Also ran - Part I

As I sneaked up to my desk this morning, I found an A4 sized envelope from Standard Chartered Bank propped against my keyboard. My name was written across the front, by hand. As I picked it up, I knew that it was not a response to my credit card application; they had already rejected it. The banking institutions have finally become financially responsible, deftly eschewing bad credit. Starting with my application. But I digress. As I held the envelope in my hands, it struck me that it was the certificate for...well, read on.

Late last year, I had signed up, in what may well be a moment of indiscretion, for the Singapore marathon. Okay, the 10K segment. Go ahead. I'll wait till you stop laughing and slapping your knees, at the hilarity of it. (Whistles, drums fingers, tapping the shoes) Welcome back.

I don't run for sport. Period. My athletic pursuits, over the past few years, have never gone beyond clambering down a set of stairs, at what can best be termed as a purposeful trot, to get on to a bus or a train. Or perhaps quickening the pace of the 20 minute walk to work to be able to make it in time for a meeting. Nothing more. Why run when you can walk? Now, before you picture an obese, unshaven couch potato with food crumbs all over with a TV remote in one hand and a family size chips packet on the other, I must assure that I'm anything but. Except for the unshaven look, that is. Allow me to explain. I used to play competitive cricket and clock some time in the gym on a weekly basis. Those were the grad school years. These days, I walk to and from work daily, I'm in serious discussions with my colleagues about starting to play cricket on the weekends and often think, very seriously, about helping my wife with household chores. Professional compulsions is my excuse for tapering down the exertions and I'm running with it.

So, by the strictest definition of the term, I was not a long distance runner and my sense of entering uncharted waters wasn't entirely misplaced when I submitted my name with a mix of optimism and peer pressure in equal parts. Clouded by visions of tearing through the finishing tape, with raining confetti, flashing cameras, cheering crowds, (and while you are at it, throw in some operatic music as well), I had let my heart unseat my reasonably functional brain at a critical moment. The marathon, or any portion of it, was clearly outisde the sphere of my physical abilities. In my mind, I'm still that 'no-distance-too-far' energetic guy, brimming with verve and vigor, running that first run in cricket fast, pouncing on that running ball or at least coming up with a close enough impression of it, and coming steaming in over after over to hurl leather at a frightening 95kmph. The past few years may have eroded the physical abilities but has done nothing to dent the fondness my mind bore towards those days.

In the days leading up to the event, I behaved as if I had signed up for some book reading club. No, I did not work through thick tomes if that is what you thought I did. I just went about my usual routine with absolutely no physical preparations towards the approaching event. With a book club, you at least have options to cover up your lack of time (lazinenss): listen to the book on tape, watch the movie adaptation (Salute to George L. Costanza) or get a brain dump from someone that has read the book. The marathon, come to think of it, however offers no place to hide. Sign up, practice and perform. As complex as that.

Talk in the office, meantime, centered around individual goals of improved distances or bettering personal times. The ignominy of not being able to complete the race, a realistic possibility, loomed larger than the race itself. The management had arranged for a couple of sessions from professional athletes/coaches on running best practices which I had missed as I was away on travel. Left to my own devices, I decided to buckle up and rough it out.

Even just a fair grip of common sense dictates that a bit of practice couldn't hurt my chances of, if it came down to it, crawling on all fours past the finish line. So when my wife announced, on a sunny Sunday morning, a couple of weeks ahead of the marathon, that we had run out of milk and a few other items, I put on a cap, slipped into my shoes and did the unthinkable: run to the farthest of the two nearby supermarkets and procure the essentials. At about the half way mark, because of utmost bodily discomfort, I gave up and walked.

This practice run served no purpose beyond stirring up a hornet's nest that my body was. Muscles, ones that I didn't even know existed, revolted against this abuse that was let loose on them without notice. Accustomed only to the care and love of the preceding years, the muscles, very badly surprised, struck work, leaving me with a funny gait for a few days. A normal person could have been intimidated by the side effects that I underwent. But I pressed ahead, spurred by only one thought: pulling out entailed a hefty fine if I didn't possess a visible infirmity. Jokes apart, that practise run, even if thwarted mid-way, stripped me of any pride and dispelled any notions of glory. Instead, it stoked the instincts of self preservation and survival at which I don't suck as much. My expectations from the race were now: avoid the fine, stay alive, finish the race on my legs, as opposed to getting wheeled in on a gurney and forget about clocking a decent time. In that order. I was prepared to complete it the next day if it came to that. As someone once said, participation, and not winning, matters.

The only section that I faithfully followed on the preparation guide that came with the running kit was "Preparations on the day before". It had mentioned enough rest and nutritious food, both of which I partook in ample quantities. I woke up particularly late and breakfasted at around 11:00. After some lounging around (remember, plenty of rest on the day before...) had lunch at 4 pm (Yes, 1600 hrs). I then watched Pulp fiction on DVD and went out for a stroll in the evening, rounding off the day with a late but sumptuous dinner (remember, nutritious food...). And as a result of the schedule, I couldn't fall asleep until 2am. Or 5 hrs before the starting shot was fired.