The only thing worse than no-one reading the shit you write, is finally writing something quite a few people read, and then having to write something after that, knowing it’s gonna be a steaming pile of shit by comparison. Although you’ll have to wait way too many words to see the actual steaming pile of shit reference and don’t say you weren’t warned.

It’s been a few weeks since what will henceforth be known as ‘The Kangaroo Fucking Island Marathon’ and I’ve run precisely once since then. Which is once more than my car has run which is still being fixed with the repair bill now approaching $8,000. So in the scheme of things, I’m doing better than my car and figure a half marathon has got to be easier than that fucking debacle a few weeks back.

I drive from my place to Aldinga, (in my loan car, obviously), which is basically the halfway point to Kangaroo Island and when I hit Main South Road and see the signs pointing to KI my PTSD kicks in and I start to wonder why I didn’t do a race that was in literally any direction other than this.

Unlike KI though, there are no signs from the universe, not counting the fact I forget to grab a hair tie on the way out the door, but if you’ve seen my hair lately, you’ll know this has trouble written all over it if I can’t scab one from someone when I get there. Which I do. So things are definitely looking up. Perhaps my luck has changed.

I get there super early and walk the 800m to the race start, which I’m calling a warm up, and about 800m more than my usual warm up which is not a thing. Except when I get to the race start, and there are some people doing an actual warm up run, and why you’d run extra metres is beyond me.

I’m pretty stoked when there’s no line for the mandatory pre-race dunny stop. Although when I’m in there and I see a sign that says the water can’t be used for “cooking or drinking” I’m pretty fucking disappointed and put my two minute noodles away and just take a leak instead.

I then find a table and bench overlooking the ocean and can’t work out why no one’s sitting there until I sit there and sweet baby jesus that wind is cold. I put my arm warmers on which look a bit dumb, but do exactly what they say they do.

I’m basically killing time waiting for the third wave start when I decide I want to do another emergency dunny stop and duck in only to find the filthy fucking animal who used it before me hasn’t bothered to flush their steaming great turd. I do my best to ignore it, pump that flusher with my foot like I’m the drummer in Metallica, and manage to get rid of most of it, then exit the porta loo only to see a young lady about to use it after me. I want to explain it wasn’t me and then remember the whole ‘whoever smelt it dealt it’ rule so shut the fuck up and skulk off hoping she’s visually impaired and may not notice.

Having killed time waiting for the third wave I start to make my way to the start only to find they’ve already left and… fuck. Oh well, wave four will do and off we go. Except not really. Because it’s one of those stupid fucking starts where everyone starts to run, then bottlenecks about three seconds later, and you end up doing that stupid fucking almost running on the spot thing that some dickhead runners do at the traffic lights while they’re waiting for them to go green. My dickhead credentials are well established but I refuse to do that weird running in slow motion on the spot thing and instead just do the regular walk I practised for 15 kms at The Kangaroo Island Fucking Marathon until it opens up a bit and take two, off we go.

The first leg is on the beach and is uneventful enough. Up to the turn around point then back towards the start again. I see the surf life savers in their little buggy, and it’s a shame they’re going the other way because a lift would be nice.

The next leg is through Aldinga Scrub where I come up behind the one and only Micky D, ‘international comedian” (at least that’s how they describe him when he crosses the finish line later, and presumably, he’s not overly modest) and I break the comedian’s golden rule and heckle him about his blue mohawk and say “He mate, can you come around and clean my toilet later” because a) I’m a wanker b) not an international comedian and c) now officially my dad. It’s particularly idiotic because I’ve endured such quips about my stupid haircuts over the years, and the heckle takes an unexpected turn when he asks how deep my rim is and… I’ve got nothing because I’m pretty sure he’s not actually talking about my toilet now.

The scrub section is pleasingly uneventful, if you exclude the guy who’s spitting and doing major snot rockets and fuck mate, do you fucking mind? How about you fuck off out of the way before you do that fuckface? So perhaps not completely uneventful.

Just before I get to the esplanade, I spot a trolley and wonder if anyone will push me the rest of the way if I get in, and maybe if there was a cliff I’d have a few takers, or perhaps even a line up, but as it is, no.

I wish someone would push me!

I’ve only just reached the Esplanade when the race leader is coming back and fuck that’s fast. I used to hate out and back sections cause I felt so discouraged but now I quite like them to marvel at the good runners and yell out positive things to them while I silently curse them under my breath.

It’s a major relief there’s no wind on The Esplanade and then we hit the turn around point and fuck. my. brown. dog. There’s the headwind for the return leg. Thankfully it’s not gale force, more just annoying as fuck force, and at least I’m still running. Which is partly because it’s not a full marathon, and partly because Cassie, a runner I know, is right fucking behind me and although I’m not competitive I’ll be fucked if I’m gonna let her overtake me. I know for a fact, she’s been training super hard on the trails, so she’s cracking along nicely on what must be heavy legs and hang on, is she running behind me because I’m blocking the wind? Cheeky. But also smart.

I see a guy on a skateboard with his dog pulling him along, and note to self, do that next time.

We drop down on to the beach for the last few KMs and Micky Toilet Brush D cruises past, as do half a dozen other runners which is a bit frustrating, but all up, I don’t feel like dying, I’ve run the whole way, and it wasn’t a complete and utter disaster. I collect my 2020 medal from last year’s Covid-cancelled event and holy shit it’s big. You could probably kill someone with it. Little do I know I’m about to meet someone I would happily have used it on not so long ago.

I see a bunch of people who did The Kangaroo Island Fucking Marathon and we all agree today was actually pretty nice, for all sorts of reasons, but mostly because it wasn’t The Kangaroo Island Fucking Marathon. By comparison, colonic irrigation would probably be a barrel of laughs, so today’s race is easily better.

I see two ladies who confess they were trying to think of something they could yell at me when I ran past so they could get in my race report, and I suggest they should have just called me a cunt, and weirdly enough they don’t think it’s as funny as I do. And yet here they are, getting a mention anyway.

I also run in to Lisa who won the 10kms and I say oh you won the 10kms to which she says “apparently” and don’t just just hate it when you apparently win a race?

But here’s the all time best bit.

I’m standing by the bag drop area when a young bloke comes in to collect his, and through a haze of PTSD I recognise him as someone else who did The Kangaroo Island Fucking Marathon. But he’s not just ANY runner, he’s THE runner. So I say to him, are you the guy who told me I looked like I was struggling about 3kms into the marathon a few weeks back, and he says “oh yeah, you looked done man”. So he’s THAT fucking guy. I tell him he got an (dis)honourable mention in my race report and ask if he’s seen it and when he says no, I actually feel a bit awkward because he has no idea I called him a cunt. I tell him he might want to read it and, in his defence, he seems really lovely and seems genuinely apologetic that he was such a cunt. Possibly not the words he used. But accurate.

I do my warm down (AKA walk 800m back to the loan car) and in a master stroke of decision making remember I bought some Krispy Kreme doughnuts at the servo on the way there, and fuck me, how good are doughnuts?

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