What do I get out of it?
It was the Monday after the 3rd weekend
in January and I was walking with a slight limp to my car, after work. A
colleague asked me “How are you feeling?”
I replied “Every part of my
body is aching but never felt better”
He gave me a surprised look
and said “I can never fathom why anyone would want to do something which will
give so much pain” and continued with a shrug “What do you get out of it?”
I smiled back and continued
my walk. A day after running 21 km at the Standard Chartered Mumbai marathon, I
ensured that I get out of bed in time and continue with my normal routine even
though my body was telling me otherwise. The personal achievement of the
previous day would have been lost if this was not the case.
As I started my hour long
home-bound journey, my thoughts went back to the question raised by my
colleague “What do I get out of it?”
I get a goal that I can aim
for, a goal that requires me to push myself to high levels of endurance if I
want to achieve it. Getting out of bed at 6am has always been a difficult
proposition for me but to do it on every other Saturday and Sunday morning
during the year for the practice runs does require more than that extra ounce
of will power. And finally when the goal is reached, the aches and pains seem
trivial in comparison to the inner satisfaction of having achieved something
significant. That inner satisfaction, my friend, is what I get out of
it.
As the 3rd Sunday
of January nears, the enthusiasm within me reaches fever pitch as my daily
routine changes to get myself ready for the big day. The extra quantities of
liquid, the high carb diet and the steady reduction in junk food intake gives
me the feeling of being an athlete getting ready for the Olympic final. As a
fervent sports fan, this is a feeling that I had always dreamed of. That
‘preparing for the big day’ feeling, my friend, is what I get out of it.
On the big day when I reach
the starting point at 5am and enter through the security barriers onto the
holding area, I seem to enter a different world. Men and women of all age
groups in different designs of running gear, the members of running groups in
their uniformed costumes stretching in tandem, excited bunch of young and old
clicking selfie’s or posing for a snap which will find its way to their
Facebook page. The atmosphere is very competitive even though a majority
of the people in that holding area may not be professional runners. I would
have bet that no one in that crowd of runners would have been thinking of the
pain that their body would be going through during the next 2-3 hours and
beyond. On the other hand, it seemed like every one of them was actually
looking forward to it. That high level of enthusiasm, my friend, is
what I get out of it.
And then the countdown starts from 10 prompting the
entire crowd of 25000+runners join in. 10..9..8..7..6..5..4..3..2..1 and the
run is flagged off. All the runners jostle for space as they move forward.
Everyone, including me, only manage to walk for the first hundred meters and as
I come out of the holding area onto Bandra reclamation, I feel like a chained
animal breaking free from its shackles. As I breathe in the cool winter air and
begin my run in right earnest, my mind is free of all the tensions that are
otherwise crammed in it. That tension-free feeling, my friend, is what
I get out of it.
As I pass the first set of
distance banners, which indicate the distance covered, my body and mind are
still doing fine as I earn the privilege alongwith thousand others to set foot
on the pride of Mumbai namely, the Sea-link which is otherwise banned for
pedestrians. The silhouette of Mumbai in the morning hue seems to provide an
extra ounce of motivation as my feet get into running rhythm that I try and
maintain for the duration of the run. Waiting at the other end of
the sea link, lined up on both sides of the road in their night gowns and
jogging suits, are the local residents in their hundreds. If I was not a
runner, I would never have guessed why would anyone ever get up at 6am on a
Sunday morning to watch a group of ordinary people, half of them already
panting to glory, running on the roads of Mumbai. But they still
come, with banners held high, chanting slogans, shouting a few words of
encouragement and holding their tray of biscuits, dates and bananas. The crowds
include small children who enthusiastically extend their hand forward. As I run
past them and give a high five, I feel like a sportsman who may be motivating
these kids to take care of their fitness when they grow up. That
feeling of pride, my friend, is what I get out of it.
As I enter the last 10
kilometres of the run, my body, especially the legs are showing signs of
weariness. My speed has reduced to a jog as I try to conserve energy. I have
consumed a couple glasses of water and now reach out for some biscuits to keep
up my energy levels. The time between the distance banners seem to be
increasing with every kilometre. Some part of my mind is beginning to think
about the futility of whatever I am doing and then…you hear them coming. The
elite marathon runners, who would have started from CST station at
7am,majestically run past in a rhythmic motion and at speeds which seem more
suitable for a sprint rather than a marathon. The ‘real’ marathon runners seem
to provide the necessary impetus to the almost fatigued pretenders on the other
side of the road. The sight of Haji Ali dargah and the Malalakshmi temple in
the distance seem to bring in a wave of positive energy for the mind and
body. As the crowds increase in numbers and the chanting grows
louder, the positive energy exchange is palpable. I pump my fist and increase
my pace with the goal just a few kilometres away. That positive energy
to keep going, my friend, is what I get out of it.
As I enter Marine Drive,
the fellow runners are few and far between now. There are more runners slowing
down to a walk to regain their breath. I see more runners stopping next to the
medical vans for a quick pain relief spray on their knees, calves or ankles.
But more often than not, they carry on running through the pain. There are
people with cameras shooting pictures of the runners and there are professional
photographers who click away to glory to ensure that every runner has atleast a
few photos of the run appearing in marathonphotos.com. Having read a number of
articles about long distance running which urge people to smile for the
cameras, I smile whenever I see a photographer seemingly ready to capture me in
his lens. Who does not want a good picture of himself? The atmosphere is now
electric with bystanders strumming their guitars, music bands playing peppy
tunes and dancers shaking a leg to bhangra and lejimbeats, all of which make
me instinctively throw up my arms and shake a leg. That feeling
of fun and celebration, my friend, is what I get out of it.
And then I take the turn
towards Churchgate. The crowds have now swelled. The other side of the road is
now filled with the Dream run participants in their colourful costumes. The
atmosphere now seems more like a carnival as I see people of all age groups
going past with banners sporting the name of their company or that of the
social cause that they are supporting. There are people in wheelchairs, old men
and women probably in their eighties and even the blind seeing through the eyes
of the frenzied crowd. Some of them can barely walk but their smile tells a
different story. My heart swells with emotions as I see these differently abled
men and women showing the spirit which would put an able person to shame. I no
longer feel that I am running, rather feel like a member of a huge soap opera
that seems to be unfolding in front of me. That emotional surge, my
friend, is what I get out of it.
The distance banner now
show the magic ‘1000 meters to go’ and it is time to sprint to the finish or
atleast that’s what the running websites say. But a pair of legs which has run
20 kilometres is hardly in a mood to sprint. The countdown starts with banners
of ‘900’ and then ‘800’ and then ‘700 metres to go’ appearing and I know I am
almost there. I can barely see the CST train station and the podium constructed
near it with probably one or more celebrities on it. I can barely hear the
cheering voices of the crowd as they tell me that I am almost there. I can only
see the banners as I pass them ‘500’, ‘400’, ‘300’, ‘200’, ‘100’ and then I am
there. I see the huge timer next to the FINISH sign and I raise my hands in
delight and relief in equal proportion, as I pass under it. I give high fives
to and exchange congratulations with strangers who have finished before me. I
instinctively jump in the air and then feel a twinge of embarrassment but then
I look around and see that others are displaying similar emotions. The finish
line of the marathon is a place to shed all your inhibitions. I have been
running for more than 2 hours and it is now time to stop and soak in the
atmosphere. The ankles and knees have suddenly begun to complain
about the torture that I have taken them through and I need to do some
stretches to ensure they do not give away. But I don’t mind that one bit. I
have completed one more half marathon in a reasonable time and in a reasonable
condition and there is no greater sense of achievement. I cannot describe any
other feeling which can beat what I feel at the finish point of every half
marathon I have run. That feeling of dejavu , my friend, is what I get
out of it.
The
feeling is doubled when it is not only me but my partner in life running that
distance as well. I wait for her at the finish area and as she crosses the
line, we get into a big hug. We trudge past the other tired runners, some
stretching and some just lying flat on the ground, to reach the area where they
give out the medals and snacks. Wearing the medal fills me with pride and I
clench my fist again. We recover some of the lost fluids and energy with the
snack and drinks as we start walking towards the exit. As the beat of the drums
and the cheering of the crowd fades away, my walk has now developed a limp but
the adrenalin is still pumping in me. As we sit in the local
train and head home, I continue wearing the medal. I reach home and hang
both our medals next to the one’s that were gained from previous runs. I spend
a few minutes looking at it before I officially declare to myself that the
Mumbai marathon is done for another year. The feeling that ‘I can still
do it’, my friend, is what I get out of it.
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