Runners make their way from Pietermaritzburg to Durban in the 2022 Comrades marathon last Sunday. Picture: Michel Bega
Running enthusiast Ena du Plessis has written a moving tribute to the people who tried to save the life of Comrades Marathon runner Phakamile Ntshiza during last Sunday’s down run between Pietermaritzburg and Durban.
Ntshiza is one of two people who sadly passed away during the race.
Mzamo Mthembu, from the Hollywoodbets running club, also passed away. Ntshiza was from the Adventist running club.
ALSO READ: Two fatalities confirmed after Comrades race
Du Plessis, who was working with Comrades lovers and friends at the Randburg Harriers aid station along the route last Sunday, has posted a moving account of what happened when Ntshiza is believed to have suffered a heart attack during last Sunday’s race.
Written in honour of the late Phakamile Ntshiza, the comrade I never knew but will always remember. Dedicated to Mlondi Bhengu and Maxine Lubbe, my comrades in the fight for Phakamile’s life; to Dewald, the paramedic who doesn’t give up; and to my comrade for life, Neil du Plessis.
“I would go to war with these people, I thought as I lay on the damp grass of Scottsville Race Course one Sunday evening, three years and three months ago. My head resting on our tog bag, I watched the long line of weary runners patiently waiting for a seat on one of the buses to Durban.
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My husband, Neil, had said that I could take a rest while he stood in the queue. The process was painfully slow and inefficient – but not a single runner complained. In dignified silence they stood waiting, patiently waiting on legs that only an hour or so before had completed the arduous 87km journey between Durban and Pietermaritzburg.
Little did I know that evening, that we would only be back for this event after a Covid-19 hiatus of three years and three months. And never would I have guessed that at this long-awaited return of the oldest ultramarathon in the world, I would indeed be entering into a war of sorts with some of the people I had become so proud to call my comrades.
Mainly because our eldest daughter would be writing matric this year, I decided early on that I would not run, but rather support Neil at his eighth Comrades. Neil warned me that I would have FOMO, and of course he was right. Partly to abate this, I set other, less time-consuming goals for myself. I trained for, and ran, my favourite marathon; I got our son into proper road running; and I got back into speed work and hill training for the first time in almost three years.
With the FOMO levels thus kept under control, it was with great excitement that I arrived at my spectator spot at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning. Neil’s colleague, Mlondi, was also there with his other half, Maxine, and their baby boy, Malakai. Like Neil, Mlondi had run Comrades seven times; and like me, he was going to support instead of running.
I had goosebumps when the first runners started to pass us. Not long after, I received a special surprise. Caroline Wöstmann, whose photo on the cover of the Runner’s World had played a part in inspiring me to start marathoning six years ago, came speeding down the hill. “Go Caroline!” I shouted. She looked straight into my eyes and thanked me right through her signature smile.
By the time Neil arrived, I had already emptied a whole spray can of Deep Heat on what felt like hundreds of legs passing by. Neil looked amazing, but did mention that his legs were very sore and that he would need to slow down significantly in the second half.
After Neil had left, I went right back to spraying legs and handing out Rennies if the situation looked desperate. Then someone called me from across the road.
“Ena, could you bring a Rennie?”
I grabbed one and darted across the road. A runner had fallen and was unable to stand up. Someone was trying to give him sips of water; someone else had brought a cup of Coke with salt mixed into it. One of the runners passing us, shouted that he had seen a paramedic on a bike about a kilometre back.
I yanked my jersey off and started to run up that hill as fast as my legs could carry me. Some of the runners joked with me. “You’re going the wrong direction!” I smiled and joked back. I was in high spirits – I was on my way to call that paramedic, and he would come and give our runner all the help he needed.
It wasn’t long before I saw him. Through gasps for breath I informed him that a runner was needing his help about half a kilometre down the hill, opposite the Randburg Harriers gazebo. I immediately started to run back. By the time I arrived, he was already there.
Our runner was now lying flat on the grass. A fellow runner was doing chest compressions, and Mlondi was gently patting his temples and talking to him. His eyes were open but unresponsive.
Then everything happened very fast. I found out that the runner doing chest compressions was a doctor; that our runner’s name was Phakamile; that he was from Adventist Athletic Club; and that this was likely his very first Comrades. What happened next, is a bit of a blur. More doctors showed up; if I remember correctly, one was a runner and the other a spectator wearing a running T-shirt.
Every now and then Avongile, who was manning the Randburg Harriers gazebo, came to check on us. Occasionally the two ladies braaiing next to the gazebo, were also there. Mlondi kept talking to Phakamile, in between squeezing the oxygen pump. At one stage I was squeezing the drip bag and wondering whether my arms were strong enough for this job.
Whenever a doctor was present, he would talk “doctor language”, as Mlondi would later put it, to the paramedic. I was thankful that I could not follow, as I did not want to hear anything negative. One runner came to pray for Phakamile. Others simply shouted for him to “come back” and “stay with us” as they passed the scene.
More paramedics arrived. By this time our initial paramedic, whose name I later learned was Dewald, had tried everything he knew to. The paramedics talked to one another. Mlondi asked me to get my phone so that we could try to contact Phakamile’s running club. By the time I was back, Mlondi was standing a few metres from the scene.
“They’re calling it,” he said to me through tears.
I went numb. I wanted to refuse to believe what was happening.
The police arrived. An enormous surge of respect for first responders welled up in me. How do you deal with this day after day, week after week, year after year? I’m sure you have no choice but to get used to it – but it can’t possibly ever become easy.
Mlondi managed to get hold of someone at Adventist Athletics Club, who quickly arranged for some of their members to come to us. It was only when I listened to Mlondi telling them the whole story, that my suspicions were confirmed. The doctors in their “doctor language” had tried to gently advise Dewald that there was no hope left. But he insisted on continuing… insisted on trying just a little bit longer.
Once we had finished speaking to the Adventist Club members, we decided that it was time to make our way to the finish. After all, we had some runners to support – and they seemed to be doing well today!
How do you mourn and celebrate at the same time? I asked myself as we stood waiting for our first runner to enter Moses Mabhida Stadium. By the looks of it, our first runner was going to be Neil – and according to the tracking app, he had been maintaining a surprisingly consistent pace.
Mlondi saw him first. “Oi!” he shouted – and immediately Neil came running towards us. (“Oi” is how Mlondi and Neil have been greeting each other for years now.) A group of young women right next to us wanted to help us cheer our runner on, so they asked what his name was.
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“Just shout ‘Oi!’ and he’ll know you are cheering for him!” Mlondi instructed.
“Oi! Oi! Oi!” the chorus responded.
Neil ran towards us and quickly gave us high fives before disappearing into the stadium to fetch the Robert Mtshali medal he had earned for his second-best Comrades time.
That evening it was time to celebrate. But how, indeed, do you celebrate while you are mourning? Well, you could go out for some proper Durban curry and bunny chow. While you wait for your order to arrive, you could ask your champion husband all about his nine hours and forty-four minutes on the road. Were the bagpipers there? (No, not this time.) And the Kearsney boys? (Yes.) Was the Sasol water table great again? (Yes, just like previous years.) Were the Enthembeni children there? (Yes.) And did he high-five them? No, wait. That would be a stupid question. He always makes time to high-five them.
Then, in between bites of spicy delightfulness, you could tell your husband the finer detail of the account that Mlondi had already shared with him earlier. Your husband would listen without any alarm but with much understanding, because he has assisted at similar scenes. And he has experienced how it’s usually a minority that will stay calm, face the trauma, and do the necessary. So your husband would remark that Mlondi and Maxine were just the right people to have had there with you. You would agree – indeed, you are deeply grateful that you were all there together.
Then your husband might suggest that you title your next blog post “If Comrades runners ran the country” – because just look at how this incident was handled. Nobody freaked out. Not one negative word was spoken. Everybody simply slotted in where he or she was needed. Comrades runners. Comrades supporters. Comrades first responders. And some who might fall into two or more of these categories simultaneously.
Of course, this mentality is not exclusive to Comrades. It is found all over our beautiful country. Only, at Comrades the minority becomes a majority. And this gives one a glimpse of how great this country could be if everybody stepped up to the plate, as the Americans would say.
Now, to continue this process of simultaneous celebration and mourning, you could go for a solitary run on the Durban beachfront the next day. Because everyone knows that it’s the day after Comrades, passers-by might assume that you are one of the super-fanatics that always keep craving more running, even the day after a gruelling 90km ultra. And one of the locals might even smile at you and remark, “Just like yesterday!”
You might try to briefly explain that you did not run yesterday, but that you were only supporting your husband. But then you would remember that indeed you had run. That you had run one tiny hill on the Comrades route in the wrong direction. And that it had been the most significant run of your entire life. Because you had run to call a paramedic.
Only later would you find out that the paramedic you had called, was Dewald – the paramedic who doesn’t give up. You didn’t know, while you were running, that the battle for Phakamile’s life would be lost.
But you would do it a thousand times over again.”
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