Also ran - Part II

I woke up with a start as the alarm broke the silence of the dark morning hour. I got ready and stepped into the clothing provided, munched on some nuts and downed a cup of milk and a litre of water and stepped out looking every bit your long-distance-runner-next-door. En route, I met my colleague on the train. He had done this the year before and assured me that it was not too daunting a task. Words that helped quell the 10K demons that I was fighting.

It was a calm scene that awaited me at the esplanade theaters wherefrom the race began. The sun was just making its usual but muted appearance. The work on the integrated resorts towers in the distance had not started and the sleepy cranes stood out against the morning sky. Ms. Nature, usually grumpy around this latitude, was exceptionally kind that morning. There was a thick cloud cover that saved direct exposure to the sun. The humidity was a pleasant 170%. It was a day as good as any to participate in a marathon. A sea of humanity was moving in the general direction of the start line. An air of serenity hung, much in contrast to the fluttering life forms in my stomach.

As I surveyed the area, it was an even mix of humankind lying scattered around that met my eyes. Yes there were the ones that were lithe enough to scratch their ears with their legs. But amidst the athletically inclined were also to be noticed the rotund, the cherubic and the morbidly obese, giving me the faintest hope that I just might live through this to tell others about it. Fit or otherwise, most were engaged in the fine art of stretching out the limbs and I followed suit, giving notice to my extremities about the impending assault.

I didn't intend to run an inch more than the required 10000 metres and I threaded my way through the milling crowds to a spot that was as close to the start line. Boom! The starting shot was fired and my friend wished me good luck and took off like a scared rabbit. The assembled sea of capped heads started bobbing. For the benefit of posterity, I jumped and waved at the camera positioned at the start line and started pounding the tarmac.

For the first 20 minutes or so, the contest was even. I mean, the contest between me and the race. I was able to keep pace with the runners and stay ahead of the weak and the infirm. Although, it can be argued that it was too crowded to even fall behind. But quickly the race started to gain the upper hand steadily and I found myself losing steam. I was forced to make every pitstop and down glasses of some energy drink they were offering.

The smooth elegance of professional runners is, often times, described as poetry in motion. On that scale, mine would rank as a whooping cough in motion. It was in fits and starts that I started doing the miles. I remember choosing walking over running on many occasions, resembling a MTC bus that has stopped on Anna Salai on a Monday morning. As I braved on, I was definitely feeling heavier, as if I were dragging a ton of bricks behind. I was soaked in sweat and my legs were filling up with, what I'm sure was, concrete or something very similar.

The last stretch, however, was relatively easy. No, it wasn't the hordes of cheering spectators that spurred me on. It wasn't our company's cheering tent either that stirred me into shifting gears. My colleagues were either busy with the refreshments or simply didn't recognize me. My source of inspiration was one particular guy from work who was running just ahead of me. I'm sure he must be a devoted husband to his wife and a doting father to his kids and all that. But for some reason that defies logic, I couldn't bear the thought of the said guy, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Burns from The Simpsons but with a mop of hair, finishing ahead of me. You may call it irrational hatred, but I'll call it inspiration. The last km saw an intense contest between the two of us, about which he probably has no idea till this day. Heavy legs and all, I summoned the last ounce of reserve energy to pull ahead and managed to finish ahead of him.

There exists no photographic evidence of my finishing the race. God is indeed kind, even if only on occasions. So allow me to sum it up for you. I tottered past the finish line as a sweat soaked, tired, heavy mass drained of all energy and emotion. A biological weapon in running gear, if you will. I turned around to ensure that Mr. Burns was still behind and let out a guttural roar. It came out as a barely audible hiss. The clock said I took 80 minutes to complete the distance. Not a bad time, when viewed in context, as provided in part I.

The area around the finish line was much like a concentration camp. Emaciated men and women stood in lines leading up to many different tents. My first one was for a pain relieving balm. A smiling girl, who probably took the train to get there, would squirt a little of it on your extended palm that you proceeded to apply on your knees. Check. The other line was for some energy drink. I downed a couple of bottles. The longest line was for some pastries being handed out to get some sugar going. I proceeded to polish off a red-bean sandwich. Oh and I also picked up the only piece of hardware I've ever been awarded for physical exertions. As I write this, the medallion is occupying the place of pride in, I don't know, some closet. Or is it the second drawer in the dresser?

PS:

In the days after the race, the author (yeah, that's me) acquired a penguin gait and also sounded like a slow moving EMU, what with all the clicks emanating from the lower joints when he attempted to walk. He cited exhaustion as an excuse from any and all domestic assignments for an indecent period of time and still managed not to get kicked out of the house. Although, that says more about the lady of the house. Any weight loss from this misadventure was more than compensated for in a disproportinately short span of time. He is planning to learn from his mistakes and as a result, vows to campaign for a 5K section to be introduced for men next year. Wish him best.