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Comrades	on	the	Road:	Stories	from	South	Africa’s	Iconic	Race	
	

By	Ryan	Lenora	Brown	

	 Student	Number:	2631624	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

Submitted	in	partial	fulfillment	of	the	MA	in	Creative	Writing	at	the	University	of	the	

Witwatersrand	

15	March	2024	

	 	



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University	of	the	Witwatersrand,	Johannesburg	

School	of	Literature,	Language,	and	Media	

Creative	Writing	Department		

	

		

I,	Ryan	Lenora	Brown,	(Student	number:	2631624)	am	a	student	registered	for	the	MA	in	

creative	writing	in	the	year	2024.	I	hereby	declare	the	following:	

• I	am	aware	that	plagiarism	(the	use	of	someone	else’s	work	without	their	

permission	and/or	without	acknowledging	the	original	source)	is	wrong.	

• I	confirm	that	ALL	the	work	submitted	for	assessment	for	the	above	course	is	my	

own	unaided	work	except	where	I	have	explicitly	indicated	otherwise.	

• I	have	followed	the	required	conventions	in	referencing	the	thoughts	and	ideas	of	

others.	

• I	understand	that	the	University	of	the	Witwatersrand	may	take	disciplinary	action	

against	me	if	there	is	a	belief	that	this	is	not	my	own	unaided	work	or	that	I	have	

failed	to	acknowledge	the	source	of	the	ideas	or	words	in	my	writing.	

		

Signature:	_____Ryan	Brown____________________		Date:	________14/03/24________________	

	

NB:	Full	signature	in	PDF	version		 	



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Contents	
	

Notes ..................................................................................................................................... 4 

Introduction:	All	of	South	Africa	in	a	day .......................................................................... 6 

Little	is	Known ................................................................................................................... 23 

Robert	Mtshali’s	daughters ............................................................................................... 37 

Tiger	Gono’s	forty	runs ..................................................................................................... 50 

Hoseah	Tjale’s	shoes .......................................................................................................... 58 

Sergio	Motsoeneng’s	watch ............................................................................................... 70 

Maros	Mosehla’s	record .................................................................................................... 94 

Galaletsang	Mekgoe’s	gold	medal .................................................................................. 106 

Ashleigh	Adams’	second	chance ..................................................................................... 114 

Shahieda	Thungo’s	bus .................................................................................................... 119 

Conclusion ........................................................................................................................ 127 

	
	
	

	 	



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Notes	
Published	Materials	

	

I	wish	to	acknowledge	the	publications	that	commissioned	reporting	used	in	this	

manuscript.	Versions	of	stories	that	appear	in	this	project	were	originally	published	as	

follows:		

	 	“56	Miles	of	Freedom.”	Runner’s	World.	November	2017.		
“South	Africa’s	unlikely	ultramarathoner	helps	others	cross	the	]inish	line.”	The	
Christian	Science	Monitor.	July	6,	2018.	
“Lapping	the	living	room:	Lockdown	marathoners	get	creative,”	The	Christian	Science	
Monitor,	April	8,	2020.		
“We	Are	Here	Because	of	Him’:	The	Runner	Who	De]ied	Apartheid.”	The	New	York	
Times.	September	24,	2022.	
“The	not-quite-redemption	of	South	Africa’s	infamous	ultra-marathon	cheats.”	

Business	Insider.	December	30,	2022.	
	“The	Comrades,”	99	Percent	Invisible.	Episode	airing	January	24,	2023:		
“Never	afraid	to	chase:	A	Black	woman	aims	for	ultra-marathon	history.”	The	
Christian	Science	Monitor.	June	13,	2023.	
“‘I	connect	to	the	pain’:	Finding	a	second	chance	in	ultrarunning.”	Al	Jazeera.	July	1,	
2023	

“’I	refuse	to	be	old’:	The	81-year-old	runner	who	became	a	South	African	celebrity.”	

The	New	York	Times.		December	11,	2023.	
	

Acknowledgements	

	

I	have	been	reporting	on	the	Comrades	Marathon	since	2017,	and	I	owe	a	vast	debt	to	every	

runner,	race	organizer,	or	general	South	African	ultramarathon	enthusiast	I	have	spoken	to	

in	the	years	since.	Each	of	them,	in	their	own	ways,	have	shaped	my	thinking	and	writing	

about	the	race.	I	wish	I	could	thank	each	of	them	individually.		

Of	course,	I	must	speci]ically	acknowledge	the	runners	(and	families	of	runners)	

who	are	subjects	of	the	stories	on	these	pages:	Sindiswa	Magade,	Wendy	and	Nana	

Nxumalo,	Sibongile	Mzili,	Nompumelelo	Madonsela,	Thokozile	Mtshali,	Zwelitsha	Gono,	

Hoseah	Tjale,	Bruce	Fordyce,	Sergio	and	Arnold	Motsoeneng,	Maros	Mosehla,	Galaletsang	

Mekgoe,	Ashleigh	Adams,	and	Shahieda	Thungo.	All	of	them	have	been	unfathomably	

generous	with	their	time	and	memories.	Telling	their	stories	has	been	one	of	the	greatest	

privileges	of	my	professional	life.		

I	would	also	like	to	thank	all	of	the	Comrades	experts	I	have	consulted	across	the	

years.	Comrades	board	member	Isaac	Ngwenya	is	an	unwavering,	passionate	advocate	for	

the	race’s	“hidden”	histories,	without	whom	this	text	would	be	much	poorer.	Former	

Comrades	archivist	Roxy	Thomas	tracked	down	my	most	granular,	off-the-wall	requests,	

and	gave	me	free	reign	to	while	away	my	days	in	the	remarkable	race	archive	she	has	

organized.		

Si]iso	Xaba	and	a	colleague	of	his	who	I’m	referring	to	in	my	text	as	“Sipho,”	along	with	

other	members	of	the	Chesterville	Athletics	Club,	are	basically	single-handedly	responsible	



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for	reviving	the	legacy	of	Robert	Mtshali,	the	]irst	Black	]inisher	of	the	Comrades.	Before	

they	came	along,	even	the	race	itself	didn’t	have	any	record	of	his	existence.	My	own	writing	

about	Mtshali	owes	its	existence	to	them.		

I	also	wish	to	thank	my	fellow	students	in	the	creative	writing	MA	for	their	spirited	

critiques	of	my	work	and	their	comradery	through	this	process.	Karen	Milford,	Victor	

Houliston,	Dorothy	Brislin,	Lidudumalingani,	and	Paula	Andropoulos,	I	look	forward	to	

reading	all	of	your	books	in	the	near	future.	Thank	you	to	my	instructors,	Ivan	Vladislavic,	

Robert	Muponde,	Masande	Ntshanga,	and	Peter	Kimani	for	their	close,	smart	reads	of	my	

work.	Above	all,	I	am	grateful	to	my	advisors	Bronwyn	Law	Viljoen	and	Phillippa	Yaa	de	

Villiers	for	their	help	shaping	the	project,	saving	me	from	my	own	writing	tics,	and	pushing	

me	in	sometimes	uncomfortable	new	directions.		

Thanks	also	to	my	friends	and	family,	and	in	particular	to	Pascal	Fahrni,	who	

reminds	me	every	day	to	not	to	take	myself	too	seriously.	My	life	would	be	smaller	and	

duller	without	him.		

Finally,	this	project	is	dedicated	to	Sindiswa	“Sindi”	Magade,	for	trusting	me	with	her	

story,	and	in	so	doing	so,	setting	me	on	the	path	that	led	me	here.				
	

	
	 	



 6 

	

Introduction:	All	of	South	Africa	in	a	day1 
Every	journalist	has	a	favorite	question	to	ask.	It	can	be	a	sharp	one	or	a	silly	one.	

Usually,	it’s	nothing	particularly	ambitious	or	clever.	It’s	just	something	to	make	the	people	

we	talk	to	open	up,	spin	off	course,	forget	that	the	person	in	front	of	them	is	there	by	

professional	duty.	Maybe	it	is	complimenting	someone’s	outfit.	Maybe	it	is	asking	about	the	

baby	who	is	their	subject’s	phone	lock	screen.	One	journalist	I	particularly	admire	told	me	

the	question	that	had	taught	him	the	most	was	simply,	“and	then	what	happened	next?”		

Here	is	mine:	“Would	you	like	to	go	for	a	run?”		

I	got	the	idea	in	the	autumn	of	2017,	when	I	was	writing	my	first	magazine	story	

about	the	Comrades,	an	iconic	90-kilometer	footrace	run	in	South	Africa	each	winter.	The	

piece	was	a	profile	of	a	Johannesburg	domestic	worker	named	Sindi	Magade	who	was	

training	for	her	first	Comrades.	I	found	Sindi	through	the	president	of	her	running	club,	and	

in	the	months	before	the	race,	we	met	sometimes	for	coffee	at	a	café	at	an	outdoor	mall	in	

the	upscale	Joburg	suburb	of	Fourways.	It	was	the	kind	of	generically	hip	place	with	

angular	metal	furniture	and	exposed	light	bulbs	dangling	from	the	rafters.	The	location	was	

Sindi’s	suggestion,	but	I	had	a	feeling	she	chose	it	for	my	comfort	rather	than	her	own,	and	

our	conversations	there	felt	wooden	and	detached.	A	wiry	woman	in	her	late	30s,	Sindi	was	

friendly	but	nervous.	As	we	talked	over	milky	coffees	served	in	glasses,	her	eyes	flicked	

past	me.	She	stammered	apologetically	every	time	she	forgot	a	word	in	English.	I	was	

nervous	too	–	the	assignment	I	had	for	Runners	World	marked	the	first	time	I	had	landed	a	

magazine	feature.	I	didn’t	want	to	mess	it	up.		

 
1	A	version	of	my	reporting	about	Sindi	Magade	was	originally	published	as	“56	Miles	of	Freedom”	in	the	
November	2017	issue	of	Runner’s	World.	https://www.runnersworld.com/races-
places/a19457092/comrades-marathon/	

	

A	version	of	my	reporting	on	the	history	of	the	Comrades	marathon	was	published	as	a	radio	documentary	

entitled	“The	Comrades”	on	the	podcast	99	Percent	Invisible	on	January	24,	2023:	

https://99percentinvisible.org/episode/the-comrades/	

	

A	version	of	my	reporting	about	people	running	long	distances	during	COVID19	was	originally	published	as	

““Lapping	the	living	room:	Lockdown	marathoners	get	creative,”	The	Christian	Science	Monitor,	April	8,	2020.	
https://www.csmonitor.com/World/2020/0408/Lapping-the-living-room-Lockdown-marathoners-get-

creative	

https://www.runnersworld.com/races-places/a19457092/comrades-marathon/
https://www.runnersworld.com/races-places/a19457092/comrades-marathon/
https://99percentinvisible.org/episode/the-comrades/


 7 

From	our	conversations	in	the	café,	a	faint	outline	of	Sindi’s	life	story	began	to	take	

shape	in	my	head.	She	had	grown	up	in	the	1980s	in	a	village	in	the	Transkei,	a	so-called	

“homeland”	designated	by	the	apartheid	government	for	Xhosa-speaking	Black	South	

Africans.	It	was	a	postcard-pretty	place,	where	pastel	rondavels	were	speckled	over	rolling	

green	hills,	and	the	frothy,	turquoise	ocean	roared	softly	in	the	distance.	But	there	was	no	

work	there,	so	like	many	of	the	Transkei’s	inhabitants,	Sindi’s	parents	went	away	each	

January	to	Johannesburg	to	work	for	white	people	--	her	mother	as	a	maid,	her	father	as	an	

airport	porter.	Her	first	pair	of	shoes	were	hand-me-down	heels	her	mother	brought	back	

from	her	employer	one	Christmas,	that	she	wore	proudly	until	the	boys	at	school	started	

their	taunts.	So,	you	think	you’re	a	fancy	madam	now?	Are	you	trying	to	be	white?				

Sindi	couldn’t	remember	a	time	she	didn’t	love	sports.	She	played	soccer	with	the	

boys	in	the	village	until	they	grew	too	big	for	her	to	keep	up,	and	then	she	switched	to	

netball.	But	her	biggest	love	was	running.	She	competed	barefoot	in	athletics	competitions	

on	the	gravel	track	behind	her	high	school.	And	later,	when	she	dropped	out	of	school	and	

moved	to	Cape	Town	to	clean	houses,	she	ran	laps	around	a	local	sports	field	after	work.		

The	long	distances	started	later,	when	she	moved	to	Johannesburg,	a	city	that	

sprawled	endlessly	into	the	highveld,	where	the	commute	to	work	in	shared	mini-bus	taxis	

could	easily	eat	up	half	your	pay.	She	began	to	jog	home	to	save	money,	and	then	something	

strange	happened.	She	realized	she	liked	it.	Other	people	she	knew	who	jogged	for	exercise	

told	her	that	as	the	miles	added	up,	they	felt	heavily	and	sluggish.	But	Sindi	found	the	

opposite	was	true.	On	her	long,	slow	runs,	she	simply	sunk	deeper	into	a	rhythm,	relaxing	

into	the	sound	of	her	own	rasping	breaths,	or	the	woosh-woosh-woosh	of	cars	sliding	past	

on	the	road	beside	her.	Often,	it	was	the	only	time	in	the	day	she	was	really	alone.		

By	the	time	we	met,	she	was	living	in	Diepsloot,	a	township	15	kilometers	from	the	café	

where	we	sat.	She	was	a	full-time	domestic	worker	for	a	middle-aged	couple.	They	were	

kind	people,	she	said,	and	paid	her	enough	that	she	could	afford	to	take	a	shared	taxi	to	

work.	“But	I	usually	run,”	she	announced	to	me	one	afternoon	in	the	café,	as	a	white	dog	

roughly	the	size	and	shape	of	a	puff	of	candy	floss	sighed	theatrically	from	under	the	table	

beside	us.		“Sometimes,	when	I’m	training	for	something,	I	run	both	ways.”		

I	set	down	my	spoon	on	the	saucer.	“Could	I	come	with	you	sometime?”	She	blinked	

back	surprise,	and	then	her	face	cracked	into	a	wide	smile.		



 8 

“Ok,”	she	said.	“Why	not?”	

And	so,	I	found	myself,	about	a	month	before	the	2017	Comrades,	driving	to	

Diepsloot	just	before	dawn.	My	small	Hyundai	scraped	along	the	pothole-cratered	roads,	lit	

only	by	the	florescent	lights	of	sticky	roadside	taverns,	still	open	from	the	night	before.	I	

checked	the	clock:	5:45	am	As	amapiano	beats	thumped	through	the	bars’	open	doors,	my	

headlights	picked	out	the	rows	of	commuters	already	walking	brusquely	through	the	dark	

towards	the	township’s	main	road.	They	were	dressed	in	the	puffy	black	jackets	and	khaki	

pants	of	the	city’s	security	companies,	and	the	coarse	blue	jumpsuits	of	its	gardeners.			

	 On	the	fringes	of	every	South	African	city,	a	mass	exodus	like	this	one	is	a	daily	

occurrence,	as	residents	of	the	country’s	poorest	neighborhoods	trudge	off	to	work	in	the	

houses	and	shops	of	its	richest.	I	knew	this,	but	as	a	resident	of	the	suburbs,	I	rarely	saw	it	

myself.	In	fact,	the	only	times	I	could	remember	witnessing	this	morning	migration	were	

when	I	was	up	early	for	a	]light,	or	to	drive	to	a	road	race	in	another	neighborhood.	I	was	

always	surprised	then	to	see	the	roads	thick	with	people	at	that	hour,	cutting	across	our	city	

on	foot,	moving	quietly	between	its	many	different	worlds.		

	 Diepsloot	sits	north	and	east	of	Johannesburg,	and	it	sprung	up	in	the	years	

following	the	end	of	apartheid	in	the	mid1990s,	a	knot	of	shacks	that	grew	into	a	village	of	

shacks	and	then	a	full-blown	city	ready	to	serve	the	gated	communities	and	“golf	estates”	–	

those	ubiquitous	South	African	housing	developments	encircling	a	golf	course	–	also	

gobbling	up	open	land	nearby.		Two	decades	later,	the	township	still	had	a	haphazard,	

perpetually	un]inished	look	to	it.	There	were	few	paved	roads,	or	sewers,	and	streams	of	

blue-grey	liquid	carved	gullies	into	the	roadside.	Street	corners	were	piled	with	rubbish	

bags	that	looked	like	they	had	been	patiently	awaiting	collection	for	weeks.	Many	had	been	

torn	open	to	reveal	the	oozing	mix	of	rotting	things	inside.		

I	turned	into	the	parking	lot	of	a	small	orange-brick	of]ice	block,	some	government	

of]ice	or	another,	where	Sindi	told	me	it	would	be	safe	to	leave	my	car.	She	was	already	there,	

bouncing	on	the	balls	of	her	feet	to	keep	warm.	“Ready?”	she	asked	me.	And	then	we	began	to	

jog.		

As	we	reached	the	main	road	out	of	the	township,	long	lines	of	rusted	mini-buses	

merged	furiously	into	traf]ic,	wheezing	and	heaving	their	way	south	toward	the	suburbs	of	

Fourways	and	Bryanston.	Our	breath	was	ragged	as	we	jogged	past	the	women	grilling	



 9 

vetkoek	on	street	corners	in	giant,	sizzling	vats	of	oil,	past	the	children	in	crisp	uniforms	

holding	hands	as	they	cross	the	street	together,	past	the	ladies	laying	out	neat	rows	of	used	

blue	jeans	and	t-shirts	with	text	like	“Pi	Phi	or	Die”	and	“Roosevelt	High	School,	Class	of	

2015”	to	sell	to	passerby.	We	darted	in	and	out	of	the	road,	and	more	than	once,	Sindi	had	to	

grab	my	arm	to	pull	me	away	from	a	mini-bus	]lying	past.		

After	less	than	two	kilometers	however,	the	city’s	grip	seemed	to	loosen,	and	the	

crowded	settlement	faded	to	rolling	brown	]ields.	In	the	distance,	I	could	just	make	out	the	

shape	of	a	housing	complex,	which	looked	like	a	single	house	copy-pasted	across	the	pink	

skyline.	A	few	minutes	later,	we	passed	the	gates	of	Steyn	City,	a	massive,	half-]inished	

private	housing	development	with	aspirations	to	be	a	fully	functional	city	–	]itted	with	

schools,	hospitals,	malls,	and	of]ice	blocks.	I	glimpsed	a	grandiose	faux-Tuscan	villa	ringed	

by	a	Colosseum-style	wall,	which	I	had	read	was	South	Africa’s	most	expensive	house.	

Around	it,	cranes	hovered	over	half-]inished	houses	and	apartment	towers.	The	whole	thing	

was	tucked	behind	a	heavily	forti]ied	perimeter,	with	the	idea	that	one	day,	its	residents	

could	live	their	whole	lives	there,	never	having	to	step	outside.		

Past	Steyn	City,	Johannesburg	picked	up	again,	in	a	blast	of	suburban	shopping	malls,	

luxury	car	dealerships,	and	open	lots	with	cranes	dangling	above	them.	Billboards	

advertised	Swedish	furniture	and	personal	trainers.		A	few	kilometers	later,	we	turned	

down	an	empty	and	eerily	silent	street,	the	only	sound	the	click	click	click	of	someone’s	

electric	fence	shorting.		

Soon,	we	pulled	to	a	stop	in	front	of	the	complex	of	low	slung	white-washed	houses	

where	Sindi	worked,	and	went	inside.	As	we	stretched	in	front	of	her	employer’s	pool,	Sindi	

joked	that	I	would	be	running	my	]irst	Comrades	in	no	time.	I	said	that	when	I	did,	I’d	hire	

her	as	a	coach.	As	we	bantered,	I	realized	that	although	we	had	barely	spoken	on	the	run	–	

mostly	because	of	my	lack	of	]itness	–	something	had	passed	between	us.	Nearly	

imperceptibly,	our	dynamic	had	shifted.	The	next	time	we	met	in	the	café,	she	asked	if	she	

could	tell	me	about	her	husband	Zane,	a	jealous,	angry	man	who	once	shoved	her	to	the	

ground	in	front	of	her	running	club	teammates	for	being	late	]inishing	practice.		

I	nodded.	“What	happened	next?”	I	asked.		



 10 

	
Running	in	Diepsloot	with	Sindi	(far	left),	May	2017	

	

	

“What	makes	you	so	interested	in	the	Comrades?”	

I’m	at	a	house	party	at	an	artsy	old	house	in	the	Joburg	suburbs,	the	kind	with	

pressed	tin	ceilings	and	framed	photos	of	old	Drum	magazine	covers	on	the	walls.	A	woman	

I’ve	just	met,	a	lawyer	in	high-waisted	vintage	trousers	and	Birkenstocks,	is	kindly	making	

conversation	about	my	work.	She	probably	assumes	this	is	a	simple	question	for	me,	given	

how	much	of	my	time	I’ve	devoted	to	thinking	about	this	race	over	the	past	few	years.	I	

shoot	back	my	stock-standard	reply.	“I	just	want	to	understand	why	so	many	people	here	

think	it’s	normal	to	run	90	kilometers	for	fun.”	She	laughs.	I	change	the	subject.		

The	truth	is,	though,	I	]ind	this	question	almost	impossible	to	answer,	even	to	myself.	

It’s	true	that	part	of	it	is	the	running	culture.	In	South	Africa,	one	meets	ultra-marathon	

runners	with	perplexing	frequency	–	at	parties	and	petrol	stations,	guarding	buildings	and	

taking	my	deposit	at	the	bank.	When	you	donate	blood	here,	the	health	questionnaire	asks	

if	you	regularly	do	strenuous	exercise,	such	as	training	for	the	Comrades	Marathon.	Once,	in	

front	of	a	bar	near	my	house,	I	ran	into	a	man	in	a	Comrades	hoodie	selling	wire	bead	

animals.	“You’ve	run	the	Comrades?”	I	asked	excitedly.	“Yes,	twice,”	he	replied	gruf]ly,	



 11 

impatient	with	my	surprise.	“Did	you	want	to	buy	something?”	I	purchased	a	stout	bead	

zebra	the	size	of	a	]ist	in	apology.	

This	is	unusual	because	nearly	everywhere	in	the	world,	ultra-running	–	de]ined	as	

any	distance	longer	than	a	standard	42-kilometer	marathon	–	is	considered	a	distinctly	

fringe	pursuit.	In	the	UK,	for	instance,	one	journalist	recently	marveled	at	the	sport’s	

meteoric	rise	by	pointing	out	as	recently	as	the	year	2000,	fewer	than	600	people	]inished	

an	ultramarathon	annually.	But	in	2017,	18,000	did	Those	]igures	are	impressive,	I	suppose,	

until	you	consider	that	in	South	Africa,	nearly	18,000	people	]inished	the	Comrades	alone	

last	year.	That’s	not	to	mention	any	of	the	country’s	other	big	ultra-marathons,	like	the	56-

kilometer	Two	Oceans	in	Cape	Town	(10,000	runners)	or	the	50-kilometer	Om	Die	Dam	

north	of	Johannesburg	(4,000	runners).		

The	impact	of	these	races	permeates	every	level	of	running	in	the	country.	When	I	

moved	to	South	Africa,	I	remember	being	struck	by	how	deeply	ordinary	it	is	to	run	very	

slowly.	There	is	little	shame	in	being	in	the	back	of	the	pack,	where	anyway	you	will	be	

among	people	who	are	shuf]ling	along	in	order	to	train	their	bodies	to	handle	the	hours	

upon	hours	on	the	road	that	they	will	face	come	Comrades	day.	There	is,	in	other	words,	an	

ordinariness	to	running	slowly	here	that	does	not	exist	in	many	other	places.		

When	I	lived	in	the	United	States	and	England,	for	instance,	long	distance	running	

was	a	sport	with	a	lot	of	gravitas,	something	that	seemed	reserved	for	serious	athletes.	It	

involved	expensive	shoes	and	complicated	speed	workouts	and	race-day	nutrition	plans.	

And	speed	mattered.	It	felt	like	an	unspoken	truth	that	a	slow	]inishing	time	–	let	alone	

walking	a	chunk	of	a	long	race	–	was	a	little	shameful.	I’m	not	the	only	person	who	has	

observed	this.	Back-of-the-pack	runners	in	major	Western	marathons	like	London	and	New	

York	have	complained	for	years	of	being	jeered	by	spectators.	“This	is	a	race,	not	a	walk,”	

one	jeering	onlooker	told	a	London	Marathon	runner	in	2019.	“If	you	weren’t	so	fat,	you	

wouldn’t	be	so	slow.”	New	York	Marathon	runner	Martinus	Evans	started	his	now	famous	

“Slow	AF	Running	Club”	after	a	similar	taunt	was	lobbed	at	him	in	kilometer	26	of	the	New	

York	Marathon.	“You’re	fucking	slow,	buddy,”	someone	in	the	crowd	told	him.	“Go	home.”		

In	South	Africa,	by	contrast,	slow	runners	are	at	best	embraced,	and	at	worst,	too	

ordinary	to	really	complain	about,	because	there	are	so	many	of	us.	To	illustrate	the	

difference	I’m	talking	about,	look	at	the	]inishing	times	at	the	2023	New	York	Half	Marathon	



 12 

and	the	2023	Two	Oceans	Half	Marathon,	which	is	the	largest	South	African	race	at	this	

distance.	Last	year	in	New	York,	half	of	the	24,745	]inishers	completed	the	race	in	under	

two	hours,	and	only	20	percent	took	longer	than	two	and	a	half	hours.	At	the	2023	Two	

Oceans,	on	the	other	hand,	only	one	in	]ive	runners	crossed	the	line	in	less	than	two	hours,	

and	more	than	half	were	still	on	the	course	when	the	timer	hit	2:30.	

I	think	this	is	the	trickle-down	effect	of	the	Comrades,	and	other	South	African	

ultras,	races	so	long	that	they	are	impossible	for	most	people	to	do	at	any	pace	quicker	than	

a	slow	plod.	Comrades	runners	train	themselves	to	conserve	energy,	walk	frequently,	and	

move	no	faster	than	a	conversational	pace.	To	train,	they	run	shorter	distances	in	this	style	

too.	And	because	in	any	given	year	so	many	South	Africans	are	training	for	the	Comrades,	

their	style	of	running	has	become	a	norm.	In	turn,	that	encourages	other	slower	runners	

and	walkers	to	participate	too,	since	they	know	from	experience	that	the	back	of	the	pack	is	

not	a	lonely	place	to	be.		

I	myself	am	a	good	example	of	this.	In	2018,	I	made	it	a	New	Year’s	resolution	to	get	

in	better	running	shape	by	doing	a	road	race	in	Johannesburg	every	month.	Depending	on	

my	schedule,	I	would	pluck	races	from	the	calendar	nearly	at	random.	Sometimes	I	had	

trained	for	them,	and	sometimes	I	sidled	up	to	the	start	of	a	21-kilometer	race	knowing	I	

would	probably	walk	half	of	it,	and	that	that	would	be	perfectly	]ine.	The	distances	I	ran	–	

usually	10	or	21	kilometers	–	were	short	enough	to	feel	manageable,	but	long	enough	to	see	

the	city	shift	beneath	my	feet.	That	year,	as	I	jogged	and	walked	all	these	races,	I	also	saw	

more	of	Johannesburg	than	in	the	three	previous	years	I	had	lived	in	the	city	combined.	I	

ran	races	that	lapped	township	neighborhoods	of	identical	“matchbox”	brick	houses	with	

rusted	asbestos	roofs,	and	races	that	rambled	through	nature	reserves	or	suburbs	where	

every	house	had	a	personal	guard	seated	in	a	tiny	wendy	house	outside.	These	races	often	

felt	to	me	like	they	brie]ly	reordered	the	universe.	People	from	the	city’s	so-called	“leafy”	

neighborhoods	--	Johannesburg	code	for	rich	--	came	to	township	to	run,	places	they	

otherwise	knew	only	by	name,	as	the	neighborhoods	of	their	gardeners	or	domestic	

workers	or	nannies.	And	residents	of	those	townships	moved	sure-footedly	through	the	

suburbs,	laughing	and	blasting	music,	taking	up	space.	Each	of	us,	at	some	point,	found	

ourselves	moving	through	the	city	in	new	ways.	

	



 13 

Of	course,	South	Africans	aren’t	the	only	people	in	the	world	to	love	running	very	far.	Name	

any	distance,	over	any	geography,	and	I	can	pretty	much	guarantee	you	that	there	is	

someone,	somewhere,	who	has	thought,	let’s	give	this	a	shot.	

Take	24-hour	track	races,	of	which	there	are	dozens	in	the	world.	The	set-up	is	

exactly	what	it	sounds	like.	You	run	laps	around	a	400-meter	track	for	a	day	straight.	As	

many	as	you	like.	As	fast	–	or	as	slow	–	as	you	want	to	go.	“Mind	boggling,	super	mental,	like	

death	by	a	thousand	paper	cuts,”	reported	Camille	Herron,	the	American	ultra-runner	who	

set	a	women’s	24-hour	world	record	at	a	one	such	race	in	Arizona	in	2018,	completing	262	

kilometers,	or	675	laps	of	the	track,	scar]ing	tacos	and	beer	as	she	ran.	Most	of	us	lack	the	

interest	in	that	particular	genre	of	self-in]licted	pain,	but	its	devotees	claim	there	is	nothing	

more	transcendent.	In	fact,	one	of	the	most	famous	such	runs	is	the	“Self-Transcendence	24	

Hour	Track	Race,”	held	each	September	in	south	London	by	devotees	of	the	Indian	spiritual	

guru	Sri	Chinmoy,	an	ultra-marathoner	who	preached	running	as	a	way	to	transcend	one’s	

physical	and	spiritual	limits.	(Chinmoy	was	also	the	creator	of	the	“Self-Transcendence	

3100	Mile	Race,”	an	annual	52-day,	4,989	kilometer	run	around	a	single	city	block	in	

Queens,	New	York).			

In	the	early	days	of	the	coronavirus	pandemic,	runners	around	the	world	began	to	

organize	similar	kinds	of	long-distance	runs	in	the	tiny	spaces	to	which	they	were	con]ined.	

Even	if	they	were	not	pursuing	spiritual	enlightenment	perse,	these	runners	seemed	to	me	

to	share	the	same	desire	to	run	their	way	out	of	their	heads.	I	interviewed	a	Polish	runner	

whose	quest	to	run	a	marathon	in	every	country	had	been	inde]initely	put	on	hold	when	the	

world	shut	down.	He	]lew	home,	and	jumpy	and	bored	in	his	quarantine	hotel	room,	ran	a	

marathon	around	his	bed	(5626	laps).	After	he	]inished,	in	8	hours	and	32	minutes,	

Wojciech	Machnik	told	me,	“Look,	today	this	is	what	I	can	do.	And	this	is	probably	my	one	

chance	in	my	life	to	do	this,”	–	as	in,	a	marathon	around	a	bed.	For	others,	too,	these	strange	

runs	to	nowhere	seemed	to	act	like	a	spin	cycle	for	the	anxious	brain.	I	Zoomed	a	Filipina	

woman	who	charted	a	marathon	course	from	her	kitchen	to	the	elevator	outside	her	]lat	

and	an	Italian	veterinarian	in	Dubai	told	me	he	ran	a	marathon	along	the	corridor	of	his	

Dubai	apartment	building	to	distract	himself	from	unfolding	horror	in	his	home	country.	

“There	are	no	real	answers	for	why	this	is	happening,	and	this	is	a	way	to	take	my	mind	off	

of	all	that,”	he	said.	Just	a	few	kilometers	from	me,	in	the	Johannesburg	suburbs,	a	runner	



 14 

named	Stuart	Mann	woke	up	on	a	rainy,	autumn	morning	in	April	2020	and,	as	cold	rain	

lashed	his	shoulders,	swam	2.4	miles	across	his	12-meter-long	pool.	When	he	]inished,	he	

popped	out,	had	a	cup	of	tea,	and	then	biked	180	kilometers	on	a	stationary	bike	while	

reading	Harry	Potter	to	his	daughter.	And	when	he	was	done	with	that,	he	ran	a	marathon	

back	and	forth	along	the	length	of	his	driveway.	It	was	a	full	Ironman	triathlon,	all	of	it	

completed	within	20	meters	of	his	bedroom.	Why?	In	perhaps	the	most	limiting	moment	of	

his	life,	“it	was	an	opportunity	to	try	something	completely	different.”		

Even	in	less	extreme	moments	in	history,	running	vast	distances	is	a	challenge	often	

linked	to	transcending	human	limitations.	In	Mount	Hiei,	Japan,	every	so	often	a	monk	takes	

on	a	challenge	known	as	kaihogyo,	where	they	must	run	1000	marathons	in	1000	days,	on	a	

course	that	picks	its	way	between	250	Buddhist	shrines.	The	idea,	of	course,	is	

enlightenment	–	to	]ind	out	what	sits	at	the	ragged	edges	of	human	consciousness,	beyond	

exhaustion	and	suffering.	“When	you	are	nothing,	then	something,	pop,	comes	up	to	]ill	the	

space,”	one	monk	who	completed	the	challenge	told	The	Guardian,	though	he	was	a	bit	

circumspect	on	what,	exactly	that	something	is.	I	guess	you	have	the	right	to	keep	your	

trade	secrets	after	you	run	1000	marathons	in	three	years.			

The	list	of	mind-boggling	distance	running	challenges	goes	on.	There	is	a	famous	six-

day	ultra-called	the	Marathon	des	Sables	(Marathon	of	Sand)	where	people	run	250	

kilometers	across	the	Sahara	carrying	their	food	and	clothing	on	their	backs.	Another,	the	

Leadville	100,	takes	its	runners	161	kilometers	up	and	down	the	craggy	peaks	of	the	Rocky	

Mountains	in	Colorado.	Perhaps	the	world’s	strangest	ultra	is	the	Barkley	Marathons,	held	

each	Spring	in	Tennessee.	The	race	begins	at	a	random	hour	between	midnight	and	noon	on	

race	day,	signaled	by	its	organizer	–	a	hobo	Santa	Claus-esque	]igure	name	Gary	“Lazarus	

Lake”	Cantrell	–	blowing	into	a	conch	shell.	Instead	of	]iring	a	starting	gun,	he	lights	a	

cigarette,	and	then	runners	take	off	into	the	Tennessee	forest	where	James	Earl	Ray,	the	

assassin	of	Martin	Luther	King,	wandered	for	more	than	two	days	after	escaping	prison	in	

1977.	Runners	complete	an	unmarked	loop	of	about	32	kilometers	through	the	mountains,	

charting	their	way	with	compasses	and	paper	maps,	and	collecting	pages	from	books	placed	

at	several	checkpoints	along	the	route	to	prove	they	haven’t	cut	the	course.	Then	they	do	

the	same	thing	four	more	times.	The	cutoff	is	60	hours,	and	only	17	people	have	ever	

]inished	the	race	in	its	four-decade	history.	(Like	Sri	Chimnoy,	Lazarus	Lake	is	partial	to	



 15 

designing	unusual	races,	and	also	runs	a	series	called	the	Backyard	Ultra,	whose	]lagship	

event	is	an	endurance	race	in	his	own	backyard	where	runners	complete	a	6.7-kilometer	

loop	as	many	times	as	they	can	until	they	drop	out).		

All	of	these	ultra-marathons	push	the	limits	of	human	endurance,	and	perhaps	for	

that	reason,	none	of	them	have	much	mass	appeal.	Most	of	us	would	rather	be	reading	a	

book	or	cooking	an	omelet	or	cuddling	a	baby	or	doing	any	number	of	other	things	than	

running	for	that	long.		

	 So,	what’s	different	about	South	Africa?		

	

On	May	24,	1921,	around	4:30	am,	two	teenage	boys,	Eric	and	Douglas	Clapham,	took	off	on	

their	bikes	from	their	house	in	Pietermaritzburg,	a	small,	heavy-lidded	city	in	South	Africa’s	

eastern	Natal	province.	Outside,	the	late	autumn	sky	was	still	a	blank	black.	The	boys	

carried	a	list	with	them	–	names	of	the	48	men	who	had	promised	their	father	Vic	that	they	

would	run	a	harebrained	race	he’d	charted	for	them	that	day,	all	the	way	from	

Pietermaritzburg	to	the	coastal	city	of	Durban	90	kilometers	to	the	east.	The	run	was	to	

begin	at	City	Hall	at	7am,	and	Eric	and	Douglas	were	responsible	for	getting	the	runners	to	

their	house	well	ahead	of	that	time.	Their	mother	was	in	on	it	too,	already	awake	and	frying	

steaks	and	eggs	on	their	coal	stove	to	feed	the	runners.		

	 The	day	Vic	had	chosen	for	the	race,	May	24,	was	the	birthday	of	Queen	Victoria,	a	

holiday	celebrated	in	South	Africa	as	Empire	Day.	Vic	was	a	railway	driver	and	World	War	I	

veteran,	and	had	set	his	strange	race	to	coincide	with	the	holiday	because	of	what	it	

symbolized	–	the	empire	for	which	he	had	fought	as	a	soldier	in	World	War	I.	COMRADES	

MARATHON,	announced	the	poster	put	out	by	Clapham’s	organization,	the	League	of	

Comrades	of	the	Great	War.	MARITZBURG	TO	DURBAN	(APPROXIMATELY	54	MILES).		

A	local	newspaper	called	it	a	“go	as	you	please	marathon,”	which	made	the	race	sound	more	

like	a	leisurely	stroll	than	a	90-kilometer	run.		

	 But	that	morning	as	Eric	and	Douglas	tapped	on	doors	around	the	city,	it	seemed	

many	of	the	runners	had	not	been	fooled.	They	realized	what	was	to	come	–ten	plus	hours	

over	undulating	hills	and	crunchy	gravel	roads,	all	for	the	questionable	glory	of	finishing	a	

race	no	one	had	ever	heard	of.	At	the	time,	jogging	wasn’t	even	seen	as	a	healthy	activity.	In	

the	lead	up	to	the	Comrades,	local	newspapers	advised	would-be	runners	to	“not	drink	



 16 

water	on	a	run”	because	“it	will	only	make	you	tired	and	lazy.”	So,	it’s	no	wonder	that	when	

the	Clapham	boys	knocked	on	their	doors,	more	than	a	dozen	of	the	men	who’d	pledged	to	

run	Vic’s	race	simply	didn’t	answer.		 	

	 Still,	34	of	them	assembled	gamely	outside	Pietermaritzburg’s	elegant	city,	hall,	the	

largest	red	brick	building	in	the	southern	hemisphere.	At	ten	past	7	in	the	morning,	the	

weather	now	“fine	and	mild,”	according	to	news	reports,	Pietermaritzburg’s	mayor	fired	a	

gun	in	the	air,	and	the	first	Comrades	marathon	began.		

	 “Leaving	the	city,	a	dusty	sand	road	meandered	over	the	hills	and	through	the	valleys	

all	the	way	to	Durban,”	wrote	an	of]icial	Comrades	history	describing	the	course	of	that	]irst	

race.	And	the	runners	were	soon	covered	in	it,	a	]ine	dust	that	turned	to	a	]ilm	of	mud	

against	their	sweating	bodies.		

	 Vic	had	organized	the	race	to	honor	his	fallen	comrades,	the	men	who	had	died	

beside	him	in	the	East	Africa	campaign	of	World	War	I.	If	those	soldiers	could	endure	

marches	of	hundreds	of	kilometers	in	tropical	heat,	he	reasoned,	a	90-kilometer	run	wasn’t	

an	impossibly	task.	Though	he	never	quite	articulated	it	this	way,	it’s	easy	to	imagine	that	

he	saw	his	race	as	an	inversion	of	what	he	experienced	in	the	war.	There,	death	was	brutal,	

constant,	and	seemingly	meaningless.	You	endured	it	because	you	had	to	in	order	to	

survive.	In	the	Comrades	marathon,	however,	the	pain	was	your	own	choice.	You	decided	it	

meaning.		

	 By	the	halfway	point	in	that	first	run,	a	26-year	farmer	named	Bill	Rowan	had	pulled	

ahead	of	the	field.	By	the	end	of	the	race,	he	had	a	lead	of	more	than	two	miles	on	his	

nearest	competitor.	A	handwritten	ledger	from	that	day	dutifully	records	the	performance	

of	those	34	men	–	14	finishers	and	20	more	who’d	realized,	as	Mandela	said	all	those	years	

later,	that	their	dreams	were	taking	them	in	another	direction.		

	 Still,	something	about	this	race	stuck.	Vic	organized	it	again	the	following	year,	going	

in	the	opposite	direction	of	his	]irst	race	–	“up”	from	Durban	to	Pietermaritzburg.	This	time,	

more	than	2000	spectators	gathered	at	the	start	line	in	Durban	to	see	the	runners	off.	

Rowan	returned	from	the	Belgian	Congo,	where	he	now	worked,	to	defend	his	title.	He	was	

joined	by	an	eclectic	cast	of	new	characters,	including	Bill	Payn,	a	local	school	teacher	and	

national-team	rugby	player,	who	ran	in	his	rugby	boots	and	made	mid-race	stops	for	an	egg	



 17 

breakfast,	a	curry	chicken	lunch,	and	a	tot	of	peach	brandy.	The	Comrades	was	delightfully	

odd,	and	people	loved	it.	Vic	agreed	to	a	third	edition	

The	scene	didn’t	change	much	in	the	coming	years.	Each	year,	the	race	alternated	

direction.	It	was	either	a	leg-trashing	“down”	run	from	Pietermaritzburg	to	Durban,	like	

that	]irst	race,	or	it	was	a	lung-burning	“up”	run	in	the	other	direction.	In	any	case,	well	into	

the	1960s,	the	Comrades	remained	a	curious	sideshow	in	South	African	sporting	life,	

eclipsed	by	team	sports	like	rugby	and	cricket.		But	the	race	did	share	one	important	

feature	in	common	with	most	other	sporting	events	of	the	time.	Like	the	country’s	

government,	its	boardrooms,	its	best	schools	and	its	highest	paying	jobs,	Comrades	was	

reserved	for	white	men,	and	white	men	only.	Occasionally,	a	woman	or	a	Black	runner	

would	toe	the	starting	line	bib-less,	and	run	the	race	unof]icially.	A	Durban	typist	named	

Frances	Hayward	did	it	in	1923.	A	Black	runner,	Robert	Mtshali,	]inished	in	1935.	Despite	

its	contemporary	reputation	for	radical	inclusiveness	and	togetherness,	however,	

historically,	the	race	played	by	the	same	brutal	rules	as	South	Africa.		

As	the	1970s	dawned	however,	something	was	beginning	to	shift.	On	a	continent	of	

newly-independent	Black	countries,	South	Africa	was	increasingly	isolated	and	reviled.		

South	African	activists	and	their	supporters	around	the	world	organized	boycotts	of	the	

country’s	oranges,	wine,	and	cigarettes.	Musicians	skipped	the	country	on	their	world	

tours.	Many	countries	wouldn’t	let	South	African	passenger	planes	]ly	in	their	airspace,	

forcing	them	to	take	circuitous	routes	over	international	waters.	But	for	South	Africans,	one	

of	the	most	painful	forms	of	isolation	came	in	the	realm	of	sports.	The	country	was	barred	

from	major	international	competitions	like	the	Olympics	and	World	Cup,	and	desperate	to	

be	let	back	in.	So	the	government	started	desegregating	minor	sports,	like	road	running.		

In	1975	the	Comrades	of]icially	dropped	its	prohibition	on	Black	and	female	runners.	And	

the	moment	couldn’t	have	been	better	timed,	because	the	very	next	year,	decades	after	most	

of	the	world,	South	Africa	got	its	]irst	TV	channel.	Soon,	starved	of	any	international	sports	

events	to	broadcast,	that	station	began	broadcasting	the	Comrades	in	its	tedious	entirety.	

What	viewers	saw	looked	like	a	parallel	universe	to	the	apartheid	society	they	lived	in	–	

Black,	coloured,	Indian,	and	white	runners	jogging	beside	each	other,	sharing	bottles	of	

water,	and	hugging	on	the	]inish	line.	Its	elite	runners,	Black	and	white,	became	bona	]ide	



 18 

celebrities,	and	the	Comrades	became	something	no	modern	ultra-marathon	had	ever	been	

before:	a	mass	spectator	sport.		

	
Comrades	Marathon	route	

	

	

In	June	2023,	I	was	in	Pietermaritzburg	watching	the	start	of	the	Comrades.	The	race	had	

just	begun,	and	I	was	watching	the	backs	of	the	]inal	runners	disappear	into	the	pitch-black	

morning.	As	I	turned	around	to	walk	back	to	my	car	to	head	to	my	next	spectating	point,	I	

noticed	a	]igure	out	of	the	corner	of	my	eye,	his	arms	wrapped	around	a	massive	bulk.	I	felt	

my	pulse	quicken,	but	when	I	turned,	I	saw	a	thin,	middle-aged	man	holding	a	small	

mountain	of	jerseys.	He	bent	down	again	and	scooped	another	off	the	ground.		

It	was	a	ritual	I	had	seen	every	time	I	went	to	the	Comrades,	which	takes	place	in	the	

height	of	South	African	winter.		In	the	early	morning	before	the	race,	temperatures	can	be	a	

prickly	]ive	degrees	Celsius,	and	runners,	who	often	wait	an	hour	or	more	at	the	start,	

sometimes	cut	a	head	hole	in	a	black	plastic	bin	bag	or	arrive	wearing	their	oldest,	most	

raggedy	jersey.	As	the	]irst	bars	of	the	national	anthem	begin	to	play,	they	begin,	en	masse,	

to	shed	these	second	skins.	Standing	on	the	sidewalk	nearby,	I	have	been	hit	more	than	

once	by	one	of	these	cotton	projectiles.	And	then,	a	few	minutes	later,	when	the	runners	

have	gone,	people	who	live	on	the	streets	of	downtown	Durban	and	Pietermaritzburg	

swoop	in	to	collect	them.		



 19 

	
2017	Comrades	Start	Line,	5:40	am	

	
	 The	Comrades	is	many	things	to	many	people,	but	to	me	it	is	this:	a	place	where	the	

entirety	of	South	Africa	–	in	all	its	messy,	often	infuriating	complexities	–	]its	into	one	frame.	

It	is	20,000	people	singing	a	Zulu	migrant	laborers	hymn	in	unison	on	the	race	start	line	–	

Shosholoza,	Ku	lezontaba	–	taut	with	the	same	excitement,	the	same	reverence,	for	the	near-

impossible	thing	they	are	about	to	do.	They	are	accountants	and	politicians	and	domestic	

workers	and	bead	animal	salesmen.	And	the	race	is,	in	the	same	breath,	those	quietly	

swooping	into	the	darkness	behind	them,	picking	up	the	things	they	have	left	behind.		

“It’s	like	living	your	entire	life	in	a	day,”	Tommy	Neitski,	a	42-time	]inisher	of	the	

Comrades,	said	to	me	last	year.	He	meant	that	in	an	emotional	sense	–	that	on	a	90-

kilometer	run	you	will	despair	and	you	will	rejoice.	It	will	be	hard	and	then	it	will	be	easy	

and	then	it	will	be	hard	again.	At	times,	the	only	thing	you	will	see	is	your	feet	in	front	of	

you,	shuf]ling	as	you	tell	them,	one	more	step,	one	more	step.	And	then	you	will	look	up	and	

suddenly	witness,	cresting	beyond	the	hill	in	front	of	you,	the	sea,	still	and	blue	and	very	far	

away.		



 20 

I	have,	of	course,	never	run	the	Comrades,	but	I	have	spent	many	years	spectating	it,	

and	in	that	time,	I	have	had	a	thought	similar	to	Neitski’s.	He	lived	his	entire	life	the	day	of	

the	Comrades.	I	feel	on	that	day	I	see	the	entire	country.	When	I	think	of	the	race,	my	

various	years	of	spectating	it	come	back	to	me	in	slivers.	A	handwritten	“NO	JOBS”	sign	

]luttering	from	the	gates	of	a	farm	supply	store	in	the	town	of	Ashburton.	A	group	of	men	in	

running	shorts	and	singlets	folding	forward	towards	Mecca	in	unison	on	the	]loor	of	a	shop	

in	downtown	Durban	before	the	race,	their	running	shoes	lined	up	in	a	neat	row	at	the	door.	

An	old	woman	holding	out	a	tray	of	orange	wedges	sprinkled	with	salt,	repeating	with	

grandmotherly	concern	a	single	line	to	passing	runners.	“You	want	an	orange,	love?”	A	

runner	dipping	his	hand	inside	his	singlet	to	pull	out	the	old	Comrades	medal	hanging	from	

his	neck,	raising	it	to	his	lips	as	he	jogs	past	a	group	of	children	in	wheelchairs	gathered	

outside	their	boarding	school	in	the	KZN	hills.	

Every	year,	these	tiny,	insigni]icant	moments	]latten	me,	to	say	nothing	of	the	stories	

of	the	runners	themselves.	Whatever	alchemy	of	desire	and	sorrow	and	ego	has	brought	

people	to	the	start	line	of	a	90-kilometer	race,	the	stories	that	unfold	that	day	are	invariably	

cinematic	in	their	drama,	heft,	and	intensity.				

In	the	pages	that	follow,	I	will	tell	you	a	few	of	these	stories.	They	span	nearly	the	

length	of	the	race’s	history,	beginning	with	Robert	Mtshali,	a	Black	hospital	clerk	from	

Durban	who,	in	1935,	broke	the	Comrades’	color	barrier.	I	went	looking	for	Mtshali’s	story	

hoping	to	better	understand	what	motivated	him	to	run	a	grueling	race	to	which	he	had	

absolutely	not	been	invited.	In	the	end,	I	found	only	the	shards	of	this	story.	But	they	were	

embedded	in	another	–	that	of	his	four	daughters,	whose	lives	had	been	profoundly	shaped	

by	both	Mtshali’s	accomplishment,	and	by	the	series	of	personal	secrets	and	betrayals	that	

followed	it.		

Some	of	the	stories	in	this	book,	much	like	Mtshali’s,	sprawl	across	decades.	

Zwelitsha	“Tiger”	Gono,	a	school	teacher	from	the	rural	Eastern	Cape,	ran	his	first	

Comrades	marathon	in	the	early	1970s,	before	he	was	technically	allowed.	And	then	he	did	

it	41	more	times,	watching	the	race	–	and	the	country	--	around	him	transform	as	he	ran	the	

same	90-kilometer	course.	Maros	Johannes	Mosehla,	meanwhile,	shattered	a	three-decade	

old	record	in	2023	when,	at	the	age	of	81,	he	became	the	Comrades’	oldest	ever	finisher.	

But	getting	there	was	a	story	a	lifetime	in	the	making.			



 21 

Other	pieces	in	the	book	ponder	how	the	Comrades	transformed	–	and	the	limits	of	

those	transformations.	In	the	1980s,	during	apartheid’s	violent,	dying	days,	a	runner	called	

Hoseah	Tjale,	a	delivery	driver	with	a	lopsided	gait	and	signature	bucket	hat,	came	achingly	

close	to	becoming	the	Comrades’	first	Black	winner	–	and	in	doing	so	made	the	Comrades	

feel	like	it	belonged	to	an	entire	generation	of	Black	runners	for	the	first	time.	“We	are	here	

because	of	him,”	one	runner	told	me	in	2022,	as	he	waited	to	snap	a	selfie	with	his	idol	at	

the	Comrades	expo.	Among	the	heirs	to	Tjale’s	legacy	were	a	pair	of	brothers	from	the	rural	

eastern	Free	State	named	Sergio	and	Arnold	Motsoeneng.	In	1999,	they	very	nearly	pulled	

off	the	greatest	heist	in	Comrades	history,	but	were	caught	soon	after,	setting	off	a	scandal	

that	morphed	into	a	country-wide	discussion	of	the	morality	of	Black	South	Africans.	And	in	

a	very	different	vein,	I	look	at	the	career	of	Galaletseng	Mokgoe,	a	firefighter	from	

Rustenburg	determined	to	become	the	first	Black	woman	to	win	the	race	–	a	title	that	

remains	unclaimed	to	this	day.		

And	finally,	there	are	stories	in	this	book	that	are,	quite	simply,	about	what	pushes	

so	many	ordinary	South	Africans	to	do	this	thing	that	nearly	anywhere	else	in	the	world	

would	seem	beyond	their	reach.	You’ll	meet	Ashleigh	Adams,	a	runner	from	Alex	township	

in	Johannesburg	and	Shahieda	Thungo,	the	pacer	for	the	Comrades’	slowest	runners,	and	

learn	how	the	Comrades	helped	pull	each	of	them	back	from	their	life’s	greatest	crisis.			

What	unites	all	of	the	runners	I	have	chosen	to	follow	is	the	force	with	which	the	

Comrades	has	sliced	through	their	lives.	It	has,	in	many	ways,	done	the	same	thing	for	me.	

Writing	about	this	race	has	been,	undoubtedly,	one	of	the	great	privileges	of	my	

professional	life.	It	has	brought	me	close	to	many	extraordinary	people,	and	given	me	hope	

about	South	Africa’s	future	in	even	my	darkest	moments	here.		

Last	year,	in	Durban	for	the	]irst	Comrades	since	the	pandemic,	I	suddenly	got	the	

idea	to	call	Sindi	Magade.	I	had	last	seen	her	in	2019,	two	years	after	I	pro]iled	her	for	

Runners	World.	By	that	point,	she	was	running	her	third	Comrades,	and	her	life	brimmed	

with	ambition.	She	was	going	to	go	back	and	]inish	high	school,	she	told	me.	She	was	

planning	to	learn	how	to	drive.	In	2022,	I	wanted	to	know	what	had	become	of	those	

dreams,	so	I	sent	her	a	WhatsApp	message.	A	few	hours	later,	I	noticed	it	hadn’t	gone	

through,	so	I	texted	one	of	her	teammates.	Hey,	is	Sindi	around	Comrades	this	year?	I	seem	to	

have	an	old	phone	number	for	her.			



 22 

He	wrote	back	quickly.	Hello	Ryan.	Sindi	Magade	has	sadly	passed	on	in	2021.		

No	one	close	to	her	really	understood	what	happened,	he	continued.	One	day	she	felt	

sick	at	work,	so	when	she	knocked	off,	she	went	to	a	clinic	in	Diepsloot.	“In	no	time,	she	

passed	on,”	he	wrote.		

Since	then,	I’ve	thought	often	of	what	Sindi	told	me	about	her	]irst	Comrades	

experience	in	2017.	When	it	felt	hard,	she	said,	she	repeated	a	mantra.	No	one	is	making	you	

do	this.	And	the	words	pushed	her	forward.	No	one	is	making	you	do	this.	No	landlord.	No	

children.	No	boss.	No	angry	ex-husband.	In	a	life	neatly	fenced	in	on	all	sides	by	obligations,	

this	moment	belonged	uniquely	to	her.	And	so	there	came	a	strange	point,	she	said,	deep	in	

the	race,	when	her	body	hurt	magni]icently,	an	ache	that	seemed	to	touch	every	part	of	her.	

But	still,	somehow,	she	almost	didn’t	want	the	race	to	end.	Because	for	as	long	as	it	carried	

on,	she	was	exactly	where	she	had	chosen	to	be.	

This	is	a	book	about	people	trying	to	live	a	bigger	life	than	the	one	that	has	been	

scripted	for	them,	and	the	beautiful	South	African	race	that	has	made	that	possible.		

	
Sindi	Magade	(center)	walking	to	the	start	line	of	the	2017	Comrades	Marathon	in	Durban	

	 	



 23 

Little	is	Known2 
	

There’s	a	famous	moment	in	South	African	sports	history.	Chances	are,	you	know	it	

already.	Maybe	you	were	lucky	and	you	were	actually	there	in	person,	sitting	in	Ellis	Park	

Stadium	in	downtown	Johannesburg	on	that	day	in	June	1995	with	a	Castle	Lager	sweating	

in	one	hand,	a	boerewors	roll	dripping	tomato	sauce	in	the	other.	Maybe	you	belted	

Shosholoza	without	really	knowing	the	words	and	gasped	as	that	South	African	airways	

jumbo	jet	passed	right	over	the	stadium,	close	enough	to	see	GOOD	LUCK,	BOKKE	stenciled	

on	its	undercarriage.	If	you	were	one	of	those	lucky	fans	who	got	a	ticket	to	the	Rugby	

World	Cup	Final	that	day	–	or	even	if	you	just	watched	on	TV	–	you	surely	remember	the	

electricity	of	the	moment	when	Joel	Stransky’s	drop	goal	sailed	between	the	posts	in	extra	

time,	and	South	Africa	clinched	its	victory	over	New	Zealand’s	All	Blacks.	Or	maybe	you	just	

saw	Invictus,	Clint	Eastwood’s	Hollywood	retelling	of	the	story,	with	Morgan	Freeman	doing	

his	best	Nelson	Mandela	in	aviators	and	an	awkward	South	African	accent.		

	 In	any	case,	this	is	the	scene:	Mandela	in	the	center	of	a	neatly	clipped	rugby	pitch,	

wearing	a	green	and	gold	jersey	buttoned	awkwardly	to	the	collar.	He’s	an	old	man	now,	

remember,	not	the	handsome	young	revolutionary	with	parted	hair	and	pinstripe	suits	who	

went	away	to	prison	in	the	1960s.	This	is	the	man	the	world	saw	when	he	came	out	three	

decades	later,	a	76-year-old	with	a	with	a	shock	of	salt	and	pepper	hair,	wearing	a	slouchy	

pair	of	khaki	trousers.	He’s	the	new	president	of	the	new	South	Africa,	standing	on	a	]ield	

where,	a	few	years	earlier,	he	would	not	have	been	allowed	because	of	his	skin	color.	At	his	

back	is	the	roar	of	63,000	South	African	rugby	fans,	and	in	front	of	him,	shaking	his	hand,	is	

 
2	A	version	of	my	reporting	on	the	history	of	the	Comrades	marathon	was	published	as	a	radio	documentary	
entitled	“The	Comrades”	on	the	podcast	99	Percent	Invisible	on	January	24,	2023:	

https://99percentinvisible.org/episode/the-comrades/	

	

A	version	of	my	reporting	about	Mandela	at	the	Comrades	and	about	meeting	Bruce	Fordyce	in	2017	initially	

appeared	in	“56	Miles	of	Freedom”	in	the	November	2017	issue	of	Runner’s	World.	
https://www.runnersworld.com/races-places/a19457092/comrades-marathon/	

		

A	version	of	my	reporting	on	Frances	Hayward	appeared	in	“Never	afraid	to	chase:	A	Black	woman	aims	for	

ultra-marathon	history”	in	The	Christian	Science	Monitor	on	June	13,	2023:	
https://www.csmonitor.com/World/Africa/2023/0613/Never-afraid-to-chase-A-Black-woman-aims-for-

ultramarathon-history	

	

https://www.runnersworld.com/races-places/a19457092/comrades-marathon/


 24 

their	greatest	hero,	a	ruddy	faced,	blond	tank	of	a	man	named	Francois	Pienaar,	the	

Springboks	captain.		

	 It’s	June	1995,	and	for	the	]irst	time	since	the	end	of	apartheid,	a	South	African	

sports	team	has	won	a	major	international	tournament,	the	Rugby	World	Cup	--	and	on	

their	home	turf	to	boot.	Sure,	all	but	one	members	of	the	squad	are	white,	and	95	percent	of	

the	fans	in	the	stadium	are	too.	Sure,	the	country’s	best	Black	rugby	players	still	aren’t	

being	considered	for	the	national	squad,	for	all	kinds	of	complicated	historical	reasons.	But	

Mandela’s	presence	says:	This	belongs	to	all	of	us.	For	now,	for	this	moment,	this	fragile,	

hopeful,	divided	country	is	in	this	together.	It’s	our	victory.	It’s	our	team.		

	
The	president	and	the	captain,	1995	

	

	

Whatever	you	think	of	Mandela’s	grand	gestures	of	forgiveness	and	unity	now,	he	was	a	

master	of	the	craft,	and	he	saw	the	intimate	place	that	sports	occupied	in	the	lives	of	his	

countrymen.		“Sport	has	the	power	to	change	the	world,	it	has	the	power	to	inspire,”	

Mandela	declared.	“It	is	more	powerful	than	government	in	breaking	down	racial	barriers.”	



 25 

	 If	the	rugby	World	Cup	was	where	Mandela	made	that	point	most	visibly	to	the	

world,	though,	his	real	sporting	passions	lay	elsewhere.	Famously,	he	was	skilled	amateur	

boxer	in	his	years	as	a	young	lawyer	and	revolutionary,	and	praised	the	sport	as	

“egalitarian.	In	the	ring,	rank,	age,	color,	and	wealth	are	irrelevant.”	His	]irst	sporting	love,	

though,	was	distance	running.		

	 For	most	of	his	adult	life,	indeed,	Mandela	was	a	regular	hobby	jogger	--	an	

unremarkable	feat,	perhaps,	were	it	not	for	the	fact	that	he	did	it	without	ever	leaving	the	

eight-by-seven-foot	prison	cell	to	which	he	was	con]ined	for	two	decades.	“Running	taught	

me	valuable	lessons,”	he	later	wrote	in	his	autobiography,	Long	Walk	to	Freedom.	“Training	

counted	more	than	intrinsic	ability,	and	I	could	compensate	for	a	lack	of	natural	aptitude	

with	diligence	and	discipline.	I	applied	this	in	everything	I	did.”		

	 So	when	Mandela	got	out	of	jail,	it	made	sense	that	he	didn’t	just	go	to	the	rugby.	He	

went	to	the	Comrades	too.	 	

	 It	may	not	be	the	next	Clint	Eastwood	blockbuster,	but	picture	this:	the	]inish	line	of	

the	1995	Comrades,	three	weeks	before	the	president	hoisted	that	rugby	trophy	to	the	snap	

snap	snap	of	a	thousand	news	cameras.	Mandela	has	just	congratulated	the	two	winners	--	

they’re	both	white,	by	the	way	--	and	now	he’s	standing	with	the	race’s	organizers,	posing	

for	a	photo	that	looks	like	a	prep	school	uniform	catalogue.	On	every	side	of	him	are	white	

people	in	crisp	blazers	embroidered	with	a	Comrades	logo	and	purple	Comrades	neckties.	

These	are	the	people	a	local	newspaper	has	just	referred	to	as	to	“the	almost	exclusively	

white,	male,	Natal	colonial	set	which	controls	Comrades.”	But	Mandela’s	smile	is	wide	and	

genuine.	

	 The	Comrades,	Mandela	told	a	similar	crowd	gathered	at	the	finish	line	two	years	

later,	had	been	the	dream	of	a	white	World	War	I	veteran	looking	to	honor	his	fallen	fellow	

soldiers	--	a	noble,	if	narrow	aim.	But	like	South	Africa	itself,	that	vision	had	transformed	

over	the	decades.	Comrades	runners’	had	begun	to	look	much	more	like	the	country	around	

them,	and	the	race	was	now	a	thing	that	“unite[d]	people	from	all	over	the	country.”		

	 Mandela,	ever	the	consummate	diplomat,	didn’t	dwell	long	on	the	race’s	history	that	

day.	He	didn’t	say	that	the	]irst	race,	in	1921,	took	place	on	a	holiday	known	as	Empire	Day.	

Or	that	it	took	the	struggle,	humiliation,	and	grit	of	many	brave	people	to	get	from	that	little	

race	to	the	multiracial	mass	sporting	event	over	which	he	was	now	presiding.	He	didn’t	



 26 

mention	that	the	very	name	of	this	race,	Comrades,	was	one	electrically	charged	with	

history	here	--	how	not	many	years	before	this	speech,	he	himself	had	been	a	very	different	

kind	of	comrade,	a	leader	of	the	armed	struggle	against	apartheid.	Or	that	change	came	to	

this	race	itself,	like	many	parts	of	South	Africa,	only	begrudgingly.	“The	buzzword	here	is	

democracy,”	complained	one	of	the	race’s	organizers	in	the	mid	1990s,	explaining	their	

plans	to	diversify	their	board.	

	 Instead,	Mandela	told	a	personal	story.	“Let	me	share	one	of	my	childhood	dreams	

with	you,”	he	began.	“When	I	was	a	young	boy,	one	of	my	favourite	pastimes	was	stick	

fighting.”	He	was	a	great	stick	fighter,	he	went	on.	But	that	wasn’t	enough.	He	wanted	to	be	

the	“best	stick	fighter	ever.”	But	he	couldn’t	do	it.	He	couldn’t	manage.	Similarly,	“those	

runners	who	did	not	make	it	to	the	[Comrades]	finish	line	will	naturally	be	feeling	quite	

disappointed.”	But	no	matter.	“You	will	either	resolve	to	be	back	to	try	Comrades	again	next	

year	or	your	dreams	will	take	you	in	another	direction	–	one	to	which	you	will	perhaps	be	

better	suited.”		 	 	 	

	 It’s	hard	not	to	search	for	deep	meaning	in	everything	Mandela	said	in	those	years.	

But	I	think	here,	perhaps,	he	just	meant	what	he	said.	This	race	is	really	hard.	This	race	is	

not	for	everyone.	Sometimes	our	dreams	are	beyond	our	capacities.	Failure	is	a	part	of	life.	

So	is	getting	over	it.		

	



 27 

Nelson	Mandela	at	the	finish	line	of	the	1995	Comrades	Marathon	at	Kingsmead	Cricket	Stadium	in	
Durban	

	

	

On	Thursday,	May	24,	1923,	]ive	dozen	ruddy	farmers	and	beefy	rugby	players	gathered	

outside	the	Pietermaritzburg	City	Hall	to	run	the	third	edition	of	that	“go	as	you	please”	

Comrades	Marathon	that	Vic	Clapham	had	started	two	years	before.	This	time,	however,	to	

the	great	delight	of	the	local	press,	a	“plucky	lady	runner”	sidled	up	to	the	start	line.	She	

was	dressed	in	“a	businesslike	green	gymnasium	costume”	and	leather-soled	plimsolls,	her	

wavy	hair	cropped	short.		

		 The	rules	stated	that	the	race	was	only	open	to	white	men,	and	when	Frances	

Hayward	had	submitted	her	entry	before	the	race,	Vic	Clapham	had	turned	her	down.	Fine,	

she	wrote	back	to	him,	but	I’m	running	anyway.	So	when	the	gun	]ired	that	morning,	she	

took	off	with	the	rest	of	the	pack.	By	the	time	the	31-year-old	typist	reached	Durban	late	

that	afternoon,	word	had	gotten	out	that	there	was	a	woman	in	the	Comrades,	and	a	crowd	

of	thousands	gathered	to	cheer	her	on.	Eleven	hours	and	35	minutes	after	she	set	off,	

Hayward	crossed	the	]inish	line	at	the	local	cricket	stadium,	where	the	city’s	mayor,	Walter	

Gilbert,	was	waiting	to	shake	her	hand.	

“I	did	not	]ind	it	so	very	dif]icult	to	cover	the	distance	over	rough	roads	and	through	

a	hilly	country,”	she	told	a	reporter	later.	“I	was	weary	when	I	]inished	but	the	big	crowd	on	

the	sports	grounds	were	surprised	that	I	did	not	collapse	as	nearly	everyone	thought	I	

would.”	She	explained	that	she	would	“have	been	content	if	I	had	beaten	just	one	man,”	but	

to	her	delight	she	beat	two	(not	counting	the	38	who	dropped	out	along	the	way).	Because	

she	wasn’t	an	of]icial	]inisher,	there	was	no	medal	waiting	for	Hayward	at	the	]inish,	but	a	

local	newspaper	organized	a	collection	from	the	public	to	buy	her	a	delicate	silver	tea	set	

and	rose	bowl	instead.	

	 Hayward’s	performance	]lew	in	the	face	of	centuries	of	beliefs	that	women	were	

simply	too	fragile	to	perform	the	same	athletic	feats	as	men.	Only	a	few	years	earlier,	Pierre	

de	Coubertin,	the	founder	of	the	International	Olympic	Committee,	had	described	women’s	

sports	as	"impractical,	uninteresting,	unaesthetic,	and	we	are	not	afraid	to	add:	incorrect.”	

Too	much	athletic	activity	was	thought	to	render	a	woman	infertile,	and	most	women’s	



 28 

sports	of	the	time	discouraged	participants	from	being	too	competitive	with	one	another.		

One	report	on	Hayward’s	Comrades	]inish	jokingly	referred	to	her	performance	as	“another	

signal	of	women’s	emancipation	from	the	thralldom	of	good-natured	disdain	in	which	mere	

man	has	held	her.”	

	 We	don’t	know	exactly	what	Frances	Hayward	made	of	all	those	restrictions	on	

women’s	sports,	because	there	is	no	evidence	that	anyone	thought	to	ask	her.	But	from	her	

refusal	to	accept	Vic	Clapham	rejecting	her	Comrades’	entry,	we	can	guess	that	she	thought	

they	were	more	or	less	bullshit.	She	was	a	rarity	for	her	time	in	many	ways:	an	unmarried	

Englishwoman	who	had	traveled	to	South	Africa	on	her	own,	for	the	adventure	of	seeing	the	

colonies.	She	was	also	a	long-distance	swimmer,	and	she	ran	the	Comrades,	by	her	own	

account,	“to	shock	everybody,”	and	in	the	evening	after	the	race,	she	went	out	to	the	theatre.	

Hayward	never	ran	the	Comrades	again,	but	for	the	next	50	years,	she	woke	up	early	each	

year	on	the	day	of	the	Comrades	and	drove	her	car	each	year	to	Drummond,	a	town	at	the	

race’s	halfway	point,	to	cheer	the	runners	on.			

	 So	she	was	probably	there	a	decade	after	her	own	historical	run	in	1935,	when	

Robert	Mtshali	ran	by	in	a	pair	of	belted	shorts	on	his	way	to	becoming	the	Comrades’	]irst	

Black	]inisher.	Did	she	say	anything	to	him,	or	to	the	other	“unof]icial”	runners	of	color	who	

passed	by	her	over	the	years?	Did	she	feel	pride	at	seeing	them	break	the	same	rules	she	

had?	Or	did	she	feel	that	they	didn’t	belong	in	a	white	person’s	race?		

There’s	nothing	to	tell	us	one	way	or	the	other.	We	also	don’t	know	if	he	knew	about	

her,	or	where	exactly	he	got	his	own	inspiration	to	run	this	long,	strange	race	that	didn’t	

want	him.	If	the	archive	on	Frances	Hayward	is	achingly	thin,	for	most	of	the	Comrades’	

history,	Mtshali’s	story	was	even	hazier.		“Little	is	known	of	Mtshali's	background	or	his	

performance	in	the	race,”	explained	the	chair	of	the	Comrades	board,	Bobby	Maharajh,	

apologetically	in	2005.	"Our	archives	mention	[that]	Robert	Mtshali	completed	the	distance,	

was	heartily	cheered	by	the	crowds	and	received	a	presentation	from	the	mayor	of	Durban.	

However,	we	would	love	to	know	more	about	the	man	and	his	background.”			

By	then,	the	Comrades	had	been	recording	its	history	with	painstaking	precision	for	

close	to	a	century.	An	of]icial	ledger	from	the	race	gave	a	blow-by-blow	of	each	year’s	run,	

providing	details	down	to	the	weather	conditions.	It	noted	who	passed	who	and	where,	

who	stopped	for	a	massage,	a	beer,	a	hot	chicken	curry,	who	ran	in	rugby	boots,	who	came	



 29 

back	from	the	Belgian	Congo	to	defend	their	title.	However,	well	into	the	twenty	]irst	

century,	the	race’s	of]icial	canon	had	little	to	say	about	the	runners	who	tore	up	the	

Comrades	rulebook,	and	allowed	it	to	see	its	own	future.	About	them,	somehow,	little	was	

known.		

	
Frances	Hayward	in	the	early	1920s	and	the	mid	1970s	

	

	

The	last	time	Francis	Hayward	watched	the	Comrades	in	person	was	in	1974.	She	was	83	

years	old,	and	she	had	certainly	seen	the	news:	the	race	was	considering	allowing	women	

and	Black	runners	to	compete	of]icially	for	the	]irst	time.	By	then,	the	white	colonial	society	

Francis	Hayward	set	sail	for	as	a	young	woman	had	sharpened	its	racial	caste	system	into	

an	ideology	called	apartheid	–	literally	“separateness”	in	Afrikaans.	Segregation	and	its	

hierarchies	permeated	every	aspect	of	South	African	life,	from	where	someone	could	live	

and	work	to	whom	they	could	marry	to,	of	course,	the	sporting	events	they	could	

participate	in.		

Even	for	apartheid’s	most	fervent	supporters,	however,	by	the	1970s	the	

international	isolation	in	response	to	their	segregation	in	sport	had	become	a	major	source	

of	heartbreak.	South	African	anti-apartheid	activists	fervently	campaigned	for	their	country	

to	be	expelled	from	the	world’s	major	sporting	competitions,	and	it	was	working.	The	

country	had	been	booted	from	FIFA,	the	world’s	soccer	body,	in	1963,	after	it	refused	to	



 30 

]ield	a	racially-mixed	national	squad.	South	Africa’s	national	football	federation	tried	to	

negotiate	its	reinstatement	by	promising	to	send	an	all-white	team	to	the	1966	World	Cup	

and	an	all-Black	team	to	the	1970	World	Cup.	FIFA	rejected	the	proposal.		

The	same	year,	Dennis	Brutus,	a	leader	of	the	movement	to	isolate	South	Africa	

through	sport,	was	shot	in	the	back	at	point-blank	range	while	trying	to	escape	from	prison.	

The	case	drew	international	outrage,	and	soon	after,	the	International	Olympic	Committee	

withdrew	South	Africa’s	invitation	to	the	1964	Tokyo	Summer	Games,	for	which	they	had	

attempted	to	hold	segregated	qualifying	events.	“We	expect	that	when	tourists	visit	our	

country	they	will	accept	and	respect	our	way	of	doing	things,”	interior	minister	Jan	De	Klerk	

explained.	“And	when	we	send	teams	overseas,	they	must	know	that	we	do	it	in	our	way.”	

South	Africa	was	formally	expelled	from	the	IOC	in	1970,	and	in	popular	team	sports	like	

rugby	and	cricket,	nearly	every	international	tour	the	South	African	team	went	on	became	a	

]lashpoint	for	anti-apartheid	protests.		

South	Africa’s	government	was	desperate	to	win	back	its	place	in	the	sports	world,	

and	so	in	the	early	1970s,	it	began	slowly	desegregating	some	domestic	sports	–	including	

track	and	road	running.	It	was	just	the	kind	of	heartwarming	move	that	could	get	them	back	

into	the	international	scene	–	or	so	they	hoped.	At	the	time,	integrating	running	–	especially	

distance	running	--	didn’t	seem	like	a	big	deal,	mostly	because	it	was	still	quite	niche	in	the	

country,	as	it	was	in	most	of	the	world.		In	particular,	long	distances	like	marathons	were	an	

activity	for	quirky	extremists,	and	the	idea	that	the	average	person	might	go	out	and	run	in	

a	big	loop	for	fun	was	nearly	unheard	of.		

Then,	in	1972,	American	Frank	Shorter	stormed	to	a	surprise	victory	in	the	Olympic	

Marathon	in	Munich.	Televised	live	to	millions,	the	race	introduced	many	Americans	to	the	

tedium,	drama,	and	glory	of	marathon	running.	A	generation	of	distance	running	celebrities	

followed	in	Shorter’s	wake.	And	as	participation	in	races	in	the	US	and	Europe	grew,	

running	a	long	distance	like	a	marathon	began	to	shift	from	the	realm	of	the	absurd	to	the	

kind	of	thing	your	sporty	colleague	did	on	weekends.	In	the	‘70s,	marathons	in	big	Western	

cities	like	Boston,	New	York,	and	London	grew	into	mass	participation	events	that	drew	

huge	crowds	of	spectators.		

	 In	South	Africa,	race	organizers	watched	this	wave	of	enthusiasm	from	afar	as	they	

contended	with	their	government’s	new	plan	to	racially	integrate	their	sport.	The	policy	



 31 

was	actually	not	all-inclusive.	Government-run	competitions	like	national	championships	

were	integrated,	but	privately-run	races	like	the	Comrades	were	left	to	make	their	own	

choice.		And	initially,	they	had	no	interest	in	changing.	The	race	committee	fretted	that	if	

allowed	Black	runners	in,	they	would	need	separate	toilets	and	changing	rooms	–	since	

those	facilities	were	always	segregated.	Blacks	might	“overrun”	the	event,	given	their	

numbers	in	the	country.	

	 These	questions	ran	in	parallel	with	the	old	debates	about	women	and	running.	Well	

into	the	1960s,	long	distance	races	around	the	world	barred	women	because	of	the	damage	

they	were	thought	to	do	to	their	reproductive	organs.	Even	after	activists	forced	American	

and	European	marathons	to	allow	women’s	participation,	Comrades’	organizers	argued	

that	women	were	too	frail	for	their	race,	and	that	their	participation	was	simply	not	

“ladylike.”	“To	my	way	of	thinking,	the	Comrades	Marathon	is	a	serious	athletic	event,	and	

when	one	has	women	and	non-whites	participating,	it	becomes	a	bit	of	a	circus,”	explained	

one	ruf]led	race	of]icial.	

	 The	pressure	mounted,	however,	for	the	Comrades	to	get	with	the	times,	and	stop	

making	South	Africa	look	so	sad	and	parochial.	In	1975,	the	marathon	of]icially	removed	

gender	and	race	as	restrictions	to	entry.	That	]irst	year,	Black	runners	ran	with	their	

ethnicity	written	on	their	chests	in	large	block	letters,	because	they	were	considered	

“international”	runners	representing	their	ethnic	homelands.	In	a	singlet	blaring	that	he	

was	SOTHO,	Vincent	Rakabaele	became	the	]irst	recorded	Black	]inisher,	in	twentieth	place.	

Meanwhile,	Betty	Cavanaugh	–	who	had	already	run	the	Comrades	unof]icially	four	times	–	

won	the	inaugural	woman’s	race.		

Finally,	it	seemed,	the	revolution	that	Frances	Hayward	and	Robert	Mtshali	sparked	

a	half	century	earlier	had	arrived.	The	Comrades	was	changing,	and	the	country	was	about	

to	witness	it	in	real	time.		



 32 

	
Vincent	Rakabaele	runs	the	1975	Comrades	Marathon	

	
	

On	January	5,	1976,	South	Africans	sat	on	their	couches	and	watched	the	future	arrive.	For	

the	]irst	time,	the	TV	screens	in	front	of	them	]lickered	to	life,	and	a	white	man	and	woman	

seated	in	front	of	a	beige	carpet	appeared	on	the	screen.		

“We	welcome	you	to	the	opening	evening	of	the	complete	television	service	of	the	

SAUK,”	the	man	says	in	Afrikaans.	“We	are	privileged	to	have	this	opportunity.”		

For	more	a	decade,	many	of	South	Africa’s	leaders	had	vigorously	resisted	this	

moment.	As	TVs	]lickered	on	in	countries	across	the	world	in	the	1950s	and	‘60s,	they	

insisted	that	it	was	a	dangerous	invention.	Like	the	atomic	bomb	or	poisonous	gas,	TV	was	

modern	“but	that	does	not	mean	desirable,”	cautioned	Prime	Minister	Hendrik	Verwoerd.	

“The	government	has	to	watch	for	any	dangers	to	the	people,	both	spiritual	and	physical."	

Albert	Hertzog,	his	minister	of	posts	and	telecommunications,	went	a	step	farther.	He	called	

TV	“the	devil’s	own	box	for	disseminating	communism	and	immorality,”	and	said	it	was	the	

enemy	of	apartheid.	“South	Africa	would	have	to	import	]ilms	showing	race	mixing,	and	

advertising	would	make	[Black]	Africans	dissatis]ied	with	their	lot,”	he	said.		



 33 

Finally,	though,	practicality	won	out.	The	apartheid	government	realized	that	

satellite	technology	would	eventually	allow	South	Africans	to	pick	up	TV	broadcasts	from	

overseas,	and	that	video	tapes	would	be	easily	smuggled	into	the	country.	Better,	they	

thought,	to	have	a	state-run	channel	whose	content	could	be	effectively	controlled	“to	the	

advantage	of	our	nation	and	country,”	wrote	a	government	commission	in	the	early	1970s.		

When	the	channel	went	live	in	1976,	that	content	included	heavily	censored	news,	

cheerful	family	dramas	about	the	white	middle	class,	British	police	procedurals	dubbed	into	

Afrikaans,	and	lots	of	local	sports.	Sports	were	especially	useful	to	]ill	time	on	the	new	

station.	They	were	relatively	simple	to	]ilm	and	had	a	built-in	audience	of	fans.	The	stakes	

were	high,	and	drama	was	all	but	guaranteed.		

Within	a	few	years	of	TV	going	live,	the	South	African	Broadcasting	Corporation	

began	playing	highlight	reels	from	the	Comrades	Marathon.	They	proved	so	popular	that	in	

1983,	the	SABC	started	showing	entire	race	live,	a	13-hour	broadcast	that	began	before	

dawn	and	didn’t	end	until	the	evening.	It	was	a	runaway	hit,	and	its	star	was	a	young	white	

archeology	student-turned-professional	runner	named	Bruce	Fordyce.		

	

Two	days	before	the	Comrades	in	2017,	I	met	Bruce	Fordyce	in	the	foyer	of	the	Durban	

Hilton.	The	place	was	teeming	with	spandex,	like	the	entire	guest-list	of	hotel	is	ready,	at	a	

moment’s	notice,	to	take	off	on	a	collective	jog.	Groups	of	runners	in	marathon	]inishers	t-

shirts	and	running	shoes	color	coordinated	for	an	80s	workout	video	were	sprawled	across	

every	chair	and	couch,	sipping	espressos	and	comparing	favorite	races.	Two	men	appeared	

to	be	trading	Gu	gels	in	the	doorway	like	they	were	baseball	cards.	But	I	could	see	that	the	

biggest	crowd	was	gathered	around	a	short	man	of	about	60.	He	had	]loppy	blond	hair	gone	

white	and	a	sunken	face,	and	he	seemed	to	be	holding	court	about	the	upcoming	race.		

	 What’s	the	bathroom	situation?	Someone	asked.	Answer:	It’s	grim.	Just	pee	yourself	

and	grab	an	extra	water	sachet	at	the	next	aid	station	to	clean	off.	

	 How	are	the	hills,	really?		“Let	me	put	it	this	way,	they’ll	make	the	hills	in	the	Boston	

Marathon	look	like	a	speed	bump.”		

	 Fordyce	laughed	at	his	own	joke,	revealing	the	disarming	smile	that	graced	South	

African	magazine	covers	and	TV	commercials	throughout	the	1980s.	In	those	days,	he	was	

one	of	South	Africa’s	most	beloved	sports	heroes,	a	celebrity	status	forged	at	the	lucrative	



 34 

intersection	of	athletic	talent	and	personal	charm.	He	won	the	race	nine	out	of	ten	years	in	

the	1980s,	and	in	between	smooth-talked	South	Africans	into	buying	mattresses	and	

breakfast	cereals	with	a	beguiling	boy-next-door	persona.		

	 Fordyce	also	won	friends	–	and	enemies	–	with	his	politics.	In	1981,	he	and	several	

other	runners	wore	black	armbands	to	protest	the	fact	that	the	Comrades	took	place	on	

Republic	Day	–	a	holiday	venerating	South	Africa’s	forced	departure	from	the	British	

Commonwealth	because	of	its	apartheid	policies.	The	reaction	along	the	race	course	was	

small	and	mean.	Fans	jeered	and	threw	tomatoes	and	eggs	at	the	runners.	Volunteers	at	aid	

stations	refused	to	give	them	water.	Fordyce	won	easily,	impressing	supporters	with	his	

unruf]led	calm.		

	 It	was	a	brave	stand,	to	be	sure,	but	watching	Fordyce	in	the	Durban	Hilton,	I	thought	

of	a	conversation	I’d	had	with	Poobie	Naidoo,	an	Indian	runner	who	had	also	worn	a	black	

armband	that	day.	When	he	crossed	the	]inish	line,	a	Special	Branch	police	of]icer	grabbed	

him	by	the	shirt	and	shoved	him	aside.	The	of]icer	demanded	the	terri]ied	Naidoo’s	name,	

address,	and	employer,	and	then	kicked	him	out	of	the	stadium	without	letting	him	shower.	

None	of	that	happened	to	Bruce,	by	dint	of	his	race	and	elite	stature.	“You	can’t	shove	the	

race	winner	to	the	side	like	that,”	Poobie	said.		

	 Indeed,	Bruce	Fordyce	seemed	to	move	within	a	protective	halo	throughout	his	

career,	a	sharp	reminder	of	the	unequal	society	in	which	his	celebrity	was	forged.	He	

parlayed	his	running	career	into	a	lifetime	of	motivational	speaking	and	coaching.	Today,	he	

lives	in	an	airy	Johannesburg	house	with	golden	retrievers	padding	around	on	the	Oregon	

pine	]loors	and	a	heritage	plaque	outside	explaining	that	this	was	the	house	of	elite	

Comrades	runner	Bruce	Fordyce	Meanwhile,	his	closest	rival,	a	Black	runner	named	Hoseah	

Tjale,	drifted	from	Comrades	glory	back	to	the	same	job	he’d	held	before	he	began	running,	

as	a	delivery	driver	living	in	a	shack	settlement	outside	Johannesburg.	He	retired	from	that	

work	in	the	early	2000s,	and	now	works	as	a	small-scale	farmer	on	a	small	tract	of	land	

three	hours	north	of	the	city.		

	 Some	of	the	elite	Black	runners	of	Fordyce’s	time	drifted	even	further	into	the	“little	

is	known”	column.	In	2010,	for	instance,	word	spread	across	the	South	African	running	

community	that	Vincent	Rakabaele,	the	runner	who	]inished	twentieth	in	the	1975	

Comrades	with	SOTHO	stitched	across	his	chest,	had	died	without	fanfare	the	previous	year.	



 35 

As	fellow	runners	tut-tutted	about	the	sad	loss,	a	journalist	named	Duane	Heath	went	

searching	for	his	grave,	and	discovered	something	even	more	shocking.	Rakabaele	actually	

died	seven	years	earlier,	in	a	village	in	the	Lesotho	highlands,	of	a	stomach	sickness	no	one	

around	him	could	name.	No	one	in	the	running	community	had	noticed.	

	 “Everybody	just	assumed	he’d	gone	back	to	Lesotho.	It’s	what	happened	to	a	lot	of	

good	Black	runners	from	those	years,”	said	Alan	Robb,	a	four-time	winner	of	Comrades	in	

the	1970s.	“I	don’t	know	why,	but	they	all	seemed	to	disappear	and	no	one	kept	in	touch.”			

	

No	one	kept	in	touch	with	Robert	Mtshali	either.	When	the	race’s	chair	said	in	2005	that	

“little	was	known”	by	Comrades	organizers	of	his	barrier-breaking	performance,	even	that	

was	something	of	an	overstatement.	Because	until	early	2005,	the	race	wasn’t	even	aware	

of	Mtshali’s	existence.		

	 That	discovery	was	the	doing	of	the	Chesterville	Athletics	Club,	a	running	club	from	

the	Durban	township	of	the	same	name.	Its	chair,	a	naval	of]icer	in	the	new	South	Africa’s	

military	named	Si]iso	Xaba,	was	a	longtime	Comrades	runner	who	turned	on	his	TV	one	day	

in	2004	to	]ind	a	documentary	about	the	SS	Mendi,	a	British	steamship	ship	that	sunk	in	

1917	while	carrying	hundreds	of	Black	South	African	troops	to	]ight	in	the	Great	War	in	

France.	He	immediately	had	two	thoughts.	First,	he	was	moved	by	the	work	the	]ilmmakers	

had	done	to	excavate	the	legacy	of	these	soldiers,	whose	contributions	to	the	war	had	been	

largely	ignored	in	South	Africa	for	nearly	a	century.	Second,	he	wondered:	if	so	many	Black	

South	African	soldiers	were	]ighting	and	dying	in	the	war,	what	had	those	who	made	it	

home	done	to	commemorate	them?	Might	some	have	chosen,	like	their	white	colleagues,	to	

remember	their	friends	on	the	road	between	Durban	and	Pietermaritzburg?			

	 Xaba	and	his	teammates	decided	to	ask	the	Comrades	if	there	had	been	any	Black	

runners	in	the	race’s	early	years.	But	when	they	went	to	Comrades	headquarters	in	

Pietermaritzburg,	the	archivists	said	they	had	nothing	in	their	]iles	on	any	Black	runners	

who	completed	the	race	before	the	1970s.	One	of	the	club’s	runners,	a	human	rights	lawyer	

I’ll	call	Sipho,	was	convinced	that	wasn’t	the	full	story.	So	he	went	to	the	archives	of	the	

Natal	Witness,	a	Durban	newspaper,	and	asked	to	see	their	archives	from	the	1920s	and	

‘30s.	Then	he	began	to	]lip	through	them,	scanning	the	days	around	the	Comrades	Marathon	

each	year.			



 36 

	 For	three	weeks,	there	was	nothing.	And	then,	he	was	flipping	through	the	1935	

edition	when	he	saw	it.	NATIVE	FINISHES,	the	headline	read,	beside	a	grainy,	blown	out	

photograph	of	a	young	man	in	belted	shorts	and	canvas	sneakers.	A	human	touch	was	added	

to	the	race	this	year	by	the	participation	of	a	young	native,	who	entered	unofficially,	the	text	

continued.	Sipho	knew	he’d	found	it.		

	 “What	did	that	feel	like?”	I	asked	him	17	years	later,	in	the	living	room	of	his	house	

in	an	estate	in	the	Johannesburg	northern	suburbs.	He	didn’t	answer	for	a	second,	and	I	felt	

him	breathe	sharply.	Then	he	looked	at	me	and	burst	into	tears.		

	 “When	we	think	of	famous	Comrades	runners,	the	first	person,	every	time,	is	Bruce	

Fordyce,”	he	said	through	sobs.	“He	is	the	one	who	gets	the	credit	for	doing	what	he	did	as	a	

white	liberal	to	change	the	race.	But	what	about	people	like	Robert	Mtshali?”	His	entire	

body	shook,	big	wracking	sobs	that	traveled	from	his	gut	and	made	his	whole	upper	body	

quiver.		

	 Sipho	suffered	from	memory	loss,	and	by	the	time	I	met	him,	couldn’t	remember	

many	of	the	details	of	that	search,	all	those	years	ago.	But	as	is	often	true	with	dementia,	

the	past	and	present	had	folded	in	on	themselves	in	his	mind.	His	emotions	about	Robert	

Mtshali	were	as	fresh	and	raw	as	the	day	he	first	experienced	them.	“It	wasn’t	fair,”	he	

repeated,	as	I	gazed	down	at	my	notebook,	unnerved	by	the	unexpected	display	of	emotion.		

	 Weeks	later,	I	sat	with	Sipho’s	teammate	Xaba	at	the	Comrades	expo,	and	he	finished	

the	story	for	me.	After	Sipho	found	the	news	article,	the	Chesterville	runners	decided	to	go	

searching	for	Robert’s	descendants,	who	they	reckoned	probably	still	lived	in	Durban.		As	

they	remember	it,	they	called	a	journalist	from	the	SABC,	who	thought	the	whole	thing	

sounded	like	a	firecracker	of	a	story.	Then,	with	the	cameras	recording,	they	started	

looking	up	Mtshalis	in	the	phonebook,	door-stopping	them	to	find	out	if	they	were,	maybe,	

related	to	a	man	called	Robert?	It	was	a	dead	end.	They	tried	the	local	cemeteries.	Nothing	

there	either.		

	 All	they	could	hope	now	was	that	when	the	segment	aired	on	the	SABC,	someone	

who	knew	Robert	Mtshali	would	see	it,	and	get	in	touch.	Someone	remembered	this	man;	

they	were	sure	of	it.	They	just	had	to	find	them.		

	 	



 37 

	

Robert	Mtshali’s	daughters 
	
When	you	look	at	this,	what	do	you	see?	Just	another	photographic	studio?	….	No,	friend.	It’s	
more	than	just	that.	
	
This	is	a	strong-room	of	dreams.	The	dreamers?	My	people.	The	simple	people,	who	you	never	
Yind	mentioned	in	the	history	books,	who	never	get	statues	erected	to	them,	or	monuments	
commemorating	their	great	deeds.	People	who	would	be	forgotten,	and	their	dreams	with	
them,	if	it	wasn’t	for	[me].	That’s	what	I	do,	friends.	Put	down,	in	my	way,	on	paper,	the	dreams	
and	hopes	of	my	people	so	that	even	their	children’s	children	will	remember	a	man…	‘This	was	
our	grandfather’	and	say	his	name.	Walk	into	the	houses	of	New	Brighton	and	on	the	walls	
you’ll	Yind	hanging	the	story	of	the	people	the	writers	of	the	big	history	books	forgot	about.	
	

--	“Sizwe	Banzi	is	Dead”	(Athol	Fugard,	John	Kani,	and	Winston	Ntshona)	

	

	 There	wasn’t	much	Wendy	Nxumalo	didn’t	know	about	the	Comrades	Marathon.	

When	she	was	a	child	in	the	1980s,	watching	the	iconic	race	been	a	near-religious	ritual	in	

her	family.	In	fact,	it	was	the	only	Sunday	of	the	year	when	she	could	remember	being	

allowed	to	skip	actual	church.	Instead,	her	mother	Nana	would	wake	Wendy	and	her	four	

brothers	in	the	brisk,	high-altitude	dark	of	Johannesburg	winter	and	hand	them	each	a	cup	

of	sweet,	milky	tea.	They	would	wrap	themselves	in	blankets	and	gather	around	the	small	

black-and-white	television	at	their	house	in	Soweto,	the	city’s	largest	Black	township,	for	

the	5:30	am	start.	From	then	until	the	last	runners	limped	and	lurched	over	the	]inish	line	

in	the	winter	twilight	11	hours	later,	they	barely	moved.	

	It	was	a	ritual	born	of	apartheid	South	Africa’s	bitter	isolation	from	the	world.	If	you	

were	South	African	in	the	1980s,	there	was	no	World	Cup	squad	to	cheer	for,	no	Olympic	

athletes.	Apartheid	had	cut	off	the	country	from	the	world’s	sports,	and	as	a	result,	it	had	

made	spectacles	of	quirky	local	events—a	multi-day	canoe	race,	a	vast	open-water	swim,	

and	the	Comrades,	a	road	race	two	marathons	long	that	wove	through	the	hills	near	the	

Indian	Ocean	coast.		

The	Nxumalos	didn’t	have	any	particular	connection	to	the	Comrades,	but	they	were	

ravenous	sports	fans.	Soccer.	Rugby.	Cricket.	Running.	They	watched	it	all.	So	when	a	news	



 38 

segment	about	the	history	of	the	Comrades	]lashed	across	Wendy’s	TV	one	day	in	2005,	she	

was	barely	paying	attention.	She	knew	the	race’s	backstory	already.		

Then	a	photograph	of	her	mother’s	father	Robert	appeared	on	the	screen.	

Wendy’s	breath	caught	in	her	throat.	He	stood	in	front	of	a	tangle	of	foliage,	wearing	

a	dark-colored	suit	and	squinting	into	the	sun,	his	face	drawn	and	serious.	On	screen,	the	

presenter	was	explaining	that	this	man,	Robert	Mtshali,	was	the	]irst	Black	person	to	]inish	

the	Comrades.	He’d	done	it	in	1935,	a	particularly	remarkable	feat	given	that	Black	runners	

were	only	technically	allowed	to	compete	in	the	race	in	the	1970s.	

	 The	presenter	continued,	talking	about	the	local	running	club	who	had	recently	

found	out	about	Mtshali’s	run	in	an	old	newspaper	article,	and	how	the	Comrades	Marathon	

was	now	looking	for	more	information	about	him.	But	Wendy	couldn’t	focus.	That	photo.	

That	photo	was	here,	in	her	mother	Nana’s	bedroom,	tucked	into	a	stack	of	old	family	

snapshots.	They	never	knew	much	about	the	man	in	the	picture,	who	Nana	said	abandoned	

her	family	when	she	was	still	never	young.		The	shadow	that	passed	over	Nana’s	face	when	

she	spoke	about	him	was	enough	to	tell	Wendy	she	didn’t	want	to	talk	about	it	anymore.	

Still,	Wendy	thought	it	was	strange,	given	how	much	the	Nxumalos	loved	the	Comrades,	that	

her	mother	never	once	mentioned	that	her	father	had	run	it	–	let	alone	that	he	was	a	

historic	]igure	in	the	race.				

Now	Wendy	was	hearing	the	presenter	say	that	Robert	had	died	in	1967,	but	that	

the	Comrades	Marathon	Association	had	recently	discovered	that	he	had	a	daughter,	who	     

still	lived	in	the	home	where	she’d	grown	up	in	New	Brighton,	on	the	outskirts	of	the	

windswept	coastal	city	of	Port	Elizabeth.	The	camera	panned	over	a	squat,	peach-colored	

house.		

That	was	even	weirder,	Wendy	thought,	because	her	mother’s	only	sister	had	died	

years	before.	And	she’d	certainly	never	lived	in	Port	Elizabeth.	Wendy	picked	up	the	phone.	

“Mom,”	she	said,	“turn	on	the	TV.”	

	



 39 

	
Nana’s	photo	of	her	father,	Robert	Mtshali	

	

	

600	kilometers	away,	in	Durban,	Nompumelelo	Madonsela	saw	her	father’s	face	appear	on	

the	screen	too.	The	man	in	the	dark,	double-breasted	suit	looked	just	as	he	did	the	last	time	

she	saw	him,	]ifty	years	before.	For	a	moment,	she	was	six	years	old	again,	shrieking	with	

laughter	as	her	father	picked	her	up	and	swung	her	around	the	small	living	room	of	their	

little	peach-coloured	house	in	New	Brighton.		

He	had	a	booming	alto	voice	and	a	sharp	tennis	back	hand,	and	he	loved	music.	

Sometimes	when	he	got	home	from	work,	he	would	push	back	the	furniture	in	the	living	

room	and	turn	on	his	gramophone.	Then	he	would	pull	Nompumelelo	or	one	of	her	two	

sisters	into	a	waltz.	One	two	three	one	two	three	one	two	three	he	would	count	as	they	

danced	and	they	tried	not	to	step	on	his	glossy	shoes.	

She	sometimes	imagined	then	what	it	would	be	like	to	be	a	grown	up,	with	a	

husband	of	her	own.	She’d	seen	how	her	parents	danced,	pressed	close	and	smiling.	That	

must	be	what	love	looked	like,	she	thought.		

But	she	also	knew	from	her	parents	that	love	had	a	fearsome	power.	Sometimes	it	

happened	when	it	wasn’t	supposed	to.	Before	Nompumelelo	     	was	born,	her	mother	lived	



 40 

in	Durban,	and	she	loved	someone	else.	The	families	had	gathered.	Lobola,	the	bride	price,	

was	paid.	And	then.		

Then	what?	The	details	were	a	bit	hazy	for	Nompumelelo,	but	she	knew	that	

sometime	between	the	engagement	and	the	marriage,	her	mother	met	someone	else.	He	

was	a	handsome	of]ice	clerk,	already	married	with	two	small	daughters.	But	he	told	her	he	

wanted	to	leave.		

“Come	with	me,”	he	said.	It	was	the	mid	1940s.	He	said	he	was	going	to	Port	

Elizabeth,	a	city	900	kilometers	down	the	coast,	for	work.	She	said	yes,	and	the	two	of	them	

ran.	That’s	how	Nompumelelo	and	her	two	sisters	came	to	grow	up	in	a	place	called	New	

Brighton,	where	the	wind	came	up	off	the	sea	and	shrieked	between	the	     neat	rows	of	

identical	government-built	houses.	Their	road,	Teya,	was	known	to	be	where	Zulus	and	

Sothos	settled	when	they	arrived	in	the	township,	and	their	street	was	full	of	the	music	of	

their	languages.		

Then	one	day	in	the	late	1950s,	when	Nompumelelo	was	around	8	or	9,	her	mother	

got	word	from	her	family	back	home	that	her	brother	was	seriously	ill.	She	needed	to	come	

quickly.	They	took	the	train	to	Pietermaritzburg,	a	city	near	Durban,	three	little	girls	and	

their	distraught	mother.	It’s	hard	to	remember	exactly	what	happened	next.	Nompumelelo	

was	so	young.	But	somehow	her	mother	fell	ill	too.	Within	a	few	months	she	was	gone.		

Sometime	later	–	Nompumelelo	can’t	recall	anymore	how	long	–	their	father	came	to	

take	them	home.	But	when	he	arrived	at	their	grandmother’s	house,	she	refused	to	let	him	

in.	“Get	out!”	she	screamed	from	the	doorway.	“Leave	these	children	alone.”	She’d	never	

forgiven	Robert	for	what	he’d	done	when	he	ran	away	with	her	daughter,	how	he	had	

humiliated	the	family	like	that.	So	no,	he	wasn’t	taking	these	children	away	again.	The	last	

Nompumelelo	saw	of	her	father	was	his	back,	shoulders	hunched,	retreating	from	the	house	

while	her	grandmother	told	him	never	to	come	back.		

And	he	didn’t.	She	waited,	but	he	didn’t	return	for	them.	Nompumelelo	thought	at	

the	time	that	it	was	like	both	her	parents	were	dead.	So	it	felt	particularly	cruel	when,	in	

early	1968,	she	got	a	letter	in	the	mail	from	Robert’s	new	wife,	telling	her	he	had	passed	

away.	Her	father’s	second	death	meant	that	Nompumelelo,	now	17,	was	of]icially	an	orphan,	

and	suddenly	a	darkness	tugged	at	her.	She	had	to	get	away	from	this.	So	she	moved	to	

Swaziland,	and	took	up	with	a	volatile	man,	who	seemed	to	both	love	her	and	despise	her.	A	



 41 

man	who	hit	her	and	then	begged	her	not	to	go.	They	had	three	children.	He	loved	them	too,	

and	hit	them	too.		

After	15	years,	she	]inally	left.	She	brought	the	kids	back	to	Durban,	cleaned	houses,	

fell	in	love	again.	A	few	years	later,	in	1990,	she	watched	on	TV	as	Nelson	Mandela	walked	

out	of	prison,	and	into	a	new	South	Africa.	She	didn’t	think	much	anymore	of	her	father.	

But	suddenly	here	he	was	again	on	her	television	screen.	The	presenter	was	saying	

something	about	Robert	Mtshali,	the	]irst	Black	man	to	run	the	Comrades	Marathon.	This	

she	knew.	Her	dad	went	running	every	day	of	her	childhood,	and	he	had	once	told	her	about	

the	big	faraway	race	he	did	before	she	was	born.		

Then	a	woman	called	Sibongile	appeared	on	the	screen,	standing	in	front	of	her	

childhood	house	in	New	Brighton.		

Wait,	Nompumelelo	thought,	who	is	she?		

	

Sibongile	Mzili	was	born	in	July	1961	in	the	front	bedroom	of	what	they	called	in	those	days	

a	“matchbox	house,”	one	of	the	squat	square	little	homes	that	South	Africa’s	white	

government	built	by	the	tens	of	thousands	on	the	fringes	of	all	its	cities	for	Black	laborers.	It	

was	in	New	Brighton,	a	windswept	grid	of	matchboxes	sliced	apart	from	the	“white”	city	of	

Port	Elizabeth	by	railroad	tracks	and	factories.		

	Sibongile	was	her	parents’	]irst	child,	and	so	they	gave	her	a	name	whose	meaning	

was	a	prayer	of	gratitude:	“We	thank	you.”	Maybe	they	were	supposed	to	want	boys,	but	it	

was	clear	to	anyone	who	knew	the	Mtshalis	back	then	that	they	were	delighted	to	have	a	

girl.	Her	mother	Edith	dressed	her	in	crisp	white	dresses	and	black	Mary	Janes,	and	her	

father	Robert	was	forever	coming	home	from	his	job	at	a	local	logistics	company	in	town	

with	a	new	toy	for	her.	A	tricycle.	A	doll	with	soft,	white	skin.	Her	own	tea	set.	“He	loved	me	

too	much,”	she	says.	Even	when	her	brother	Mduduzi	came	along	three	years	later,	she	felt	

her	father’s	preference	for	her,	a	secret	that	hung	unspoken	between	them.		

Her	father	was	much	older	than	the	other	dads	she	knew.	But	he	still	seemed	young,	

somehow.	He	played	tennis	at	the	club	up	the	road,	and	sometimes	he	went	for	runs,	out	

and	back	through	New	Brighton’s	]lat	streets.	Sibongile’s	mother	told	her	that	once,	when	

he	was	still	young,	Robert	ran	a	long,	long	race	between	Pietermaritzburg	and	Durban.	Even	



 42 

in	his	late	50s,	he	was	trim	and	handsome,	and	never	looked	out	of	place	beside	Edith,	22	

years	his	junior.		

But	Robert	could	also	be	jealous,	possessive.	When	Edith	was	out	too	late	at	church	

choir	practice,	he	screamed,	telling	her	he	was	locking	the	gate	at	6	pm,	that	it	was	

dangerous	to	be	out	late,	that	he	couldn’t	be	left	alone	with	the	children.	He	grew	big	

bushes	along	the	edge	of	their	property,	hungry,	wild	plants	that	shrouded	the	house	from	

view.	When	Sibongile	asked	to	go	out	and	play	with	the	neighbors,	he	was	]irm.	“Stay	inside	

with	your	toys,”	he	told	her.	When	Edith	asked	if	her	three	sons	from	a	previous	marriage	

could	come	to	stay,	Robert	was	]irm.	No,	he	said.	They	aren’t	mine.	

And	then	one	evening	in	June	1967,	ten	days	before	Sibongile’s	sixth	birthday,	

Robert	was	crossing	a	road	at	the	edge	of	New	Brighton,	where	railway	tracks	cleaved	the	

Black	township	from	the	rest	of	the	city.	A	bus	pulled	out	of	a	nearby	station	struck	him.	He	

died	on	the	spot.		

After	that,	it	didn’t	much	matter	to	six-year-old	Sibongile	who	Robert	Mtshali	had	

been.	Now	he	was	an	absence.	The	blank	half	of	a	bed.	A	lost	paycheck.	The	gate	was	

unlocked.	There	were	no	more	toys.	Sibongile	wasn’t	anyone’s	favorite	anymore.	She	only	

had	a	photograph	of	him,	one	he	had	taken	by	a	professional	photographer	years	before.	In	

it,	he	stood	between	those	overgrown	hedges	outside	their	house.	He	wore	a	suit	and	

squinted	at	the	camera.		

Years	later,	Sibongile	was	looking	for	that	photo	when	she	came	across	another,	of	

three	small	girls.		

“Who’s	this?”	she	asked	her	mother.		

“Those	are	your	father’s	other	daughters,”	Edith	replied,	her	voice	]lat.	

“Where	are	they?”	Sibongile	asked,	a	live	wire	of	excitement	running	through	her.	All	

her	life,	she’d	only	had	brothers.	Her	mother’s	three	older	sons	had	come	to	stay	with	them	

after	her	father	died,	and	between	them	and	Mduduzi,	she	had	always	been	thoroughly	

outnumbered.	She	often	dreamed	of	what	it	might	be	like	to	have	a	sister	instead,	someone	

to	share	the	dolls	and	tea	set	with.		

“I	don’t	know,”	her	mother	said	quietly.	And	that	was	that.	Her	mother	had	been	through	

enough,	Sibongile	thought.	She	didn’t	want	to	hurt	her	any	further.	So	she	put	the	

photograph	back	where	she	found	it.	She	tucked	the	question	away	too,	and	promised	



 43 

herself	not	to	think	about	her	sisters	anymore.	For	forty	years	she	basically	succeeded.	

Then	in	2005,	she	heard	the	Comrades	Marathon	was	looking	for	family	members	of	Robert	

Mtshali.	They	wanted	to	tell	the	forgotten	stories	of	the	race’s	Black	pioneers.	Sibongile	felt	

a	surge	of	pride.	She	called	their	of]ice.	“I’m	Robert’s	daughter,”	she	said.	

     	
Sibongile’s	photo	of	her	father,	Robert	Mtshali	

	

	

Robert	Mtshali	wasn’t	anyone’s	father	yet	on	Friday,	May	24,	1935,	when	he	lined	up	with	

48	other	men	outside	the	smart	red	brick	City	Hall	in	Pietermaritzburg,	a	sleepy	South	

African	city	an	hour	inland	from	the	Indian	Ocean.	They	were	mostly	local	guys,	and	they	

bobbed	up	and	down	on	the	soles	of	their	thin	canvas	sneakers	to	keep	warm	in	the	

predawn	winter	chill.		

By	1935,	the	Comrades	had	been	going	for	mor	than	a	decade,	and	it	had	achieved	a	

level	of	local	renown.	Vic	Clapham	was	a	minor	Pietermaritzburg	celebrity	for	the	strange	

run	he’d	organized	every	year	since	1921.	By	the	‘30s,	local	newspapers	covered	the	race	–	

which	alternated	directions	between	the	two	cities	–	with	fawning	attention,	and	fans	

turned	out	along	the	route	to	cheer	on	their	favorite	runners.	“Come	and	get	a	Great	

THRILL,”	Comrades	organizers	promised	in	the	1935	race	program,	which	dutifully	listed	

the	name	of	each	competitor	and	his	hometown.			

“His,”	of	course,	because	the	Comrades	was	only	open	to	men	–	and	only	white	men	

at	that.	Women	were	too	brittle	to	run	so	far,	the	thinking	went,	and	in	this	little	outpost	at	

the	edge	of	the	British	colonial	empire,	white	and	Black	people	didn’t	play	sports	together.	



 44 

By	the	mid	1930s,	however,	the	Comrades	had	already	had	a	few	interlopers,	all	of	them	

white	women,	and	there	seemed	to	be	a	general	understanding	that	an	occasional	

“unof]icial”	runner	like	this	was	ok.		

Still,	when	a	Black	hospital	clerk	named	Robert	Mtshali	approached	the	start	line	

that	morning	in	1935,	it	would	have	certainly	been	a	spectacle.	He	was	27,	short	and	

slender,	and	he	wore	a	white	shirt	tucked	into	a	pair	of	belted	black	shorts,	like	he	was	

headed	out	for	a	recreational	morning	of	croquet.	Just	before	6,	another	runner,	a	Durban	

local	called	Max	Trimborn,	cupped	his	hands	over	his	mouth	and	let	loose	a	wild	cock’s	

crow.	A	race	of]icial	]ired	a	pistol	into	the	air,	and	the	runners	took	off	into	the	dark	

morning.	

In	those	days,	the	Comrades	was	a	low-budget,	DIY	affair.	Participants	organized	

friends	on	bicycles	or	in	cars	to	follow	along	with	water	and	a	bite	to	eat.	The	more	laissez	

faire	among	them	stopped	off	for	a	pipe	or	a	beer	and	a	chicken	curry	at	one	of	the	quaint	

hotels	that	lined	the	course.	Much	of	the	race,	for	anyone,	was	lonely	and	solitary.	As	the	

hours	passed,	the	distance	between	individual	runners	stretched	out	for	kilometers,	and	

between	towns,	there	weren’t	many	spectators.		

Robert	Mtshali	never	told	his	daughters	what	the	race	that	day	was	like.	Still,	it’s	

easy	to	imagine	that	for	him,	it	was	a	particular	kind	of	lonely.	     Even	if	he	wanted	to,	he	

couldn’t	stop	in	those	hotels	along	the	course:	As	a	Black	man,	if	he	wasn’t	working	there,	

he	wasn’t	allowed	in	the	doors.	Later,	in	the	1960s	and	early	‘70s,	“unof]icial”	Black	runners	

would	complete	the	entire	Comrades,	only	to	be	blocked	at	the	gates	of	the	sports	club	

where	it	]inished	so	they	wouldn’t	“embarrass”	the	race	by	actually	crossing	the	]inish	line.		

That	was	much	later,	though,	when	the	number	of	“unof]icial”	runners	had	become	a	

persistent,	embarrassing	reminder	of	the	race’s	failure	to	meet	the	times.	In	1935,	Robert	

Mtshali’s	choice	to	run	was	still	just	a	charming	curiosity.	When	he	]inished	the	race	in	9	

hours	and	35	minutes,	a	Durban	city	councilor	approached	him	to	congratulate	him	on	his	

]inish.	There	wouldn’t	be	a	medal,	of	course,	he	explained.	But	the	city	had	organized	him	a	

gift	to	commemorate	his	achievement.	It	was	a	bag	of	oranges.		

	A	newspaper	article	the	next	day	ran	beside	a	photograph	of	Robert,	a	lone	]igure	on	

the	road	with	a	car	and	a	horse	parked	side	by	side	a	few	yards	behind	him.	His	gaze	is	



 45 

angled	towards	the	camera,	as	though	he	is	watching	the	photographer	watch	him	as	he	

jogs	away.		

	
Robert	Mtshali	runs	the	1935	Comrades	Marathon	

	

	

When	Nana,	Nompumelelo,	and	Nompumelelo’s	sister	Thokozile	saw	the	news	story	about	

Sibongile,	they	both	called	the	TV	station	to	tell	them	Robert	was	their	father	too.	The	

journalists	passed	the	message	along	to	the	race	organizers,	who	decided	the	best	thing	to	

do	was	invite	all	the	women	to	the	next	Comrades.	

By	now,	much	of	that	]irst	meeting	is	buried	under	the	years	that	have	come	since.	It	

might	have	been	at	the	Durban	airport,	or	in	the	belly	of	the	city’s	convention	center,	or	in	a	

wood-paneled	downtown	restaurant.	Wherever	it	was	though,	for	all	the	sisters,	it	was	like	

seeing	a	ghost.	When	Nompumelelo	and	Thokozile	saw	Sibongile	walk	across	the	room,	

they	thought	for	a	second	they	were	seeing	a	sister	who	had	died	years	before,	For	

Sibongile,	looking	at	Nompumelelo	was	like	seeing	that	photograph	of	her	father	in	the	

hedges	outside	the	New	Brighton	house	come	to	life.	She	had	Robert’s	same	long	forehead,	

the	same	eyes	that	]lared	open	wider	when	she	got	excited.	And	Nana	–	Nana	was	curvy	in	

all	the	same	places	as	Sibongile,	so	different	from	the	women	in	Sibongile’s	mother’s	family.	



 46 

Though	her	face	was	snotty	with	tears,	Sibongile	laughed.	With	their	twin	asses,	they	were	

so	clearly,	unmistakably	sisters.	

Later,	the	four	women	together	went	to	see	a	plaque	to	their	father	that	had	recently	

been	nailed	to	the	entrance	of	Comrades	founder	Vic	Clapham’s	old	house	in	

Pietermaritzburg.	Embossed	in	bronze	was	the	newspaper	image	of	Robert	running	in	

1935,	and	below	it,	an	inscription:		

	

Robert	Mtshali:	

Inspirational	early	pioneer,	Mtshali	was	the	5irst	black	man	to	complete	the	Comrades	

Marathon	in	1935.	

	

Unveiled	on	10	June	2005,	this	plaque	is	dedicated	to	all	the	men	and	women	who	

completed	the	Comrades	Marathon	unof5icially	prior	to	1975	when	it	was	of5icially	

opened	to	all	races	and	both	genders.  

	

	 Then	the	women	went	to	the	race	itself.	The	Comrades	still	started	outside	the	

Pietermaritzburg	City	Hall	and	ended	90	kilometers	away	in	Durban,	but	otherwise,	there	

were	few	clues	to	suggest	this	was	the	same	race	Robert	Mtshali	]inished	70	years	before.	In	

2005,	there	were	13,000	entrants,	a	technicolored	tidal	wave	of	spandex	and	Nikes	that	

packed	the	entire	road.	The	race	wasn’t	held	on	Empire	Day	anymore,	but	the	16th	of	June,	

a	new	public	holiday	in	memory	of	a	schoolchildren’s	uprising	against	apartheid.	Unlike	the	

gangly	farmers	and	stout	rugby	players	who	lined	up	beside	Robert	in	1935,	most	of	the	

race’s	participants	were	now	Black,	and	the	race	was	a	huge	deal	–	a	kind	of	South	African	

Superbowl	Sunday.	Supporters	fanned	out	across	the	entire	course,	cranking	boomboxes,	

grilling	sausages,	and	pressing	foil-wrapped	baked	potatoes	into	the	hands	of	dazed	

runners.	Helicopters	chop-chop-chopped	overhead,	capturing	aerial	footage	for	a	live	TV	

broadcast.		

	 The	sisters	had	all	seen	the	Comrades	before,	of	course.	Nana	and	her	daughter	

Wendy	watched	it	on	TV	every	year,	and	Thokozile	and	Nompumelelo	lived	not	far	from	the	

course.	But	this	was	different.	Now,	it	belonged	to	their	family.	They	had	become	race	VIPs	

who	got	put	up	in	the	type	of	fancy	hotel	Sibongile	had	spent	her	working	life	cleaning.	



 47 

Strangers	kept	hugging	them,	telling	them	how	grateful	they	were	to	Robert	Mtshali.	For	

Nana,	to	whom	he	had	only	ever	been	a	hole	in	her	life,	this	was	particularly	startling.	“Now	

I	can	tell	somebody	what	my	father	left	for	me,”	she	says.		

	

The	Mtshali	sisters	had	lived	whole	lives	before	they	met	each	other.	Now	they	]lung	them	

wide	open,	beckoning	each	other	in.	Sibongile	invited	her	sisters	to	her	eldest	daughter’s	

bridal	shower,	her	“kitchen	party.”	Nana	started	calling	them	on	their	birthdays,	Mother’s	

Day,	Christmas.	They	traveled	to	see	each	other,	piecing	together	the	shards	they	each	had	

of	Robert’s	life,	and	telling	each	other	the	stories	of	their	own.	When	people	asked	Sibongile	

if	she	had	siblings,	began	to	delight	at	saying	yes,	“four	brothers	and	three	sisters.”		

She	and	Nompumelelo	became	especially	close.	Sibongile	says	Nompumelelo	treated	

her	as	she	always	imagined	an	older	sister	would,	doling	out	advice	and	the	occasional	

R200	note.	In	2009,	Sibongile	was	visiting	Nompumelelo	and	Thokozile	when	she	noticed	

dark	strings	]luttering	across	her	]ield	of	vision.	They	took	her	to	a	doctor,	who	diagnosed	

diabetic	neuropathy.	Slowly,	the	world	started	to	slip	out	of	focus.	By	2011,	when	she	

turned	50,	she	could	see	nothing	at	all.		

In	2019,	the	Comrades	called	the	sisters	again.	The	race	gave	out	a	series	of	different	

medals	to	]inishers,	depending	on	their	time.	They	had	decided	to	name	one	after	Robert	

Mtshali	–	the	]irst	time	in	the	race’s	century-long	history	that	such	an	honor	went	to	a	Black	

runner.	The	Comrades	wanted	the	Mtshalis	back	again	as	VIPs.		

That	year,	they	gave	Sibongile	a	special	job,	to	]ire	the	gun	of]icially	ending	the	race.	

All	afternoon	on	race	day,	she	and	her	sisters	sat	in	a	glass	VIP	box	at	a	horse	racing	track	in	

Pietermaritzburg.	Above	the	]inish	line,	a	bright	red	LED	clock	ticked	towards	12	hours,	the	

]inal	cut	off	time.	In	the	minutes	leading	up	to	it,	they	watched	the	]inal	runners	staggering	

in,	their	singlets	streaked	with	bands	of	salt,	eyes	glazed.	As	the	clock	turned	over	into	the	

]inal	min