“You are still sick”, my Mom said. “You shouldn’t run this marathon.”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I said. “I won’t die, and, besides, they have ambulances stationed there”.
How right my Mom turned out to be as usual. During the race, I berated myself, “why didn’t I listen to Mom???”
Five weeks before the marathon, I had cough and cold, followed by a fever. Just when I thought I was starting to recover, the cold and fever returned with interest. I had the cough throughout.
So I did not run at all till the marathon itself. During the last week before the race, all I did was some stair climbing. After climbing my apartment building of 22 storeys, I began to cough and then felt like vomiting. I shook off this unpleasant sensation, took the lift (or elevator) down, and climbed up again. I did this (22 storeys X 2) again two days later, feeling slightly better.
I still had a slight cold and cough on the day of the marathon. So for the run, I armed myself with a handkerchief for my cold, and a packet of 15 Vicks cough drops.
After running less then 2 km, I felt like vomiting. I realized I wasn’t feeling as well as I had thought just before the race. Once the running started, I felt the weakening effect of the flu. Doubts mounted in my mind. Could I finish the race? I popped another cough drop into my mouth, shook off this vomiting sensation and trudged on.
The first half of the distance, 21 km or so, were quite easy. Other than the vomiting sensation, I felt “normal”, the way I had felt in previous marathons in which I was healthy and more adequately trained.
The second half of the distance was a completely different story. My legs began to feel like lead. I was experiencing firsthand the truth of the popular saying (among runners) that the marathon and half marathon were two different animals altogether. The distance was exposing my weakness from illness and lack of training.
I was forced to walk. From then on, except for a few brief jogs, I just walked. But soon even walking became a struggle. My leg muscles became tight and tensed, constantly on the verge of cramping. The fear of cramps never left me throughout the race.
Whenever possible, I took advantage of the Deep Heat sports cream (similar to Ben Gay) available along the route. Volunteers, mostly boys and girls, squeezed the tubes, spilling cream into the eager outstretched hands of the exhausted runners.
At about the 32 km mark, I saw a teenage girl in front of me limping badly. I walked up to her and asked, “are you alright?”
“I have a knee injury”.
“Your right knee?” I noticed that she was limping more on that knee.
“Both knees…old injury.”
My natural reaction was to give the usual exhortations such as “don’t give up”. But I stopped myself. I figured that such usual exhortations might not apply in her case. Maybe she should quit. Maybe carrying on would aggravate her injury. Soon I walked ahead of her. I periodically turned back to check on her. She was still drudging along till I lost sight of her completely.
With about 2 km more, I saw a runner sitting on a grass patch beside the road. His agonized face was contorted. His face said it all – pain.
Throughout my army days, I had seen many faces of agony, but for some reason, that runner’s face stuck in my mind.
Unlike most of my previous marathons, I was very doubtful if I could even just finish the distance. In fact, right up to the last few hundred meters, I was still unsure if I could finish the race. My feeble legs felt heavier and heavier. They were going to collapse any moment. Or a single episode of cramp might render my legs useless.
With just 300 meters more to go, I saw a small group of volunteer boys and girls cheering runners. I stopped walking, turned to them, and said loudly, “I give up!”
Several puzzled faces looked at me. A girl said, “Give up?? Just a bit more to go.”
I said, “yeah, I can’t go on anymore…my legs are gone”.
Stunned silence.
So I asked, “do you know where's the bus for runners who give up…you know, the bus that takes you to The Padang?” (The Padang , a big grassy field, was the finishing point).
A boy said, “errrr….yeah, the bus is nearby…right at The Padang”, as he pointed to The Padang which was in full view before us.
I said, “good, since I have already given up, I’ll run to the bus at The Padang now…thanks for the info…”
I started to run. A shout from the boy came from behind me, “Good luck, Sir!”
Soon I saw a sign “100m more” then “75m”…“50m”…“25m”.
I saw my timing displayed on the huge electronic board: 8 hours 8 mins. My slowest marathon timing! But who cares. All I wanted was to finish this damn race. Just a few meters more.
Finally, my most agonizing marathon came to an end. I saw my relieved Mom who was waiting for me at the end point. I waved to her.
Mom, you were so right; I shouldn’t have run this marathon.
Afterthoughts
I gained a new found respect for “back of the pack” marathon runners, being one myself this marathon. I saw their struggles. I saw them stopping, as though giving up, and then starting again. I saw them leaning against trees, stretching their tired leg muscles, trying to squeeze something out of those muscles which had nothing more to give. I saw the pain in their faces. I would never forget the anguished look of the runner I have described earlier.
I also gained respect for marathon walkers. Walking wasn’t as easy as I had expected.
So I completed my 12th marathon. Hmmmm…12…that’s a dozen. Quite a nice number. And I don’t feel like running another marathon; I may have completed my last marathon. But 13 is a great number too – an unlucky number. Why not defy superstition? Maybe I’ll run just one more marathon. |
