The cold breeze blowing on that dark October dawn did not ease but rather induced the jitteriness I was feeling at that time. My half marathon debut is a significant upgrade not only in terms of distance but including the training for my so-called running career which began when I used to represent my small, obscure highschool alma mater in track and field meets. The moment brought back memories of my years as a sprinter against athletes from schools with established athletic programs, memories highlighted by some podium finishes after some struggles during training (lack of resources and proper facilities) and during the actual race (scraped knees and wounds after falling inches away from the finish line due to extreme exhaustion). Those are memories I treasure which would only be reenacted in my imagination now that I've grown older, heavier and way too slower.
At the starting line, I positioned myself behind the elites, athletes who non-verbally announce their presence via their outfits; short shorts, mid rib singlets wrapping their skinny frames. I surveyed the surrounding. It was a strange new world. Gone is the track oval. In its place is a road that seems to be leading to nowhere but the finish area is the exact same place where we’re all standing at that moment. I harbor no illusion of replicating my success as a competitive sprinter, let alone giving the Kenyans a run for their money (with pun intended).
The shout of the gunstart ignited the passion for speed. That sound of the gun so eerily familiar in my younger years officially signaled my return to the sport I long abandoned in favor of other pursuits in life.
It began the way I commence any race; full throttle, accelerating in top velocity. But unlike my favorite sprint event, overheating came unsurprisingly sudden. Stride became slower, breathing became harder, and the competition made me look like a beginner –which I really am, at least in this event.
The throng of local and Kenyan elites burst in unrestrained sprint like galloping equines in a horserace. The mortals were left to eat the dust but not before giving the running demigods a brief challenge at least in the first few hundred meters. After being left behind, the struggle to finish is now underway. We sprint, we jog, until the laborious trudging is taking a heavy toll on our exhausted body and soul. The lungs were challenged beyond the normal capacity to utilize oxygen. The skin was exposed to the hellish heat of the glaring sun. The legs were suffering from cramps, either by deprivation of hydration or steady accumulation of heavy trampling. But no water nor sports drink can quench the thirst for personal triumph.
After more than two hours, the WORD is almost readable. No thanks to my blurred and slowly deteriorating vision, but it appears like the word “FINISH” in its bold, upper case fonts reads like success, triumph, glory, words tantamount to accomplishment of a goal — nay, a life long dream. But the real finish line feels like, pardon the hyperbole, light-years away. The spasmodic muscular contraction I feel in my legs is now unbearable. The sight of anguish in my facial expression doesn’t give justice to the immense pain brought about by the prolonged stomping of the ground for two and a half hours. But here I was, at the homestretch of an almost infinite journey that began when the sky was covered in pitch-black darkness, until the beam of sunshine pierce through the clouds to illuminate the way to the finish.
The entire process began as a trip down memory lane, slowly mutating to a reenactment of death march, a hybrid of madness and passion in pursuit of a cathartic finish.
As I step on the mat signaling the end of the journey, a mixed sense of emotion engulfed my being: a feeling of bliss for the personal triumph, and a tinge of sadness that the journey was over.
No, I did not end up on the podium the way I did in my younger years, but a medal was given for our courage as runners; the courage to finish what we started and primarily, to paraphrase John Bingham, having the courage to start this madness, this passion.
As I bow my head to receive the prize for my pain and passion, I looked back and retraced my route: yes, I am passionate. Yes, this is madness. I run. I respected the distance. I completed the race. And that’s all that matters.
(Note: This article appeared in Front Runner Magazine's Third Anniversary issue)
