Journey of Madness and Passion

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)

PBA (Post-Basketball Affair) Run

The sight of their towering physiques belies the claim that ours is a race of midgets.  They are literally larger than life. For a self confessed basketball fanatic, meeting the personalities who captured your childhood imagination with their athletic wizardry is an experience worth reminiscing, a moment worth writing (or in this age of new media, worth blogging) about.

The morning sky of July is painted in elegant darkness where the stars are about to give way to the dawning of a new day, but it appears to me the astronomical stars are giving way to the hoop stars, they who earn astronomical wages.

The event is supposed to raise funding for our cancer stricken brethrens, but the opportunity to meet up close and personal the legends of Asia’s first play for pay league is more than worth the registration fees.

4-time MVP Alvin Patrimonio

Long before the invasion of Fil-foreigners in our local shores, the exploits of the Captain and the Skywalker captivated hoop fans and their legends were documented in the sports headlines.  To say I was starstrucked is an understatement. I was in awe that I almost forgot I’m supposed to participate in this run for a cause (thus the title of the event).

This run was notable for a couple of things;  one, this was the first time I ran on MOA grounds (which eventually became a regular venue of similar events, along with BGC); two, this was the first time I ran with my two recruits, one of them eventually became more active in running events than I have ever been.

Armed with the previous experience of a 3k run, my confidence was soaring at that moment, as high as the pro baller’s heights. The gun start signaled the 2^nd long distance event of my so-called running career.

20 minutes into the race, I was huffing and puffing while I thought to myself, “this couldn’t be 3 kilometers!” I have no, until now, sophisticated gadget runners often use to measure their heartbeat or distance covered so I have no way of accurately proving whether or not the distance I covered was in fact 3kilometers. Nonetheless, seeing the Giants of Philippine sports –literally and figuratively – struggling and plodding their way to finish offered some relief; here I am, a nobody running along with the best practitioners of the sport where endurance is a vital component to compete effectively sharing the pain and struggle on the way to the finish line.

The official time is 25 minutes and 22 seconds, way too slower than the previous run. The rule of thumb in this sport is to constantly challenge and beat yourself… or your previous time. And I was badly beaten.

The finish line marked another conclusion in a chapter  of my running saga but it seems there’s always a new twist to surprise me.  The organizer handed out medals for finishing the race.  I understand the rationale behind the bestowal of finisher’s medal to Half Mary, full Marathon and ultra finishers; because it takes real  zeal to train  and tolerance to pain to finish those events. But a 3K run?

I admit it was a dream of mine -- nay, an obsession -- to play pro hoops, but I am realistic enough that my Intercolor Tournament and Summer League MVP awards I proudly won in my youth do not merit inclusion to a UAAP varsity team.  Every passionate baller dreams of one day scoring an in your face slam jam over their childhood idol or breaking the ankle of a legendary player with his crossover.  So I long bade adios to my ambition to play pro ball, but upon seeing the medal engraved with the iconic tricolor logo of Asia’s first pro league, it dawned on me that I accomplished a two-birds-hit with- one-stone kind of achievement; first, I’ve never and probably will never set foot in the PBA but at least I have a sporting accomplishment sanctioned by the league where I was rewarded however small it may be or however mediocre my accomplishment was; second,  I had my very first ever medal since the sudden conclusion of my brief sprint career. I earned extra confidence booster when I won a Smart Pilipinas T-shirt given by the race organizers for the top 50 finishers. 

Although it’s not for a podium finish, 31^st among 354 participants, I found the answer in the words of marathoner John Bingham to the question I posed earlier why we were rewarded: "The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start”.

It all begun a "Century" ago

The energetic music emitting out of the sound system barely diffused the jitteriness.   The cold February morning induced the jumpy, tense emotion I’m feeling at that moment. And then the celebrities -- they who put the glitter in events like this -- led the warm-up -- a no-frill yet fundamental pre-race activity -- with music accompaniment. 

I surveyed the competition. It was a strange new world.  Gone is the track oval. In its place is a road seems to be leading to nowhere but the finish area is the exact same place where we’re all standing at that moment. The so-called elites positioned themselves in front, non-verbally announcing their presence via their outfit, short shorts, mid rib singlet wrapping their skinny frames.  The familiar sound of the gunstart, a sound so eerily familiar in my younger years officially signaled my return to the sport I long abandoned in favor of a much publicized, much worshipped game in this side of the Pacific. 

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.

A few minutes after, which seemed like an eternity, the struggle came to an end.

 16 minutes and 8 seconds since the race started, 75 participants finished the job before me.  Odd experience for someone used to be the second or third best in a foot race. The only consolation was, out of 1804 finishers, I would be considered faster than the other 1,730 runners. Not bad for a first timer to run three kilometers. But no medal recognizes the 76^th best runner.

The festive scene in the post-race event is an uplifting sight. Freebies abound, from the Tuna brand sponsoring the event to the overflowing sports drink which when purchased cost a fortune( at least for a budget-tight consumer like me).

 No podium finish.  No medal. No applause from spectators. Nothing resembling the glory I once enjoyed in shorter, all-out speed distances.

 But not a tinge of sadness nor disappointment or frustration was felt.  Why would I?  when I can have bragging rights to announce based on the official results I run faster than Derek Ramsay J