RACE REPORT: PUFfeR by Mark Baldwin

It’s 03.00, PUFfeR Race Day 2025. At long, long, bloody long last. After weeks of fretting over what to pack, how to pack it and wishing I could just pack it in, I’m more than ready to pack up and run.

I yawn, swing my legs out of bed and think how inadequate to the task ahead the little guys look (if I draw myself up with full hauteur the tape runs out at a giddy 1.7m). No one can resist the march of time, I rue. I’d been clumping around on them for 66 years now, and I know it’s only a matter of time before they say enough’s enough. But not today, with any luck.

I have 3 bags packed and ready: a tog bag for the Finish; a carrier bag with a range of spares, plus gels and drinks for my fantastic, fabulous and (you’re thinking) quite frankly unbelievable wife to take to the Constantia Nek aid station; and my hydration vest, bulging pneumatically like the Michelin Man after a particularly fine meal at one of his own 3-star rated establishments. It’s stuffed with water bottles, gels, baby food, buffs, socks, tissues, toilet paper, foil blanket, rain jacket and what seems like the full inventory of a small pharmacy (sans pharmacist, alas!).

By 05.00, I have crammed a cup of coffee and a bowl of muesli down my neck, had a quick s. and performed a decent s. (2 out of 3 ain’t bad).

I take myself off to Fish Hoek AC HQ. I really only wake up fully when I arrive, finding the car park at capacity, with runners and their flunkeys standing about in what I take to be an advanced state of anticipation, or possibly constipation.

I feel the first stirrings of excitement myself. Well, how could I not? Excitement bubbles in the still and almost warm air; clusters of chattering, headlamp-lit runners and their friends are scattered throughout the car park, with more wedged into the clubhouse, posing for photos and patting each other on the back, no doubt assuring themselves that yes, they were up for the challenge ahead and no, they were not in the least bit nervous. Right.

With 10 minutes to go before the 05.30 start, I indulge in a bit of ill-advised, last minute panic: I suddenly recall that at the end of the previous year’s PUFfeR, my watch had a mere 10% battery left – eish! What if, a year older, it fails this year’s test? A quick rummage in my tog bag unearths a powerbank, which I throw into my hydration vest. This is a move I will come to regret many times over the course of the coming day because a powerbank has the same density and mass of a small neutron star. Indeed, partly as a result of this injudicious move, I almost succumb to gravitational collapse myself several times during the race.

But let’s not make this all about me, fascinating though I am, and let’s switch to the past tense as the present is killing me.

Anyone taking part knew that this year’s PUFfeR route differed markedly to previous years, mainly due to fire-damage sustained in the summer months. Our route in 2025 was set at 52km, down from last year’s 67km-odd. However, elevation had increased to c. 2.7km from 2.3km, and the trails themselves were more technically challenging. The organisers reckoned the shorter route could actually take more time than the longer one. All of which meant last year’s performance was no yardstick by which to measure this year’s effort. For myself, I was clueless as to what time to aim or hope for in this, my second PUFfeR. Instead, I figured a top 100 finish would be great (101 on 2024), whatever time I completed it in.

At 05.25 on 30 August 2025, though, it was time to wish surrounding friends good luck, ignore whatever Andy Mac was saying to me, assess the weather (fantastic! could not have been better), and gird our assorted loins for the fray. Race Manager Brett Eaton gave us a few pep words, the bouncy castle thingy arched invitingly above us, and we hit the trail.

The relief I felt to be out and doing was mighty indeed – for a while there it even eclipsed my apprehension at what lay ahead. With several months of marathon training and a few road races under my belt, I was confident of my aerobic fitness but knew I was woefully short of strength training, particularly in the leg department. Small comfort it was to know that I was probably not the only one in that particular boat.

Aerial footage which I saw later portrayed the PUFfeR field as a stream of dancing headlamps, strung out through the bushes along the trail from the clubhouse. Like stars we were, a honey coloured Milky Way bestrewn upon a blanket of obsidian. By God, someone should be paying me for all this lyricism.

But you’ll be impatient to know how I was getting on. The first 7kms or so were mainly road – one upon which I found myself running alone, for the part. I made sure to get off to a reasonably quick start, purely to avoid any early bottlenecks and settle into my own rhythm. Scaling Ou Wapad was the first true taste of trail and elevation, but it held no surprises, though familiarity did not breed contempt on my part. Wary of the distance still to be covered and the greater climbs to come, I jogged where I could and walked where I adjudged it prudent. At this point, I sucked down a USN Vooma 160, the first of many.

 

I arrived at Silvermine Gate in reasonable shape. The tar road from there up to Silvermine Dam is, as anyone familiar with it knows, a right b. I jogged most of it, and walked where I had to, in the company of Daniel, a friendly lad I bumped into several times over the course of the day. It’s a race that allows you to get to know people, which is very pleasant.

 

I should note here that whenever I break into a walk, every bugger with longer legs takes the opportunity to stroll past me, eating into my every stride by about 10cm. Absolute, lanky, lazy bastards.

The sun came up while we were on the road, so I could dispense with my headlamp which was a relief as I hate mine (it weighs about a 0.3ns on the Neutron Star scale). At this stage (11kms in or so), runners were forming into loose groups, with many folk visible to both my front and rear (you really do not want to bring up my rear).

In that fluid fashion we rose with the sun up the ridge above the dam and on to the ‘loop’ around Noordhoek Peak. The Silvermine reserve was reopened by SAN Parks a day earlier for us than for the public, so I imagine it was the first time many of us beheld the devastation caused by the fires. Sad. But it did mean sight lines opened up for us on all sides where previously we’d have been surrounded by bushes. All about were barren, yet very beautiful, gently glowing views, limestone rock formations rendered roseate by the sunrise. (I should be paid extra for absolutely all alliteration.)

I noticed one Black Jack t-shirted Julian V who kept racing ahead and dropping

back, taking video/photos. He told me he was on ‘a long training run’ for the Gobi Desert Marathon in a few weeks’ time. I nearly sat on a rock and gave up there and then. Way to add to my burgeoning sense of inadequacy, Jules.

I began the descent to Chappies Saddle in good spirits, happy to be one among many as the tricky terrain slowed the field before me. Below I could see what resembled an undulating line of colourful beads, bobbing gaily down to the saddle as the expanse of Hout Bay opened up before us.

Oh, I was such a merry chap, chortling and wisecracking my way down until, near the bottom, the first hammer of the day fell. Landing poorly on a rock, my left ankle rolled and I barely corrected it in time. Wake up call. My heart sprinted up my throat and into my mouth. I’d experienced this kind of mishap before and knew that, while a fully rolled one was definitely game over, even a partly rolled ankle could rule me out of the race. For the next few hundred metres I took it easy but after some initial protest, my ankle resumed normal service.

My ears, however, were now beginning to take strain: damn, I thought, of all the times to develop rampant tinnitus! Then I espied a tiny figure cavorting on a distant boulder and realised that Fish Hoek AC’s legendary Wendy Li, a diminutive woman with the lung-to-body ratio of a hot air balloon to its basket, was cheering us madly on. I forgot about my ankle and allowed myself to be uplifted by her exhortations and those of the crowd of well-wishers at the turning point onto the contour path above Hout Bay.

Happy as I was to see so many familiar faces – thanks for the support, folks! – I was taken aback to be accosted by one young woman begging desperately for my number. Not again, I thought, they follow me even unto the very mountaintops. It took me a moment to become aware that my long sleeve shirt was obscuring my race number. Duh. Obviously, even so early on, the PUFfeR was taking its toll on my mental acuity.

If by now, like me on the trail, you’re flagging dear readers, hang on in there. It gets worse.

The long climb around the shoulder of the mountain en route to the next saddle at Vlakkenberg and thence to Constantia Nek was just beginning. Having recced this section just a few weeks before I knew exactly what was to come, so I guzzled another 160 gel, this one with caffeine. Whether it was the sudden hit of the good stuff or the come down from the euphoria generated by the Chappies Saddle posse, I was hit by the second hammer of the day.

Abruptly overcome by a disorienting sense of light-headedness, I felt a strange disconnect between brain and body. It was disconcerting in the extreme and reduced me to stumbling along what was now a very technical trail, feeling unsure on my feet and concerned yet again that my race may be prematurely run.

The field had thinned out by then and I was mostly on my own, trying to focus on the narrow path which was now harshly lit by the fully risen sun. I ran on, slowly coming back into my body, and relieved to reach Blackburn Ravine intact. Steep and winding, I walked up out of it, sucking on a sachet of baby food (Pro Tip: the ones with bananas usually contain the most carbs). Whether it was the grub or merely the passage of time, I topped out the ravine and ran on toward the saddle between the C’berg and V’berg with some renewed energy.

Anyone who has gone up the Vlakkenberg from the south knows that it’s a naggingly unrelenting climb, with ‘steps’ high enough to stretch your legs uncomfortably and yet too low to justify stopping regularly for a breather and a moan. I just bent* to the task of going up it without stopping. Cue another, caffeine free this time, 160 gel.

*Side note: I say bent, but bending was the last thing I was trying to do. YouTube tutorials from a gaggle of trail veterans all agree that bending at the waist (ascending or descending) is inviting disaster. Ascending, it restricts your breathing and throws your weight too far forward, resulting in added strain on the quads and calves, muscles you’re going to need when descending. Whichever way you’re going, maintaining an upright stance with only enough forward lean to engage gravity seems to be the ticket. It makes your butt and hamstrings share the load, apparently. If you disagree, by all means tell me in the comments below. I won’t read it, but you’ll feel better for venting.

Back on the trail, I came to the top of the V’berg in reasonable shape, only to be confronted by the horrific sight of the distant, yet still vast, wall of Table Mountain’s highest reaches jutting into a long grey cloud in an otherwise blue sky. As it rose, my heart sank. The right hand end of that very wall is exactly where we were all headed.

It was around then, as I dragged my heart back up out of my Saucony Xodus Ultras, that I became aware the mountain had been playing with my emotions like a cat with a mouse. I realised that in trail running managing your emotional state is as important as the quality of your training and aerobic capacity, or at least it is for me. My mind had been following the same rollercoaster profile as the route, almost perfectly parallel in its peaks and troughs with the physical terrain. The resultant mental stress was sapping my willpower and confusing my thinking. I resolved to do better and strive to maintain a more stable state of mind, knowing that I would need it to be at its best many times before the day was over.

I took a deep breath and a moment to appreciate the magnificent views all about me before descending to the Nek as fast as I could (a huge ‘thank you’ to whoever cleared that path not too long before). However, there’s a limit to how fast one can run down that track, especially when faced with hordes of tourists coming the other way. Most were very kind and wisely made way for a fast-falling fool with his face screwed into a rictus of concentration.

Dropping into the aid station at Beau Constantia, I looked out for my trusty wife who was sure to be cheering me in. I should have been more sure she’d have been looking at her phone instead, poking it impatiently with a stiff finger, as she tried to Follow Her Friend. I forgave her, mainly because I needed the fuel and socks she was carrying. Divesting myself of the detritus of my trip so far (goodbye sandy socks, goodbye torch, goodbye icky, sticky gel packets), I chowed more baby food and swallowed some coke and water. I’d come 33km, but there were still 19km to go, over half of it straight uphill and much higher than I’d climbed heretofore.

So far, I’d seen none of my fellow Fish Hoek AC (FHAC) runners since the race began, but who should I spy with my little eye while I was struggling with my socks but one Quinton F of this parish. I won’t deny that I felt a little jolt of competitive spirit at the sight of his sweaty grin.

I’ll be honest, I had been wondering which of my FHAC fellows were ahead and which behind of me, and where we may all be in the race pecking order. And now here was Q, unbearably cheerful and full of beans – presumably Jack’s, because he’s built like a beanstalk.

We were, from that moment, deadly rivals. OK, that may be over-egging it a tad, but at any rate he got me moving and you’ve suddenly perked up too, eh, dear readers? Anyway, if I’d sat there any longer, I’d never have got off my dusty ass again. I’d probably still be there today, wine tasting and dribbling out of the corner of my mouth.

Dumping my current wife with a kiss to the cheek (I know what you’re thinking, ladies – yes, she is a lucky girl), I hied myself off up the road, over the traffic circle and onto the northbound jeep track. In just a few hundred metres, I turned left, pulled up my big boy pants and began mounting Tafelberg from the rear with about as much enthusiasm as Frodo and Sam assaying the Pass of Cirith Ungol en route to Mordor (IFYYK).

Only 20-ish minutes into the climb, The Hammer of The Trail Gods fell for the third and last time. Nothing dramatic, no earth shattering calamity or murderous misstep befell me, just a gradual leeching of seemingly all the strength in my body. My legs were not even especially sore. It dawned on me that I was simply exhausted and fed up.

I’m full of smarts, I am.

I stopped, looked back at whence I came and took stock. If ever there was a time to dig deep it was now. I just wasn’t sure there was anything left in me worth the digging. Coming up the steps toward me was Q’s shirt of vivid green. He had me in his sights and there was nothing I could do about it. I turned and began climbing again. Slowly. Concentrating on maintaining my form and telling myself it was just a matter of keeping on keeping on. Don’t stop, no matter how slowly you’re going, and above all don’t push the pace beyond what feels reasonable, I told myself. I was learning on the job, see?

Quinton drew up alongside. You go for it, I said. I’m bushed. And off he went, me thinking uncharitably that with legs that long he was probably covering twice the ground with half the effort. A lengthy trail race will test your amiability, people.

I pulled myself together as best I could, cheered somewhat by reaching the end of the first set of steps, and crossed the concrete road onto the second, and longer, set. I resolved anew to focus purely on what was in front me, knowing now that to allow the mountain to beguile me into fantasy thinking would surely wear me down quickly and leave me burned out on the trail, a-waiting the Grim Sweeper. No thinking ahead to the fearsome 9km-ish climb to McClear’s Beacon, the highest point on the course, and above all no fantasising about issuing from Platteklip Gorge trailing clouds of glory and then covering the road to Signal Hill in seven-league boots.

I was determined to keep going, if only to stop my future long-suffering readers from falling by the wayside (you’ve made it this far – don’t let yourself down by quitting now, children).

A Vooma 100 gel went the way of its predecessors somewhere along the climb. I needed all the assistance I could get. Interminable as the steps were – I say steps but of course they’re not uniform city steps but ones hewn from the mountainside: of differing sizes, depths and surfaces; just fun, fun, fun, don’t you know – but they did come to an end and I was never so glad to see even a mind bogglingly steep concrete road in my life. I trudged up it until the elevation evened out a bit and tried a bit of jogging. I was surprised to find my legs still worked, my breathing was even and that I could still run a bit without falling over.

Wow! Who knew that it’s best to pace yourself in a race? I must share this insight with everyone, I thought, generously.

From then on, I walked up anything steeper than a kitten heel and jogged or ran everything else.

My field of view now revealed just a few of us; maybe 9 or 10 souls all told, sometimes bunched as we tackled a nasty jumble of rocks, sometimes spread out loosely when the going allowed and as each person’s energy levels ebbed and flowed. Mostly, I brought up the rear. I was thinking that from above we may have a looked a bit like The Fellowship of The Ring straggling along to Rohan, which made me chuckle until I realised I would probably have been taken for Gollum, scrambling along behind, hanging onto my Refuel bottle and muttering about how it was my Preciousss, yesss it wasss, and never mind some golden bauble. So I gave up that line of thought pretty darn quickly – especially as The Fellowship was currently being led by an iridescent praying mantis named Q, eating up the landscape with seeming ease and giving my beady eye something to focus on.

I ruminated, briefly, on that filament of colourful beads that was the field earlier in the day and wondered where the rest were now. Whether in front or behind, we were no longer a string of bobbing beads but rather an unstrung scattering of them strewn across the mountains – scatterlings of Africa, if you like (and I do – some swine is going to pay me big bucks for these pearls one day).

I’ll draw a veil over the path to McClear’s Beacon except to say that, while it tried and tested both sinew and muscle right sorely, my spirits lifted the closer we got, especially when I began to hear the chatter and cheers of the valiant heroes manning the aid station in the cloud. Incidentally the only bit of cloud I could remember all day, and very welcome it was too – cooling and whatnot.

I high-fived when I arrived, but truthfully I lingered not.

I popped another Vooma 160, avec caffeine, knowing I’d need the energy for descending Platteklip, not to mention the 1 to 2kms lying between me and it. This was my kinda terrain at last. Fairly flat overall, though always falling away from me. Low, rounded rocky outcrops rose out of a watery marsh-like landscape. What a pleasure! I took off like a gem of a bok, bounding from stone to stone, spurning the mountain’s gnarly grasp with every leap.

Or I broke into a manic shuffle. It depends on who’s telling the story. Thankfully, it’s me.

Someone who could tell you the truth was my old friend Q, who I tore past with some small measure of satisfaction. Probably counting all his legs and sorting one from the other, I thought. I sped on, thanking Heaven for (literally) small mercies like my legs, of which I barely have two, so I always know where each one is and can waste zero time getting them moving.

I threw myself down the giant stones of Platteklip Gorge as fast as I could, which is to say, slowly. But faster than most, on account of my low centre of gravity and matching IQ. Tourists began to appear, toiling upward. Again, most were kind – and smart – enough to make way for the gibbering idiot plunging toward them. Because by now I was in a very good mood indeed. Barring accidents (which apparently I was doing my level best to make happen), I knew I could finish this race. The epiphany I had on the summit of the V’berg-  that the very mountains themselves were messing with the meagre contents of my skull, that deep breath I took on the steps at Constantia Nek and the decision I made there to calm down and take it one step at a time – all led me to conserve energy in both body and mind, and it was paying off now.

I’m not saying I achieved a Buddha-like state at this point, but maybe somewhat Buddha-adjacent. Buddha Lite, perhaps. Hmmm … but you can call me Bud?

I tell you, one day they’ll mention me in the same breath as Oscar Wilde. Bad breath, most likely.

I made Tafelberg Road without incident and loped as smoothly as I could down to Kloof Nek. From the traffic circle I walked the steepest bit of the gradient and then started running, determined not to lose unnecessary time now the end was in metaphorical sight. I’m proud that I never allowed my form to collapse the live-long day and I kept it going up that hill, so I did. Head above shoulders above hips; lift the knees; keep the angle between feet and legs; land underneath your centre of gravity and Bob is your bleedin’ uncle, mate.

I have no idea if I did all that or not, but I’ve said it before (and knowing you, you’ll say it again, sez you) and I’ll say it again (there I go), it’s my story and I’m sticking to it like s. to a b.

Once past the last water table on Signal Hill and down onto the jeep track en route to Green Point, it was all over bar the shouting. And I’m afraid there was a lot of shouting. That malignant, shale-bedecked slope ‘twixt the hill and the tree line above Merriman Road represents a nasty little twist in the trail and invites a full body roasting should your ass perform a parabola over your tip. My didn’t, not for want of trying, but I let the Universe know What I Thought About It.

I didn’t shout again. I just swore loudly at the very air itself as, alone and with no one’s lead to follow, I misread my watch and wasted precious time dithering in the narrow streets between me and Green Point Main Road. When eventually I hit the road I had to wait for traffic to pass before I could unleash what energy I had left (not much, admittedly) and race around Hamilton’s Rugby Club to the Finish at the Salesian Football Club.

Drunk on relief, I sprinted the last fifty metres. For my fans.

Soon after, young Q arrived and we shared a happy hug. Or we collapsed in a heap and he expropriated my free beer and guzzled it. The details are hazy. We lingered, chewing pizza and waffling with our friends until the sun went down and the beer ran out.

It was a fun end to a great day, rendered even more fun for me when I won a Free Pair of On shoes and some other goodies from race sponsor, On Running. Now I’ll finally find out what they’re going On about. (Cheap joke. No charge.)

I cannot end without thanking the FHACing crew who organised, staged and made PUFfeR 2025 such a success: Brett Eaton, Andre Strydom, Veronique Rossouw, Leanne Mitchell, Jacky Clarke, James Gaylard, Ty Cooper, Gary Britz, Mike Jennings, et al. Great job, team! Now, where do I send my invoice?

Finally, thank you for your company, dear reader. Sadly (not for you, I suspect), I must sign off now, as nurse is doing her rounds and it’ll be Lights Out soon. My fever dream is over.

For this year.