Road to perdition

As yuletide turned the corner, I dug out the Jim Reeves album from a dusty trunk, to play my favourite Christmas carols. Soothed by the baritone strains of, “Dear Senor Santa Claus, I think I’ll tell you what; I would like for Christmas and I hope you won’t forgot,...,” I embraced a dream, in which, thru’ entreaty or intimidation, I am not sure which, Santa brings me an elixir. One that, when consumed at the start of the marathon, brings me a Boston qualifier even as I wave to the crowds like an Olympic champion skirting the stadium, gracefully levitating with every stride The warm glow from the single malt, in sharp contrast to the dim flicker from the solitary wan lamp by the sofa, nudged me to cut to the chase. The Mumbai Marathon had crept up even as I tried desperately to give some semblance of shape to my training. I have, perhaps had the worst year in terms of mileage, even though my running groups seemed to have stepped up theirs. I was really at my wits end as to what I ought to do about this race. My girth, over the last few months, seemed to be growing faster than the stock market. It was then that I hit upon a plan to work on my weight which had inched up because of the good life; though they say it makes me look good

I embraced abstinence with a fervour I never seemed capable. I viewed it as my only saviour. Christmas season and my trip to Goa, where a “Susegaad” style frowns on such resolutions, made things more challenging. God knows how I managed to bring my weight down by three kilos; but, it was enough to give me hope. I based my strategy on a simple technical fact. VO2max (a clinical indicator of how much oxygen the muscles consume) is measured in ml of oxygen per kg per min. If weight is in the denominator, it stands to reason that reducing it, would spike this parameter and elevate a blighted fitness base. I had to contend with being discounted as a ‘has been’ guy now, by my runner friends. I meekly accept this because the runners in the group have been clocking great times in training and racing, besides averaging humongous mileages. Not many would wager on my doing a good race.

If you fail to prepare, prepare to fail!

Race morning had the usual surcharged atmosphere at the venue, with runners greeting each other in nervous excitement. There were many doing their first marathon, caught in an unscripted quaver of fear; sure they were likely to groan more than groove. Others that had trained hard saved their swagger for the finish, unsure of a personal best; hoping to hit the jack-pot, and not the “wall”. I was content with indulging in auto-suggestion; doing the first half in 1:58, which would give me a shot at a sub-4 hr finish. In the runners’ enclosure, as we were herded to the gate for the start, I developed a bursting bladder and nowhere to go; a folly of delaying a visit to the loo.

The race was flagged off and I felt my urine sloshing around, bringing unbearable discomfort. Finally, after about two kms, near the Trident, I shot off to the bushes and needed a whole minute to find relief. By then, most of our group had gone off and I was left way behind. I picked up pace and the first 5K had me tailing Rajesh and Ashwin but they soon surged ahead and were lost in the distance. I reached the 10K mark in 55:16 and if I discount the minute lost in the pit-stop, I was doing a remarkable pace. I felt a sudden and inexplicable fatigue hit me at the 15K mark and the cold tremor of a race going south. It is at this point that I felt that I just might finish in 5 hrs! Twenty marathons have taught me that such early signs of distress and the premonitions accompanying them are for real.

I began counting my strides to keep them even, something I had never done. I chewed on a “Snicker” and felt a spike in energy. Before I knew it, I had conquered the cause for my fatigue and soon found, to my relief that I had crossed the half way mark, near Mahim church, in – you guessed it, 1:58:40! The sea-link was coming up now and the sun beat down on me. I kept drinking water at every aid-station without realizing that I had not had even a drop of “Lucozade”, because I somehow didn’t see it being offered. I was told later, that one had to ask for it - strange!

I decided that I would look at my watch only at the 32K mark because I could feel fatigue setting in again, and I could do without any dampening of spirits. I felt like I was staggering now as my body struggled to lean forward into a rhythmic stride. It worried me that I was actually fighting to hold my pace. The interminable blazing hot stretch of the sea-link was finally done and I reached the 32K mark in 3:03:12. This is when I felt that if I could just do the last 10.2K in 56:45, I had a ghost of a chance of finishing in 3:59:59.

The pilot car with flashing lights and LED clock display went by with the elite black panthers in tow. They were soon lost in the distance and I shrugged with envious resignation, “Genetic advantage!” By the 34K mark the damage was done and I didn’t realize it! The lack of intake of electrolyte had set me up for cramps. I could feel the micro-spasms in my calves and they travelled up my spine as a tremor, portending a road to perdition ahead. It is at this point that my manly pride was bruised when this prissy (my biased mind thought - though her athletic well-formed lower extremities would certainly elicit whistles) woman in translucent tee and black sports-bra, that accentuated her frame, went past me in languid strides, seemingly fresh as a daisy. Irked by this display of comparatively better endurance, I contemplated, matching this damsel (who wasn’t distressed one bit) stride for stride. I abandoned such misplaced bravado, for surely I would invite upon myself, a coronary incident.

I shuffled on, sulking inwardly, my pace faltering now as I found the going tough. The children at Pedder Road handing out wicker baskets of sweets and fruit, calling out, “C’mon, c’mon, well done!” got my eyes to well up. Those tiny soft hands held out for a hi-5 made me reach out in a silent promise that said, yes, I will go on – swift! – my pain be damned. No sooner did I crest the hill, my resolve was put to the test as I felt the first seizure in my calves. I winced and knew that if I stopped to ease the cramp, I would not finish this race.

To give anything less than your best, is to sacrifice the gift.

I rounded the Babulnath corner and now, the black gazelles raced by in bikinis for race attire that barely contained their tight buns. I began losing about a minute for every km now and with 7 kms to go, I lost 6 mins. I hung in there as I felt every jarring step wreck my limbs to jelly. The agony of this final stretch seemed the worst in all the marathons I have completed. At the 38K mark, I caught up once again with “golden girl”, who had surprisingly and to my sheer pleasure, slowed down. I wanted to shout out with unrestrained glee, “Hitting the wall now, are we?” However, I realized that such utterance would surely limit my ambitions to the wheel-chair event in SCMM 2012. I chided myself for thinking like a foggy old man on his third gin and tonic, and meekly gathered myself to focus on my own exertions, which had reached a distressing crescendo.

Before I rounded the corner of Pizzeria, Neha from the Nike Run Club, called out, “Dan Sir!” and waved out. I responded with a feeble wave as my body felt lifeless. A while later, my head jerked up as an English guy caught up and said, “Almost there now!” My catholic upbringing interpreted his sudden appearance as divine and as God’ own angel. Perhaps he saw the grimace on my face and wanted to lend a helping hand. This subconscious but spiritual nudge lent a zip to my stride and the shadowy “Dream-run” crowd which screamed encouragement was now a blur. Barricades narrowing to a pathway to the finish, shimmering asphalt, khaki uniforms restraining crowds, a roar in my ears akin to a train approaching a subway station……and I race, with clenched teeth, looking up to see the clock showing 4:06:22 as I crossed the finish line. I had nothing left to give as I allowed my self to be led away; the race had taken a lot out of me.

Besides Monsoon and Bryan waiting for me at the finish line, there was Pravin (who, with Hirva, have always been waiting for me in earlier editions of this race) and Madhu, with her selfless sacrifice in turning up to cheer all her runner friends, despite an injury that forced her to pull out of India’ most popular race. I had made it in a time that I didn’t think possible, with my training base. I paused to ponder on the bed in the medical tent, even though the ministrations of the female nurses in attendance distracted my thoughts, with their gentle kneading of my calves, as to how it would have turned out, had I managed to drink “Lucozade” on the course. I owe sincere gratitude to Rajesh, for sticking around and monitoring my condition. Every race has its lesson and I had learned something, in this one. I rued this as I mingled with runner friends at the Barista lounge, thoughtfully provided by NIKE.

Tomorrow is another day, and there will be another battle! --Sebastian Coe