My First Marathon

I had just crossed the half way mark. I felt strong with all vital signs in check. At the presiding rate, I anticipated to traverse the finish line in double quick time. It would be a wonderful effort. Proudly I started to celebrate my achievement. I could see the finish line. I was participating in my first Full Marathon category in Goa’s premier marathon. I needed to cover a distance of 42 kms and was determined to complete the race.

It had been 2 years since I took up running. A reluctant runner at first, I soon warmed up to this routine. I had already participated in a few minuscule runs such as 5 kms and 10 kms. I alleviated to half marathon of 21 kms. The transition from 5kms to 10kms was pretty easy, while it took some exertion to move to 21 kms. With confidence I decided to complete at least 1 Full Marathon. It was the hardest evolution and took courage just to make the decision to transit to 42kms. Preparations began in earnest at least 20 weeks prior to race day. The race was scheduled in 2nd week of December. I gifted myself a pair of brand-new shoes few weeks prior to the Marathon.

Every dawn, even before the sun peeped from the clouds, I would push and kick myself to wake up and run. Getting up from the bed is the most challenging part of the routine. Sometimes, I would berate myself for taking the decision to run a Full Marathon. While everyone slept blissfully, here I was punishing my body, deprived of morning sleep and making it do ungodly activities. All this for no apparent reason but to see the Marathon finish line. I could not find a single good reason for pushing myself so hard. My wife would laugh heartily at my predicament. Even with all the dilemma, I pushed, as determined I was to complete the marathon.

While rest of the days were routine with 30 – 40 mins runs, Sundays were booked for longer runs. The aim was to run for 3 – 4 hours at a stretch. Theory goes, more time spent on the road, is good for the race preparation. Whoever came up with that theory, must have seen the funny side of it. Needless to say, after runs, a sumptuous meal beckoned and was quickly followed by afternoon siesta. This would kill any Sunday family time out. Wife would curse and disparage for not giving enough time to the family. I would brush the protest nonchalantly saying she would never understand. While, in truth, it was me who could not understand why I was doing this.

As the D-day inched closer, the excitement and nervousness were palpable. On one side, I was openly advertising myself with sky-high confidence to my friends, colleagues and family of participating in the marathon; while on the other side I was feeling nervous. What if I turn sick on the penultimate day? What if I injure while running and not able to cross the finish line? What if, I wake up late on race day itself? What if my preparation is not enough? The What If possibilities were encumbering the brain so much so that my professional life started to retreat. I would barely concentrate in meetings, most often lost in thoughts about the marathon. I would stretch my body anywhere and everywhere. Once I was caught stretching myself at the billing counter at a supermarket. The lady at the counter sniggered, while the gentleman standing behind me, barely contained his laughter. The finger nails got shorter as the days passed by.

And finally, the penultimate day arrived. I had decided to rest the body for 1 week and keep the legs fresh. Ahh, Funda by running experts! It only dented my poise as I felt I had forgotten how to run. Did not help in calming the nerves one bit. To say, I was physically in office and mentally at the race track would be the apt way of how my day went at the office. All the colleagues cheered and wished me luck. Sure, I was feeling like a soldier marching on a mission. My chest fluffed by few inches with all the attention.

The night prior to the race day, was a nightmare. I only had curd rice for dinner, for dread of not wanting to upset my stomach. I was barely speaking to my wife and kid. My wife chastised and threatened to switch off the alarm if I acted any more weirdly. I put all the running clothes with bibs in order along with socks and shoes. I needed to wake up at 3:00 am and leave home by 3.30 am. I ensured there were at least 6 alarms at 15 minutes intervals. The transit time to race venue was 45 minutes. The race was deemed to start at 4.30 am. To ensure I would not miss any alarms, I also set my wife’s mobile alarm. If I forgot to switch it off, she would surely slay me. I went to bed as early as 10:00 pm. A good night’s sleep was the need of the hour. I was looking forward to the big day, but equally terrified as the hours closed in.

While the alarm was set at 3:00 am, I imperceptibly woke up at 1:00 am and then again at 2:00 am. Each time I would glance the mobile clock and chide myself for waking up tad early. Eventually when sleep seemed futile, I finally woke up at 2:30 am. I was as fresh as a blooming flower, the tension profound. It was like attending the first job interview. Butterflies in my stomach were having a field day. After completing my ablutions, I stretched and re-stretched all my joints and muscles. After dilly-dallying for some time, it was time to leave. Wife with groggy eyes, wished me luck.

At the race venue, it was a festive atmosphere. Plenty of runners had already reached. There was still 30 minutes before the start of the race. Looking at other runners, who were laughing and chit-chatting, I felt bit relaxed. The runners were chilled about running the Marathon. Hi-fives and best wishes were being shared around graciously. I joined a group who were doing stretches and this set me in good rhythm. The music blared at the stage, with a lead dancer encouraging the crowd to follow her Zumba moves. My confidence started to gather storm. There were runners of all ages. College students to 60-year-olds. The large number of ladies participating in Full Marathon was encouraging. Hats off to the ladies for adding the marathon feather to their highly responsible caps.

The race began at 4.30 am. Elite runners started from the front so that they had a clear path and could set the tone for the marathon. It was still pretty dark, although the race track was well lit.

I decided to run my own race at my comfortable pace. This was going to be an ultra-long run. During practice runs, I had run maximum of 32 kms at a stretch. The idea was to always run your best and max on race day itself, never crossing the threshold during practice. Large number of volunteers cheered at the start from the road side. At every 2 kms, there would be water stations and at 4 km intervals, there would refreshments in the form of fruits, jaggery and biscuits. Electral were also offered for good measure. At least 300 – 350 runners participated in the Full Marathon.

The route in itself is one of the most scenic and breathtakingly refreshing. The race path winds along the picturesque Zuari river. Along the way, we pass across an island as well as number of massive ancient Portuguese houses. The route is a loop of 21kms each, which needs to be repeated the 2nd time around, all along the river.

My first 10 kms were pretty flawless. I covered the distance in 1 hour and 10 mins. Although no specific target in mind, I would be ecstatic if I could complete the Full Marathon in 5 hours and 30 mins. With few mini breaks in between to sip fluids and re-energize myself, I completed the half way stage in 2 hours and 20 mins. This was perfectly set up, exactly where I planned to be. All vital signs were in check. I was feeling good about myself, as if I had already completed the race. To throw caution to the wind, I even decided to quicken my pace in the last 5 kms. I was aiming for a grand stand finish. My wife and colleagues had promised to be present at the finish line to cheer me. I would romp home like a star. Marathon seemed like a piece of cake. They should increase the distance to 50kms, I thought loudly.

They always say, be careful what you wish for. At the 25th km mark, I felt a slight niggle at my ankle. The runner in me characteristically threw down the gauntlet and marched on. The niggle would take care of itself, I had work to do, distance to cover. Within the next kilometer, the foot started to irritate. Without heeding to the signs, I continued forward, carefully addressing my cadence. I was certain the irritation would fade away. At the next kilometer, the foot irritation had turned from mild to thoughtful. This now started to affect me a little. I was still trying to egg myself to continue. The niggles would go away, I assured myself once again.

At the 30th kilometer, all hell broke loose. The foot was now shooting pain signals to my brain. The ankle niggle had revered its ugly head once again. I decided to stop and inspect the foot. On removing my shoes, what I saw, nearly split me into tears. A blister, the size of a marble had formed at lower part of my right feet. This was a first. I was perplexed. I would walk for some time and then start running. I put my socks and shoes back. Walking provided instant relief. I walked for 10 minutes, but walking would not cover the distance. I decided to run. Initial few meters went well, the blister appeared settled. Hope sprouted a tiny shoot in my mind. I would eventually come out unscathed.

Alas, barely 500 mtrs later, the pain reared again. This time with searing intensity. I could barely put a foot ahead. I walked immediately. To my horror, even walking now was a herculean task. I sat in the middle of the road. The volunteers came rushing out from their water stations to inquire about my health. I smiled and assured them; I was only resting. They handed over a cup of water and piece of banana. I was grateful.

I removed my shoes. The blister size had grown 2 folds. It then occurred to me. These were brand-new shoes which I had purchased only a couple of weeks before the Marathon. I had run just a few kilometers with them. My feet were not used to the shoes and vice-versa. They cut into my feet. Along with the socks and the sweaty feet, the product was a gawking blister. Time was running. There was decision to make.

I could quit at this juncture, go home, rest my feet for a couple of weeks, train better and participate in the next Marathon. Else, I could continue with the pain. I was abjectly disappointed. All the hours spent training under the sun; all the effort taken to wake up every morning had boiled down to this scenario. This was catastrophic. The emotional roller coaster was playing ugly scenarios in my mind. I would become the laughing stock amongst my peers. My wife would be pained to see me fail. I looked forlornly across the river and the world seemed to be hammering me under its weight.

There was no way I could wear the shoes and continue. The blister would only exaggerate. I had to run without the shoes. It was time to regroup. I gave a small pep talk to myself. Quitting was not an option. I did not train all this while, to simply give up. I did not sacrifice my family time to just walk home without the finishers’ medal. It was time to cash in. I would complete the race no matter the circumstance. I got up, dusted myself, picked my shoes and started to walk. The socks would stay on for now.

After walking for 20 minutes, I decided to test myself. This would be the ultimate test, the make-or-break time. If it hurt there was no point continuing, I would listen to my body. So, with my shoes in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, I marched. Now, I did feel like a soldier on a mission. As I started running, surprisingly there was mild pain. I quickened my steps. I had lost plenty of time during the period, probably more than 1 hour. To hell with time, my only aim now was to finish the race in one piece and with limited injury, if possible.

I might have looked funny to the volunteers and passerby, as I was literally wearing the shoes on my hand, instead of my feet. I could barely register their laughs. I totally engrossed myself in concentrating on the race and my body. With each passing step; with every passing minute, I was getting better, feeling more like a runner again.

It was difficult running in socks. It felt bare feet. The strategy changed to running for 15 minutes and then walking the next 5 minutes and then run for another 15 minutes. This way, I saved my feet from continuous barrage of rigorous stomping, while giving enough rest to the body to get used to running without the shoes. After about 5 kms, the socks started to tear away. I eventually got rid of the socks and sustained running bare feet.

With bear feet, every cobble on the road felt like a boulder. Every step felt like stepping on thorns. The Sun was out in its complete glory. The heated tar made matters worse for the tiring feet. Fatigue had now started to set in. I had never been on the road for such a long period of time. It was no longer the blister that were bothering, but the legs were screaming to stop. The sign showed, 5 kms to go. The message read..Don’t stop now. I was not going to stop. The legs would be taken care after the race.

I lumbered. I was already on the road for over 6 hours now. The sun was beating down like a wrestler. I could already see a few cuts and bruises on the naked feet. I had never run bare feet in the past 2 years. Here I was participating in my 1st Full Marathon and running bare feet for the past 10 kms. The feet looked sore and few specks of blood were making their presence felt. The pain was searing across the body. I willed to ignore every bit of pain and pushed myself. Finish line could not come any sooner. The volunteers looking at my plight, cheered voraciously. This only fueled my determination.

The sign read, 2 kms to go. Then I hit a road bump, literally. The path was through a steep ascent, which need to overcome. As I crossed the base of the hill and took on the ascent, the legs literally balked. I stopped running and walked. I would complete the ascent and run again as soon as I reached the flat roads. I was completely overwhelmed by fatigue. The world seemed to be spinning around me. Giddiness took over. I held myself from falling over. Quickly, threw water over my head and swallowed a piece of chocolate. This brought instant relief. I balanced myself and continued walking. The cuts and bruises had opened into wounds.

Eventually, I meandered into the final kilometer. The sing board revitalized me. Boy, the energy was refreshing. I quickened my stride and picked up the pace. I would go for a grand stand finish. At 500 mtrs to go, I could see the finish line in sight. Thrilled, I ran even faster now. As the finish line neared, I looked around to see my wife and friends still waiting and cheering. Few of the participants were also egging me on. I flayed my arms across as I crossed the finish line with shoes in hand. My legs gave away and I collapsed. This was a momentous achievement. I was ultra-proud of myself. I crossed the finish line in 6 hours and 30 minutes and possibly the last man standing.

The finisher’s medal was heavy around the neck, but it never felt more deserving. I had to be carried to the medical camp to nurse my injuries. The feet were bloodied and bruised. It would take a few weeks to heal. Nevertheless, I soaked in the applause and cheers all around. Probably felt as if I had won the race.

My wife hugged me tightly and my son played with my medal. The halo around my head would take few weeks to die down. I was feeling upbeat about my marathon experience. The injury would take about 2 – 3 weeks to heal. I would be back again to the running circuit with gusto. But for now, the champagne on ice deserved to be uncorked, celebration time beckoned.