‘Not all those who wander are lost’ Baggins
So, let it be known at the outset that I am not a runner, I am more like a running joke! Running in autumnal chill of 3 degrees is cruel and painful enough but running with a tyrant for company is next level torture. Weeks after weeks, I would dread the ‘Runna’ scheduler, the dark cold evening runs when the family would be sipping hot steaming tea wrapped up in a cosy blanket while I would be tying my laces with a scowl on my face. I have asked myself the same question that is on your mind now too, why? Damn, why? And the answer has always been ’cause I can 🙂 First few kms are a torture and you want to stop asap. But then all voices in your head fade away and you just glide on in a perennially meditative state, on and on……
So here I was running, training…I was trying to run from the demons in my mind, to feel happy and grateful to be able to do it. The only serious opponent I had was ME, the only person I had to beat was ME. The person I was yesterday, last week, last month. Unlike those who were incapacitated by physical and mental shackles, who would carry on their own personal struggles unheard and unseen, I would probably end up shattered to the core physically but reinventing myself as Superman with a jug of Guinness in my hand expecting the measly humans to prostate before me.
And we signed up for the Valencia Marathon. We had to, we were marathoners, right! We knew the system, the drill, the schedule. We would be happy and empowered. We would eat (overeat) those damn carbs. My plans disappeared at the sight of the weather the first week itself but having a tyrant as a training partner meant that no excuses were heard. I tried shutting off my phone, he would be at my door. I tried faking illness, got running pneumonia ( that only occurs while running), I fought and threw tantrums but still got out ( dragged out) of the door. Training was in earnest, went off piste a few times but got back on track eventually. For me, it was not training, it was what we did day after day, a habit, a moment of reflection.
Valencia turned out to be one of the prettiest cities. The marathon crowd was a couple of decades younger and I felt like the mum who had accompanied the prodigy to collect the bib at the expo. No one noticed though. Raceday started with excitement. We were in the last coral, being the slowest group. You look around expecting to see Batman and Captain America, but maybe they were in the first coral. Here it was all normal, the lululemon clad aunty, the tech freak, the sweaty potbellied guy, hmmm we will surely outpace them! Confidence was at its peak. And soon we started.
PAce yourself, Smita, its okay, you can do it……Supporters cheered and I was happy, in my zone. A few miles down and soon the supporters thinned out. Being a fast paced race, they obviously migrated to their loved ones leaving us in the company of the regular Joe on the street. The regular Joe was not interested in cheering or even glancing at the Superman that I was….oh, hey, there were still some kids cheering and waving! One of them had a sweet in hand and I was not hallucinating.
The halfway mark came up and I was still going steady. But there was a definite decrease in my effort and enthusiasm. The time when I needed supporters, there were none. Instead the course was nearly empty, about to be packed up.
Volunteers waited with a few remaining bottles of water. there was no food, no snacks, no fruits. The roads were on the verge of opening up and soon I realised that starting in the last coral was a big big mistake.But I had to continue…. a few sympathetic faces clapped tentatively. A French man from Toulouse asked me for directions to the finish line and I continued with him for a while.
20 miles done, 6 to go, its only 10km. My lungs hurt. And my feet. And my legs. And my sides. Why did I do this?! I traced and retraced my running routes back home. I thought of those who wanted me to run. I ran a mile and sat down to breathe. I video-called home to cry into the kind loving faces of my family. I was done, shattered but I couldn’t stop. I had promised my kids that I would do it. I had promised Ram that I would run past the struggles in life and prove that we can do it. I tumbled along, the last 3 miles to go. How do I finish so I can post a good Instagram post, I must finish. Ah, the pressures of social media, even while dying……Yamraj khade the aage lekin hamein fikr thi hamare looks ki!!
The route reopened to the crowds, it was only a mile to go, I found myself on the pavement with walkers, prams, bikes. I was no longer the elite marathoner with a dedicated path to myself. I felt pity for myself when I had to wait at the traffic signal to cross the 2 bridges ( funny in retrospect) but that was till I reached the deserted stadium. What if my breath gave out like right before the finish line and someone got a photo of me dying before I even finish the race? That would be SO embarrassing.I couldnt believe I haven’t puked yet . . . this is kind of amazing. MY BODY IS INCREDIBLE.
The first sight of the stadium course and I was actually running at a pace that propelled me through onto the blue tarmac of the race. Last 500 meters was a blur. The finish line swayed ahead, my eyes blurring with tears and disbelief that I had actually reached the finish line.
A random woman screamed my name out from a distance, a fellow runner enveloped me in a tight hug and cried, it was her first marathon. A man with kind eyes stood with the shiny piece of metal that I had worked so hard for, the metal that I grabbed in a Gollumesque style…. ‘We wants it, we needs it, My Preciouss’.
Stumbled a few steps forward and saw Subhash, waiting as patiently as ever, with a smile on his face that said it all. That medal didn’t leave my neck for the next 48 hours. A painful proud reminder that I didn’t give up and that I will never give up.
Ah okay okay, this is all very Bollywood, you’d say……but in the end, I am not mythologising my race. I know that I was one of the last few hobbits down the course. There are the gazelles in their 20s and 30s, the stronger ones too in their 50s, the team pushing kids affected by MS in pushchairs, the guy who ran even faster than me with a pineapple on his head ( and he is in his 70s). There were no supporters after 18 miles, when you needed them the most but this was a marathon for the gazelles and not the tortoises like me, but the tortoise did reach the finish.The tortoise did clock 26.2, that magic sweet number 26.2 miles that metamorphosed it into a superpower.
A half dead, limping, bedraggled superpower but one nonetheless.
So what next, the friendly bellboy asked? No more, She said with a flourish, no more….THE FAMOUS LAST WORDS!
To my Kids with Love 