The Mumbai running fraternity looks forward to the Borivali National Park (BNP) Half Marathon; an event being held in this evergreen forest and organized by Ram, Kaushik, Bharatbhai, Giles and Ashok, amongst several stalwarts. Amit planned to do his 8th Marathon in 8 months along with Dr Oak, at the invitation of the organizers, and I was there to keep him company part of the way. This account is a tribute to Amit’s grit and guts.
BNP was abuzz with runners strolling to the start point with bags and rucksacks slung over shoulders. Regular walkers looked on bemused with the bustle of activity. There was the canopy below which a volunteer was meticulously storing bags deposited by runners as if his life depended on it; long lost runners greeting each other excitedly with hugs and high-fives; across the road, at a table a few women peered at sheets as if reviewing forest census data; a table laden with water and electrolyte, caused a few bold walkers to ponder helping themselves, not sure if it were offered free to one and all; and, race officials ceremoniously waving notepads while shouting instructions.
Amit, Dr Oak and I embarked on our long haul to cheers and applause. Seldom do you get a hint in the first 30 minutes of a full marathon, that your run would go south: this was one of those days. Amit had a tooth extracted 2 days ago besides nursing an inflamed thigh muscle. Dr Oak confessed to having fasted since the last one month and raised his eyes heavenward, speculating on the outcome; while, I had done a full marathon at Amby Valley just two weeks ago, not sure whether my legs would hold up for another onslaught. Towards the end of the first lap, at 5K, we realised that our individual affliction was to be compounded with an unfair double-whammy: the weather, which seemed to have concocted a cocktail of what felt like a steam-bath and sauna, combined.
The route meandered thru’ thickly wooded brush, over spans below which ran streams, undulating with deceptive inclines that cause consternation when you are feeling beat and the sky vanished in some shaded parts. The surface itself was smooth asphalt, part of the way but transitioned to concrete that was marred by some treacherous stretches that were fractured. On our return lap, we waved out to runners that had started out the half marathon, cheering many by calling out their names. The first loop being uneventful, we started out for the second and along the way saw that Dr Oak’ exertions were causing him to slow down. Through a pain tinged grimace he gestured that we should move on. Amit was floundering in pain and the relief he got from the ‘reli-spray’ was short-lived. We both managed to do the second loop in a one piece.
Dr Oak was now glycogen-depleted and decided to take a break. I had somehow managed to hydrate well and felt fresh enough to take on the role of ‘drill-sergeant’ for the rest of the journey. I set a timer for 1 min walk - 4 mins run, but it all went awry as the inclines forced Amit to walk at odd intervals. He sat down at aid-stations massaging his leg; willing it to come to life from its benumbed state. I looked at him in reverent commiseration, yet admired his stoic resolve. He was not to be deterred by this temporarily blunted appendage. I barked, “Time up! Let’s move!” and he rose in response, with a limp, as if to a military camp command, and fell into a lop-sided rhythm with me.
You have a choice. You can throw in the towel, or you can use it to wipe the sweat off of your face. - Gatorade
I had set the pace now and he followed me tamely with an unseeing stare and slurring feet. I stated matter-of-fact style, “We finish this third loop and the last one is a given”. His subconscious mind saw my ruse on auto-suggestion. He must know that he blindly needs to nod ascent, which he did, despite the incredulous haze of heat and humidity that seemed to engulf us in a clammy embrace. My urgency had driven all tactical thought of run-walks from my mind. The next few kilometres went by in a hypnotic flow: Blurry recollections of a group of girls and boys flirting, soft strains of “Sheila ki Jawani”, monkeys on the wayside with a plaintive gaze, a car whizzing past, and its occupants waving a thums-up in mock admiration. I propelled us both to the end of the third loop where Amit staggered gratefully to a seat to eat a banana and drink up thirstily.
We saw promise of victory when Dr Oak offered to run the fourth loop with us since he felt recovered. After all he has done Comrades, and in jest it felt like Moses would lead us to the Promised Land. Amit and I were clutching at straws now. We set off for the final leg of this arduous and seemingly never-ending journey to “C’mon guys….do it!” It soon became plain and simple that the body had rejected running as an option. I set the timer for a 1 min walk-1 min run which seemed like an acceptable compromise to Amit’ battered body. The kilometres went by inexorably, every step feeling like a death march. Ashok and Ram drove past with their kind offer of placing the aid station where we’d need it.
The final lap had to have 2.2 kms to be added to make the full marathon of 42.2 kms, a credible claim. We took a side road that extended for 1.1K, at the end of which Amit looked up in bewilderment like he’d blundered into the wrong conference room at work, his pain-racked body refusing to move anymore. I could see agony writ large on his face as he listened keenly for the beeper that would allow him to walk. Dark clouds gathered and covered the trees in a kind of stale twilight, as if portending darker moments.
I glanced at the pallor of Amit’ racked cheeks and the tracks of pain that ran down them. His eyes had acquired a doleful look of submission to my soft murmur of, “Let’s go, let’s go!!” Between hysterical highs and lows of delirium stood the moderation of an even beat of sanity, as I joked that my job was to shore up Amit’ spirits, to which he jovially exclaimed, “Right now, I feel as if my spirit has left my body!” There was a thunderous cackle from all of us; painful convulsions that our hunched forms could ill-afford. Finally it was 500m to go, and we felt the warm clasp of victory in our hands. Amit’ eyes lit up as we increased pace, holding hands as Brothers in Arms, ready to collapse in a heap as we crossed the finish line with Dr Oak.
When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.
--Theodore Roosevelt
We’d done just that; hung on! Amit had his 8/12 marathon in the bag; a marathon that was one-legged for the most part. And I’d notched two marathons in two weeks. Amen!
