It’s the Dunedin half marathon.
Here we are, all lined up, at the start line. And its all arms and legs, shoulders and elbows, knees and shins. Nervous breathing and jogging on the spot, frantic last minute gulps of sports drink. Calf stretches and hamstring strapping. Heavy sighs and nervous chatter.
On your marks
Get set
Go!
The race is jammed packed and at the start it’s all ‘jostle, jostle, jostle’. It’s a case of finding your pace, calming the nerves and settling in for the race.
For me ‘race’ is too strong a word. I don’t actually want to beat anyone here. (Not that I could. LOL) All I want is to go the distance. And going the distance, for me, will require a very long slow plod.
Although I am ready for this, the nerves are firing.
My inner coach has leapt to the fore to wave her pointy stick about. As usual, she’s giving me a lecture.
Like. . . .
“What the heck are you doing, girl??!”
“OMG - there are a thousand hills in this race.”
“You shouldn’t have had that glass of red last night.”
“You’re way too old.” “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Do you know where you’re going?”
And ‘Why didn’t you have some breakfast?!”
She is doing her usual rant but I’m just breathing in and breathing out, holding tight to my water bottle and trying to hold my nerve.
Yes, I know I should have practised hills. I know I shouldn’t have had the red wine last night. And, yes, I probably should have had breakfast. She’s right!
But what the heck?! I’m here. And it’s Sunday. And it’s sunny. And, most importantly, I’ve paid good money for this!
When the starter says ‘go!’ we go. . .
Stepping out, finding our stride.
To take my mind off the size of my challenge I try chatting to the person heavy breathing beside me. “Nice day for a run,” I say. “Yep”, she answers, puffing up the hill. “Have you done this before?” I say. “Nope,” she answers.
Not much more to say really!
The first five kms (apart from the obvious hills) are okay. And there’s a drink stop at the end, which is a good excuse to stop, blow my nose, retie the shoelaces. Unlike some runners, I quite enjoy a good excuse to stop. And there are no rules to say you can’t.
The good thing about running is that, as far as sports go, there are not too many rules and regulations. Not too much fancy equipment. All you need is a pair of legs, a pair of shoes, a stretch of road, and you’re off.
And, if you live in Kenya, you probably don’t even need the shoes.
Running is all just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. But in a little-bit-faster-than-walking kind of way. . .
The hard part is doing it for a long time.
That’s when it gets a little bit freaky.
21 kms is a long way to run and the trick is to keep the mind occupied. If you don’t give the mind something productive to do it will create its own mischief. Today I am setting my mind to work on sorting some lesson plans for my writing class next week. That should keep it busy for another km or two.
Two kms down the road and the blasted brain has struck out on its own. It’s started singing ‘LA International Airport’ to itself. What the?????
When a song gets stuck in your head like that there’s no shifting it.
At least the annoying sound track has helped pass some time.
I am 6 kms down now.
Only 15 kms to go.
10kms is my sweet spot.
At this point I am in the ‘zone’. This is where I feel like I could run forever.
Unfortunately. . . ‘forever’ is a very short time in a half marathon. And by the 12 kms mark things have turned a tad sour. One foot in front of the other has become a very tedious load of hard monotonous work.
I distract myself with some people watching.
I notice that at the 12 km mark the smile has gone off many faces. It’s obviously become hard yakka.
The next five kms pass in a dull ploddy blur.
16kms is when things get really tough. For me this is the hardest point. This is when I am seriously doubting myself and feeling decidedly weary.
I slug down some water. Suck on an old soggy jetplane I found in a pocket.
I try to ignore the chaffing of my bra strap, the underwire that is poking out, the calf that is hurting, the nose that is running. No, I can’t ignore the running nose. I can’t ignore the loosening showlace either. Bugger! Suddenly I am feeling full of irritation. (It’s like PMT, only more acute. . . Probably due to a sugar depletion) Then I run head first into a road cone and almost come to grief.
Steady on, says the inner coach.
I look with envy at those ahead of me and try to think good thoughts about the scenery and the lunch I will shout myself if I make it through the final 4 kms.
All I can do is focus on the job ahead. One step at a time. One long slow plod to the finish. There are no short cuts in this game. No magic solutions.
Miraculously now there are only 3kms to go. Although each one feels excruciating I know that 3kms is do able. The end is in sight. Yay!
My inner coach steps in with some words of encouragement. . . “Keep it up, girl. Right foot, left foot., black foot, blue foot . . “
These are the hardest kms of all. Each one feels like it will never end.
“Stop dragging your feet,” shouts then inner coach. “Lift your knees. Keep your head steady.”
Whatever. . .
I actually manage to pass someone, which gives me a ridiculous buzz.
My spirits lift.
The finish line is in sight.
I can do it!
Another surge of adrenalin and I will have this sussed.
Over the line I stumble. . .
Thank God for that. . .
“Well done”, says the inner coach.
“Thank you”, I say, hoping for a pat on the back.
“But don’t get too carried away, now”, says she.. . .
“In less than six weeks time you will be attempting to run twice that distance!”
Aaaarrgggghhh!
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