minutes before the start time.    

Tony and I were walking to the start line in the horrid rain when athletes began walking back towards us looking glum and forlorn, telling us the marathon had been cancelled.  Over 3,200 people, all wandering back to their cars, hotels and motels despondent and disconsolate about their day of facing their marathon challenge having been cancelled. 

Tony and I looked at one another, feigned shock, and then spontaneously cracked the biggest smiles our faces would stretch to.  We literally jumped for joy.   Hurrah, we don’t have to do the marathon.  Hurrah.

At that time we had completed ample marathons and were never highly enthused about returning to do this event as only weeks before we would have completed our favoured endurance event, the long distance triathlon, Ironman.   Whilst running a marathon some weeks after that appealed to some, we found it more of a nuisance commitment of habit, to others and to a minor degree, to ourselves to ensure we did not rest on our exercising laurels after the Ironman event.  So this year we were being let off the hook. 

We returned to our car, drove to the local Kuirau Park, a wonderland of many big and small pools of hot bubbling water or mud, hissing geysers and little steaming streams.  We happily skipped and jogged all around the park for half an hour, in the rain, relishing the pleasure of running ankle deep in the heated flood waters which had overflowed from all the thermal pools.

That was a good year, 1999.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, for the other 36 years the event has occurred without hiccup.
 

For the first twenty years of my doing the event I would run the marathon reasonably seriously for a woman in her twenties, thirties or forties.  But the years and the turmoil of the past eight or nine years have seen a deterioration in the length of time it has taken to circumnavigate the lake; a deterioration due to occurrences, age, body break down and, to some degree, enthusiasm.

Each year over the past four I questioned my reasoning of why I continued to pay good monies to put myself through a difficult few hours.

Then two years ago my son, his partner and their little son moved to Rotorua, meaning I now had family living in the town therefore there seemed to be an added purpose to go to Rotorua.  And along with that purpose I figured anyone can walk 42 kilometres so I may as well spend a good part of the Saturday doing just that.

Last year, 2015, the body suffered so much that I accepted it was time to acknowledge it was failing to work as it used to, and acknowledged it was time to make the conviction to hang up my marathon shoes. 

In the nearly forty years I have been a runner I have completed over 100 marathons and goodness knows how many other events.  This has happened more by accident than by planning.  Life merely went along the course of fitness and activity and fortunately for me it went that way for longer than it has for many.  Thus each year another visit to Rotorua became a habit, a routine, not a goal.

But after last year’s sorry effort I did not enter this year’s event as I had quietly nurtured some concern over my health and sensibilities.  That was until two weeks before the event date.  My health meant that a Pacemaker was fitted into my chest in March, so figured if the bung knees and ankles were not warning enough, having a Pacemaker fitted to keep me alive should certainly seal resolve to become a little more circumspect in my physical decision making

I did not figure on my cardiac surgeon telling me it he considered it perfectly fine to head to Rotorua six weeks later to walk 42km.  When he said that, I shrugged the shoulders and thought, “Oh,” went home and planned another visit to see the grandson.

And how glad I am.

For the first time in many years I enjoyed the marathon.  Time-wise, I think it was the longest time I have taken to do a marathon, but I didn’t care and the day was most pleasant, weather-wise and event-wise.

This is not taking into account that by the time I reached the finish line I had mildly concussed myself somewhere along the 39 kilometre mark by doing a spectacular, flying trip and landing face first onto the concrete pathway.  In all my years of endurance events this was a first. My first major trip and face plant, my first black eye.

Prior to that incident the day had been superb.  A mere concrete splat at 39 kilometres did not ruin my personal enjoyment.  This year’s event awakened me to the glorious years of Rotorua Marathon nostalgia; it gave me six hours of mindful and thankful nostalgic memory recall.  The feel of nostalgia began whilst waiting at the rear of the starting line, with all the other old and slow runners counting down the clock until the starting cannon went.

Standing near were five people who I recognised as having been fellow and competitive runners many years earlier.  They too looked as ripened as I;  one standing in his old fashioned, faded and frayed, almost obscene shorts with a posture resembling an arthritic old man – which he probably is.  Another chap was bubbling and chatting away to anyone around him who would listen that this was his sixteenth Rotorua Marathon and that he had completed his first in 1987.  The other three were interspersed among other runners and walkers and whenever we made eye contact there was the nod of recognition that said, “Hi, good to see you’re still coming back too.”

The starting cannon fired and the familiar walk-jog over the start line and into the event began.  The cheers from the spectators are the same as they were 37 years ago, “Have a good day Bob.”  “Not far now Sue.” “Looking good Mary.”  The inanity of it remains amusing, no matter how many years it continues.  One cannot fault an enthusiastic crowd of spectators.

The first few kilometres of a marathon are always fun, particularly nowadays when the pace of the journey is so slow giving one more time to ponder, eavesdrop into conversations and take in the surrounds.  The natter, the giggles, the excuses for being so far back due to one injury or another, the retold stories of their last several events, the comparing notes of how their training programme had, or had not, gone.  Each year, same conversation, different year.

A real old timer

At the 5 kilometre mark I came across someone who is almost as old an old timer as I.  He is older in age but I do not recall seeing him on the Rotorua Marathon scene in my first few years, so I can always let him know I am ‘longer in the marathon tooth than he’.  (I don’t recall him on the scene in the 1970’s, but I may be incorrect).  It was lovely to see him.  A gentleman who over the years had challenged himself and his body to a myriad of long distance and endurance events that no average runner would contemplate. Indeed, I remember him competing in the run from Wellington to Auckland in 1985, competing against some famous or locally renowned runners (Yiannis Kuros, Ziggy Bauer, Dick Tout).  

Running alongside this gentleman, Gary Regtein, at the back of the field made for pleasant company, off and on, through the next thirty-five kilometres of the event.

Despite my falling and almost knocking myself out at the 39 kilometre mark, I finished the event with Gary crossing the finish line behind me; but that was only because he had his own personal dramas of major leg cramps at the 40 kilometre mark which had him stopped for some time whilst trying to uncramp the legs.  The mere fact he actually finished more astonishing.  He had recently celebrated his 80^th birthday!  How humbling is that?  I am but a mere teenager by comparison.

  

I took this photo whilst running with Gary - my camera was my favourite nutrition on this day.

When I met him at five kilometres we enjoyed chatting and relating old stories among which he kindly reminded me of how he always considered my Tony a hero and how it was Tony who helped him with his training for Ironman in Auckland in the 1980’s.  I still tingle with pleasure when folk retell their personal Tony stories to me.  It’s lovely.

Wayne from Hamilton

A toilet stop had Gary run on ahead of me and as I was about to resume jogging on I noted a spectator who has been a part of my life for almost thirty years.  But only part of my life on one day of the year.  Rotorua Marathon day.  This man lives in another city to me and we first met along the very roadway I was now on those thirty years ago when we ran alongside one another and initiated a conversation.  I cannot recall who ever beat who to the finish line, it was of no matter.  What did matter was meeting up again the next year for our running paces were so exacting that it never failed we would end up running together and chatting convivially as though we had seen each other only yesterday.  Last year he was suffering as much as I, as he had an injury, or had been ill prior to the event which meant why he was at the back of the field where I was. So we met again.

It has was always been nice to still see him annually so it was sad to see him as a spectator this year.  I stopped to chat and he explained his daughter was in hospital which meant he had driven from his home town to Rotorua for a few hours to at least have a taste of his annual event, be it as a non-participant.  Had I not seen him and realised he had not been on the course that day, there would be been a harking worry as to why not.  I look forward to him being in the event next year.  Wayne is his name; I have never known his surname.

Hacker

Then the non-musical sound of ‘Hacker’ echoed through the hills.  Hacker, aka Bruce Lindsay, is yet another old time runner (not quite the age of Gary and probably less than mine) who thirty years ago ran a reasonable marathon time whilst stopping intermittently along the course to bellow out a note on an old, dented bugle he carried with him.  He was a member of the Hash House Harriers, renown for the running plus drinking abilities and even in his thirties Hacker managed to do both those activities well, whilst blowing a non-tuneful note on his bugle. 

So it was with nostalgia that Gary and I chuckled at the memories Hackers blast took us back on.  I ran alongside Hacker for a wee while and heard yet again, for probably the sixth year running, how he had this particular injury that meant he could no longer run or train for the marathon.  He forgets he has seen me at this event each year for the past four or five and has told me about that injury each year as his reason for being so far at the back of the field.  Methinks maybe he should get it sorted out after all this while, but he's a male and we all know how scared men are of doctors.  Also, it seems many men do have problems accepting the fact that they are actually getting older and that it is the aging factor which has us at the back of the field.  Sure, the injuries are real, but that they are due to age is also real.  Neverthemind, it was dose of fond nostalgia to have Hacker back blowing that same old bugle and on track with us yet again. 

Interestingly, tucked in behind Bruce (Hacker) is another not-quite-such-an-old-timer, but getting up there, Tony Dragecivich

The Hash

Meeting up with him each year reminds me of the Hash House Harriers, that very old, internationally established, social running club that has a history of mid-week after work running – always from and to a local liquor establishment where the greatest challenge used to be who could consume the greater amount of beer after a run than the other man could.

Tony belonged to Hash House Harriers, as did Hacker.  That is where the two first met.  And the Hash House Harrier club used to be a permanent fixture on the sidelines of the Rotorua Marathon course, at the top of the rise as one ran through the north end of the Ngongataha township.  

Sadly, there no longer is the collection of eclectic Hash souls on that hill – for whom Hacker used to always receive a resounding cheer, some cans of beer, and a roar as he ran on blowing that bugle.   

Whilst they no longer come down for the event I still look over to that spot, just in case one or two of the Hash group ever return.  For the past four years they haven’t.

Ngongataha

Ngongataha, such a familiar piece of road, the final piece of flat running before the hilly section of the course.  One year in the early 1990’s  I ran along this stretch of road and saw a familiar face standing and watching.  He knew I ran the marathon each year and it seemed to me he must have been purposely there watching for when I ran through the town.  It was someone with whom I had a short but sweet association with some twenty years earlier.  It was as corny as it reads, our eyes met, we nodded to each other both with a look of warm, fleeting memories, and that is the last time I have ever seen him.  But each year since I still look at that same spot, just in case he ever returned.  He never has.

Selwyn

Over the other side of the Ngongataha hill one comes down into a little valley flat which I never run past anymore without thinking about kindly, old Selwyn.  Selwyn was once a member of the YMCA Health Club, and had been for many years before deciding to move from his St Heliers home in Auckland to reside in the countryside by Lake Rotorua.  Selwyn was a tall, quiet, shy man.  It took a couple of years but eventually Selwyn’s shy reserve melted and we enjoyed many idle chats over the reception counter. I discovered a charming gentleman, widowed some years earlier; a clever man, his vocation as a specialised engineer meant he had accumulated enough money to retire early and enjoy his three times a week, mid-morning visit to the gym.  When Selwyn decided to move away from Auckland to live with his niece and her family near Rotorua many of us from the YMCA were sad to see him go.  But come marathon day each year Selwyn would walk down to the end of his farm driveway, lean on the gate and wait until I came into view.  I always stopped, we would share an awkward hug and I’d be off, knowing I would see him again next the year. 

Then one year I ran down the hill towards Selwyn’s spot and there was no Selwyn.  It bothered me.  It bothered me greatly.  Why was he not there?  Something had to have happened for him to not be there.

Sometime later I learnt that Selwyn had died during the previous year; his niece would not have known who I was so I was not informed.  No longer would Selwyn be there, leaning on the gate, waving; but somehow he still is.  While I still walk, jog or even drive pass that driveway Selwyn will always be there.

It was along this section of road I linked up with Gary again and we jogged easily along the roadside side by side again. We passed our rhythmical strides by recalling some of the more interesting characters who had run this marathon with us sometime in the long past - real characters that stood out for us by their memorable personalities or personality quirks.

Oh yes, there had been many of the well known and famous ones, but it was the quirky ones that we so enjoyed.  Hacker being high up on our list of enjoyable characters who we hope will run on forever.

The Coalman

There was Joe the Coalman.  Little, stocky, strongly build Joe.  A truly interesting Maori gentleman who found his calling in doing marathons whilst carrying a large sack of coal on his shoulder.

I do not know how many marathons Joe did with the sack of coal on his shoulder, but certainly at least three at Rotorua and two other Auckland marathons.

He was an independent soul.  I would be out training for the marathon with twenty or so other runners on a Sunday morning along the Auckland waterfront and inevitably there would be Joe the Coalman, on his own, in the middle of his training run, with his bag of coal on his shoulder.  I never knew whether that bag, or that coal, was ever changed – it always looked liked the same old bag of coal. 

I do not know whatever happened to Joe, but he was in his forties then, in the mid 1980’s so I can only imagine that he’s somewhere delivering bags of coal to his fellow runners who have gone to their fields of eternity where old marathon runners go.

Cy with the white bobbie socks

Up there with Joe the Coalman will be Cy McLoughlin.  Cy was a wonderful Maori man with a long history of good sporting success.  Cy was over six feet tall, very, very lean and always ran with long, white socks pulled up and over his long, lean legs.  He lived in Mt Eden, on Dominion Road, so Cy was a regular sight for Aucklanders, doing his long distance training around the many Auckland streets.

Cy had been a Maori All Black in his young years, and in his fifties and sixties he still competed strongly all forms of running events as well as in Maori and Masters tennis championships.  I do remember him telling me that the year I was born was the year he and another Maori lady won the National New Zealand Maori Tennis Association combined championships.  That was in 1952.  And here he was in the 1980’s running marathons in creditable times.  Indeed, Cy still holds the records for men over 65 at the New Plymouth Mountain to Surf marathon – he ran it in 1982 in 2 hours, 59 minutes and 16 seconds. 

Cy was a true gentleman and in those early years one felt almost privileged to ever be running alongside him, on a training run or in an event.  

When he passed away New Zealand lost a quiet, achieving legend.  His home of many years is now a dental surgery.

Ailsa

Cy passed away not long after the renowned Ailsa Forbes.  Ailsa loved competing at Rotorua Marathon.  She inevitably would win her age group and return to Auckland with medals, cups and awards for her athletic achievements.   Petite and beguiling Ailsa.  Ailsa began running in her late sixties and was truly the ‘lady’ of running.  Known as ‘The Running Gran’, I cannot recall how many marathons Ailsa ran, but all of them she ran with impeccable make up and a pair of pantyhose under her running shorts and socks. 

Ailsa truly threw herself into her athletics.  It was almost a second career for this lovely widowed lady.  She travelled the world competing in Masters track and field events, marathons, half marathons and cross country events.  To look at her one would never dream she even owned a pair of trainers – she had the appearance of a genteel, refined, elderly lady who would spend her spare time knitting booties for the needy children. 

Athletics and marathon running was good for Ailsa. As she aged more she become all the more competitive in race walking and this ended up taking her on even more world trips to compete in World Masters championships in race walking.

Ailsa featured in any photo she could get into.  She did enjoy any media notoriety her newly found sport gave her and was even snapped by a photographer when she was lucky enough to shake the hand of the Pope when in Rome to walk that marathon.

Mere age made Ailsa a legend for she was running reasonable marathon times in her late seventies and early eighties when she was hit by a taxi while cycling home from her job at a childcare centre in Auckland.  How outstanding was she as a role model!

Mad Mike

Somewhere I have a photo of Mad Mike.  He must be pushing seventy by now, but is clearly fighting the aging battle by continuing to run Rotorua Marathon in a pair of pink Speedos, with his long, thinning grey hair flowing and some weird sheepskin arrangement of a drink bladder on his back.  Once upon a time Mad Mike, dressed in this manner (always with pink somewhere), would churn out a three hour marathon.  This year, and the last two years, I have seen this unmistakable figure at the back of the field and he was certainly making himself known to those around him this time.  I heard his voice before I saw him.  The Speedos still look the vintage of those he wore thirty years ago; perhaps he purchased a job lot at that time.  Not the finest looking sight, however one must give this character merit for still hanging in there, still not letting age defy the gravity of those Speedos.  How can one fault a character like that!

He’s a Rotorua legend, along with ….

Bernie

During the event this year both Gary and I commented that neither of us had sighted the infamous female runner, Bernie Portenski.  Bernie is an amazing runner and is a legend in the marathon and athletic running world.  A Wellingtonian, Bernie is a year older than myself, but has been running marathons a good two or more hours quicker than I.  My recollection has it that she had held, and still holds numerous national records for races from 10 kilometre, to half marathon, to marathon events.  I am sure she still holds the New Plymouth marathon record winning time for a women, having done it in her fastest time when she was in her forties, somewhere close to two and a half hours.  Bernie has competed internationally and was selected to represent New Zealand at the Barcelona Olympics at the age of 40, before being denied the team position by Athletics NZ who reneged and posted a younger person into the team.  She still holds world records for the 5000m and 10,000m for the 60-64 year old age group.

Bernie is always recognizable by her slender figure which is usually adorned with brief shorts, cut off running tops and gloves.  If I had her figure, I would wear the same.

Until this year I was the only woman who had completed thirty-six Rotorua marathons.  The next woman behind me on the record books is Bernie, who has done two less than I.  It was always a standing joke with myself and my friends, that perhaps Bernie can still run brilliant three hour plus marathons, while I was struggling to do one in five and a half hours – yet she was still two Rotorua Marathons behind me. 

Thus, it was no joke when we were told later on marathon day that Bernie had not competed this year as she was undergoing treatment for bowel cancer.  A gut wrenching thud to hear.  It was only the year before that Bernie had competed in her first ever Ironman event in Taupo.  She had attended the First Timers’ Seminar I was running – maybe she picked up some tips from me as she found herself on the podium as a place getter in her age group How heartbroken she must have been to not be at the start line this year.   I cross my fingers very hard that this is a mere glitch for that champion warrior woman.

One could go on, but this one will not:

There were so many more faces I saw on this particular day that had their own stories I would have heard over the past 37 years.  So many champions of the unseen.  

No doubt I shall enjoy recalling them next year, when next I come alongside Gary, or Hacker, or whoever else from those eras is still participating – and we can enjoy even more memory recollections of individuals who may not be inspiring but who bring the colour and flavour to an event that has more history than its placegetters. 

Footnote:

When I first ran this marathon my younger son was a mere wee child who came down to watch his mother do her marathon .  This year, that same younger son was around the course once again, supporting his mother.  But this time with his own wee child.

I have run this marathon through at least 2 generations, more likely 3.

Glenn and Anthony at the 36km mark