TBR 2014 is perhaps the most memorable run I’ve had for some reasons:
Six months before the big race, my left foot started playing a painful tune. So, I thought, "Hey, let's have a doctor jam session!" Turns out, Doc told me to rest and quit my long-distance running because my ankle was hosting a uric acid party. Apparently, running would be like adding an extra beat to the pain playlist. Plus, I was given some dietary restrictions, like watching what I eat.
On November 24, 2013, life threw a big pile of sh*t at me. Emotions were stirred up, my balance was MIA, and I was on the brink of surrendering to the chaos. Doing anything seemed like a Herculean task, including the mere thought of running. So, I waved goodbye to my running routine and embraced my old pals, Mr. Cigarette and Dr. Booze. As a result, I decided to skip the TBR event in February 2014 because, let's face it, I was a hot mess physically, mentally, and emotionally.
December and January continued their cruel streak. I thought, "Hey, let's join a half marathon in January!" Well, my personal record decided to take a nosedive by a whopping 24 minutes. And to make matters worse, when I hit the 15-17km mark, my left foot started screaming, "I give up!" My mind was all like, "Come on, push through!" but my leg was having none of it. It was like my leg said, "You go on ahead, I'll catch up... eventually." I attempted to run a few more times, but it felt like someone was pricking my left leg with a needle (and I'm not talking about the typical shin splints, mind you).
In mid-January, I found myself back at the doctor's office because the pain in my legs had spread like wildfire. That checkup felt like an eternity, and every time the doc glanced at the x-ray of my foot or pressed on my calves, I couldn't help but cringe in fear. His diagnosis? I had ITBS from overusing my muscles, and he dropped a bombshell on me: no running for at least two months, or I risked permanent damage. I was devastated, and to cope with my depression, I mastered the art of lying down, reading, smoking, and sleeping (including naps and siestas). By the end of January, my weight had gone from 58kg to a bloated 64kg. There were moments when I tried waking up early to run, but after two laps around the oval, I called it quits—I was exhausted (and the pain was a constant reminder). I even attempted biking, but it only made me even lazier to run.
Then February arrived, and there were only 16 days left until the big day. Honestly, I was ready to throw in the towel. But my sister, bless her heart, kept pushing me, saying it wasn't too late to train. "Set your mind to it," she said. On February 13, I finally convinced myself to go for it. After all, this run was all about dreamers like me, and since I'm a sucker for dreams, I saw it as a chance to wake up from my slumber and escape the clutches of depression. I did a lot of soul-searching that day, realizing that giving up on this race would be like surrendering to my sadness. I couldn't allow that, especially with my kids depending on me. I had to find a way to rise up and heal from the chaos in my life. With my wife's gentle words, "Go, dadi. You can do it," and my kids urging me, "Dadi, be the first to finish, okay?" I made up my mind to go out there and run. It's hilarious how my kids see me as a super-running-dad, but that motivated me to promise myself that I wouldn't let them down this time.
With 127 seconds left before the race, I found myself praying silently. I'm not much of a prayer guy (well, let's be real, I hardly pray at all), but in that moment, I reached out to the spirits, asking for strength and guidance to conquer this challenge. The atmosphere was electric, filled with laughter from those who had dedicated six months of training to prepare for this marathon. Deep inside, doubt started to creep in. The usual confidence I felt in the final seconds before the starting gun of my previous races was nowhere to be found. Instead, all I could think was, "Will I actually finish this?" I was quiet, regretting why I hadn't trained enough. Marathons require mental preparation as much as physical readiness, and in both departments, I was utterly unprepared. The past few months had been a complete whirlwind, leaving me emotionally, mentally, and physically wrecked. I had given up on my dream and decided not to go through with it, but at the last minute, it was my sisters and their friends who encouraged me, assuring me that we could all do it. In a way, their support fueled my determination—how could I insult them by not running? So, what the heck, if they could do it, maybe, just maybe, I could too.
The people around me started counting down… I opened my phone and saw a text message from my kids wishing me endurance…
7…6…5…
Oh my Cosmic Being… This is it!
4…3…2…
It was the longest 10 seconds of my life. I was shaking and I felt that my knees can’t even keep still. Anytime now, I was about to go to a breakdown.
1…
Here we go!
BANG!
The crack of the gun reverberated through the valleys, jolting me awake from my peaceful slumber at the ungodly hour of 2 am. It was like the universe was screaming, "Stop contemplating life and start running, you lazy bum!" As I looked around, I saw a horde of people zooming past me, one by one. I was left standing there, dazed and confused, for a solid 12 seconds. The idea of actually participating hadn't quite sunk in yet, and I was as disoriented as a penguin in the Sahara. Suddenly, a fellow runner tapped me on the shoulder and flashed me a reassuring smile, saying, "Come on, kuya, we can do this!" I pondered whether I should adopt a 2:1 pace, a 5:1 ratio, or just wing it with my own pace.
The first 12 kilometers flew by without my even noticing. My body was running, but my mind was wandering off on its own whimsical adventures. I was contemplating everything from job hunting to absurd emotions, delving deep into the psycho-philosophical foundations of running and the significance of setting your mind to something. I even caught myself pondering the political implications of a battered actor living in a condo who also happened to be a marathoner. Crazy, right? Anyway, I snapped back to reality when I realized I couldn't find my precious earphones anywhere! Panicking, I searched frantically, but the road was pitch black at 3 am. Ugh! I couldn't run without my music, so I resorted to blasting my phone on speaker and kept on running. The other runners chuckled at my makeshift DJ setup, but I couldn't care less. All I knew was that heavy metal music fueled my running mojo. At the 13km mark, my throat felt drier than a desert, begging for hydration. I checked my trusty hydration belt, only to realize I had chugged all my water at the starting line, assuming I could refill it at the 6th km water station. Oops! With no water in sight, I grabbed a hydrite and desperately tried to suck the life out of it. It tasted absolutely awful, but hey, hydration was hydration. Luckily, around the 16km mark, a water station emerged like an oasis in the desert. What a relief!
The first uphill segment brought a surge of excitement. I found my rhythm and started overtaking other runners left and right. Before I knew it, I was alone on those long, dark stretches of road. Thoughts crossed my mind, like "Am I lost?" But then I'd see the race marshals pointing me in the right direction, and I'd realize I was still on track. Around the 23km mark, my left ankle began to grumble. My weary soles begged for a trail to run on, anything to escape the relentless pavement. That's when regret hit me like a ton of bricks—I should have trained for this! If only I had prepared, maybe I wouldn't be feeling this pain. As I approached the water station, I mustered the courage to ask the medics if they had any pain relievers, and they handed me some ibuprofen. Now, I knew I had a mild allergy to ibuprofen, but with that kind of pain, I was willing to risk an itchy reaction. So I popped one Alaxan FR and resumed my running escapade. Minutes later, my face started itching like crazy and turned beet red. But here's the funny part—the itch propelled me to run faster. I know, it sounds insane, but the wind caressing my face somehow distracted me from the itchiness.
I was hobbling, jogging, and practically levitating, enduring every ounce of pain. This wasn't some intellectual experiment to test my cognitive abilities, nor a foolish attempt to prove my physical prowess. No, this was me, chasing my wildest dream and pushing the limits of my heart. Sure, I had doubts along the way, and I stumbled more times than I can count, but all I could think about was crossing that finish line in the most epic way possible. I knew deep down that my heart was my secret weapon, and I was determined to unleash its power. It's almost like a metaphor for my current state of depression—finishing a kilometer (or a mind-boggling 42 kilometers!) is about taking one step at a time. I've learned that strength arises from pain and weaknesses, just as joy emerges from life's biggest tragedies.
As the sun began to rise, I could see other marathoners still making their way to the turning point, while I was already six kilometers ahead, closing in on the finish line. What fueled me in those last grueling kilometers was witnessing the sheer determination of my fellow runners. Limps, grimaces of pain, but damn, their eyes were blazing with passion and an unwavering refusal to quit. It was like watching a live spectacle of pure grit and drive. Whenever I crossed paths with other runners, they'd cheer me on, even if my running form resembled a baby giraffe learning to walk. I couldn't stride properly to save my life, but their encouragement propelled me forward, pushing me beyond my limits. We became a tribe of cheerleaders, uplifting one another, and together, we chased after our wildest dreams.
The final kilometer was pure magic. I could hear the cheers and shouts of supporters, exclaiming, "Sir, you're almost there! Sub-five hours! Go faster!" That energized me like nothing else. I mean, finishing a monstrous 42 kilometers under five hours? Who does that, especially someone like me, who foolishly signed up for a full marathon without any training? The last 500 meters felt like a euphoric dream. I summoned the remaining 4% of my strength and propelled myself toward the finish line. With eyes locked on the moon above, I prayed and thanked the Cosmic Being for granting me the necessary fortitude. The cheers, the shouts, the applause, the refreshing morning breeze, the moon's presence, and the sight of that glorious word "FINISH"—it all swirled together, sinking deep into my soul. I was a jumble of emotions: bewildered, joyful, elated, exhausted. The moment was simply indescribable.
And when I finally crossed that finish line, I couldn't contain myself. I let out a thunderous roar, a triumphant cry echoing through the heavens. Yeah, I may have used that picture as my Facebook profile, not to brag, but to remind myself that pain is an inseparable companion on the journey toward our dreams. And the greatest irony? My favorite number just so happened to be my rank among the 674 runners who conquered the race that day.
This is the time when I felt the obsolescence of past pains and past anger towards the world. This is the moment when blaming and cursing isn’t even a part of my thoughts in that almost 5 hours of running – I let all the details be blown away by the wind, and as a blur, these issues are no longer clear to me. Only the image of the word DREAM was left in me – and the realization that the chase for it is finally over. This is the moment when I have set my goal forward, and looking back will only tire me all the more.
When I applied for this race, I told the TBR management that I will run to inspire people, but I was wrong. It was the marathon that inspired me.
Thank you TBR… you made ME, and perhaps all of us, a different person from what we were before the gun start.
Comments
Post a Comment