The hardest part of a marathon is not the running
The story of an underprepared first-time marathoner
The run-up
I’d heard so much about the Mumbai Marathon, the crowds, the streets, the support of the people and the festive atmosphere. I wanted to run a half-marathon in the 2020 edition (TMM 2020 — Jan 19th) but to my dismay, I found in late November that registrations were closed for this category.
But the full marathon (the thing) was still open.
Even though I’d run many half-marathons, I never thought I’d run a full marathon, ever. It needed way too much discipline and loads of training, something I was not capable of. But there was no harm in registering for it, I thought. I could just run half and pull out if I wanted.
My new-found coach (a friend, and a veteran of 5 international marathons) said I was a month short on training, yet encouraged me to go for it. I had also heard about the humidity and heat of Mumbai and how tough this race was. With just two months to go, I found myself secretly praying that my application would be rejected.
I did get through, but I felt really underprepared on the eve of the marathon. I had done a 30 km run and a 35 km run during training, just weeks before. But they seemed so inadequate compared to the 42 km that I’d have to run.
A friend called me that night to wish me well. He also asked me to introspect my state of mind at around 36 km, when I would hit the Peddar Road climb. He said I’d curse myself for having signed up for this and asked me to think about what was it that kept me going even after that.
The start
So, there I was, at Azad Maidan at 4:15 AM, an hour ahead of time. As I roamed the grounds looking for a loo, I felt a rush of giddiness. This had been happening the past two days, and I thought it would pass after a good night’s sleep. But it obviously hadn’t. What if I felt dizzy, fell and hurt myself during the run?
Self-doubt gnawed at my heart. Should I pull out? Would that save trouble for the paramedics, my friends in Mumbai, my wife in Bangalore and even my fellow runners?
But what if it was a minor thing? I decided to let the race take its course. This was not the time to pull out. Especially on such flimsy grounds like giddiness.
’Tis better to have run and DNF’d than never to have run at all.
(DNF stands for Did Not Finish, an embarrassing result for any marathoner.)
Soon, I put my foot over the timing mat at the starting line, an act that signalled I was going for it. There was no question of pulling out now.
The first 10–15 km was quite easy. Marine Drive was exquisitely beautiful under a dark sky and sodium-vapour lamps lining the road. Stalls and stages were just being set up by the seaside. This was nothing like the many half-marathons I had done. For one, I was running at a much slower pace. I was breathing easily and that let me take in the surroundings and enjoy them. And then, my brain was more active. I could even do multiplications, which I normally find hard to do. I figured that at the pace I was running, I’d finish under 5 hours.
I couldn’t hear or smell the sea, but the vast expanse of grey on my left comforted me, letting me know that it was there. I searched for the dreaded mugginess of Mumbai, but it was pleasantly missing. In fact, if I were not running I would have been shivering.
I was surprised at the number of people cheering us, as early as 6:30 AM. I heard a bystander, say, “This is Peddar road, guys, your challenge.” We were on a gentle climb, so I wondered why she said it was a challenge. Yet, I slowed down and started walking, trying to conserve my energy.
Then, the climb eased out and it became a downhill stretch. That’s when I realized what the bystander meant. The slope down was so long and so steep, I dreaded what would happen when we returned — it would be such an uphill climb. I made a mental note of the milestone on the other side, it said 36. All I had to do was last until this point on the way back, and I would make it.
When dawn started to break, I was on the Worli sea-face road along the sea. Suddenly, another rush of giddiness struck me. For a few seconds, I blanked out. I considered stopping but decided to ignore it and I continued running. Luckily, it passed and I was still on my feet. I was now in a state of mind where nothing short of a fall could stop me.
Breathtaking beauty
As we entered the Bandra-Worli sea-link, I picked up a bottle of water from a hydration point. I needed just a few sips to go with the energy gel I’d just swallowed. I wished they’d give smaller bottles instead of 200 ml. I also wished they had some trash-cans, for the road was strewn with discarded bottles.
Earlier in the morning, I had heard a woman shout at someone, “Please don’t throw your bottles, there are trash-cans on the side.” But that was on Marine Drive. Here, I searched for a trash-can but all I saw was someone whistling while walking, carrying a large white bag. “Is this for garbage?” I asked. He nodded, so I dropped my gel’s wrapper into his bag and felt quite relieved.
“At least one person in this world …” He didn’t finish, but I knew what he meant. He spotted the water bottle in my hand. “Are you done with it?” I lifted the bottle to show him that it was still half-full. “It’s OK, I’ll finish it,” he said and I happily handed it over to him. My favourite city was in safe hands.
The sea-link turned out to be wondrously more breathtaking than I had imagined. The sun had just risen and was hanging like a big orange balloon over the skyscrapers on the coast. A continuum of haze in infinite hues connected the sea to the sky. It started with the green-grey of the sea, passed upwards through dull concrete, which made its way to shades of red, orange and yellow on the horizon and then a brilliant, bright sky.
One of the charms of a marathon compared to smaller runs is the luxury of time it gives you. A minute here and there makes hardly any difference to five or more hours. I used a few minutes of these to stop and take it all in.
The only regret I had during the run was that I didn’t carry my phone. I saw a signboard that said stopping and taking photographs was prohibited, meant for the cars on a regular day. This marathon was the only (legal) time when one could take as much time to stop here and take photos, but I didn’t have a camera. I settled for a photo that I took with my eyes and etched it in my mind’s film.
I had heard of time dilation, typically caused by drugs. I had also heard of the drugs that the body produces during long stretches of exertion. Curiously, the two drugs seem to have the exact opposite effects. Time started contracting, or as they say, it just flew. The kilometres rushed past quickly as we got off the seal-link and landed at the crowded streets of Mahim.
There were a lot of encouraging slogans on placards that people held up, but I liked the funny ones more. “Usain Bolt ran only 100 metres, you are way better,” said one. “The faster you run, the sooner it will get over,” said another. I wanted to ask the woman who held “Sweaty is sexy,” to prove it. I even burst out laughing, mid-stride, at another, but now I can’t remember what it said.
I must carry my phone if ever there’s a next time.
The wall
There is supposed to be a “wall” that you hit in long runs. This is the point when the body’s energy reserves get depleted. I hadn’t faced the wall in my longest training run of 35 km. But that run was in the much cooler weather of Bangalore. So it took me by surprise when at around 28 km, I started feeling horrible. My legs felt heavy, I was gasping for breath and very, very tired.
I realized I was hitting the wall, but little did I know then that there are in fact many walls.
The first wall turned out to be a mental one. An acquaintance, someone who I knew because we ran in the same streets of Koramangala, passed me. I confessed to him that I felt like dropping out. He laughed and said, “No way. It’s just another 10k or so,” when there were clearly 14 more to go. Clearly, he was helping me get over the seeming impossibility of it all.
I knew I was not the only one feeling like that when I overheard a runner say, “Every kilometre is 1200 metres! Look, my GPS watch proves that.” He was kind of right, my watch too showed about a km more than what the milestone said. His partner was wiser. “Stop looking at your watch, man. Enjoy the run. Slow it down, but don’t give up.”
Sage advice, I thought as I also slowed down. We were passing the 32 km mark and I remembered the 36th. I just had another 4 km to go for that Peddar road mark that I had made. That didn’t seem too hard, I could even walk to it. Suddenly, I knew I would make it, even if I had to walk. The mental wall crumbled like the Berlin one.
But within ten minutes, I hit the next wall — my legs started hurting. It was, in fact, excruciating. I took a break at a station where they had ice bags which I used generously over my legs. I felt better, but it was short-lived. When I resumed running, my legs started hurting again. But to my surprise, it got better after some time. The trick, I realized, was to keep warm by running.
Soon, I was facing the real wall. I was just a few hundred metres from the 36th milestone when my body seemed to run out of juice. Completely. Even though my legs had stopped hurting, they wouldn’t move. There was no energy left in my body to fuel them. I slowed down to a crawl.
The only solid food I’d had in the last six hours after waking up was a banana. I would have been hungry as hell, even if I weren’t running. So I wasn’t surprised when my stomach tightened up, demanding food. But the thought of eating repulsed me because my digestive system had shut down. The only part of my body that was functioning was my legs because my brain had diverted all the blood supply there.
I stopped running and started walking. I had initially thought I’d have to walk the last six, but it seemed like I had to walk the last eight or ten now. I was at the beginning of Peddar Road and a single thought ran through my mind. 36. Get there, 36. Just get there. 36. It’s OK if I have to walk the rest.
Peddar Road
I was prepared, yet not prepared for the infamous Peddar Road climb. It was so steep that one could have easily mistaken it for a wall. Even walking here so hard. But the fact that I had already been through three other walls gave me the courage to face this one.
It looked like the entire city had turned up here to cheer us and offer us food and water. That’s another thing I’d heard about Peddar road — the residents would all be out there, having a gala time. What a sight it was! Families, holding flags, balloons. Kids offering oranges and biscuits. I saw one, hardly two feet tall, jump up and down when anyone caught his hand in a Hi-Fi.
This was also the time, as my friend had said, to inspect my state of mind. He’d said I’d wonder why I was here and what it was all worth. Curiously, I found me cursing myself only for not having trained enough. The roads, the people, the scenes, everything was so good that I felt I would do it all over again. If only my body cooperated, if only it had that extra ounce of energy. If only I had partied a little less — I would be running instead of walking. And how awesome that would have been.
A woman held out what looked like candies. When I got closer, I found that they were dates, wrapped in plastic. I popped it into my mouth and found it so, so delicious. “Carry some more with you,” she said and I grabbed a bunch and stuffed them into my pockets. As I walked, I ate them one by one and started feeling better. My digestive system, it appeared, had rebooted and was functioning now. It must have been due to the rest that the long walk break had given me.
I came across another ice-bags point. “Isn’t there any water?” I asked loudly, even though I could see that there wasn’t any. The dates had made me thirsty. A fellow runner offered me a bottle he was carrying. He had only half a small bottle, yet, he gladly shared it with me. He seemed to know how badly I needed it.
Seeing the gratitude on my face after I sipped, he offered me another bottle, one that didn’t look like water. “Nimbu-paani. Drink it up,” he said. It was the most refreshing nimbu-paani I’ve ever tasted. That’s what I love about Mumbai. Even though there’s very little space in the city, there’s enough space in Mumbaikar’s hearts.
The finish
Slowly, but steadily, I felt the energy come back into my body, especially my legs. Maybe I didn’t have to walk the last six after all. I tentatively tried to jog.
It was painful, but I remembered how it would get OK after warming up. I passed the 36 km milestone, and now there was no doubt that I would finish. A feeling of great relief swept through my body, and the pain in my legs eased up too. I was soon running comfortably.
You can only push your body so much. But you give it a break, and then you can push it some more.
The atmosphere slowly transformed from gloomy to festive. I was running and I was enjoying it. 2 km to the finish became 1 km, and then, there were only hundreds of metres left.
That’s when I realized that the hardest part of the marathon was not the running on the day. All the preparation played back in my mind like a flashback. Early morning wake-ups and gruelling long runs, exercises and stretches almost every day, for two months. The planning of what to carry, practising how to drink water.
And then, going past the mental wall of doubt and believing that I could finish it was the hardest part. And thanks to the garbage man, my Koramangala running mate, the lady who gave me dates and the guy with the nimbu-paani, I was able to climb that great big wall.
And then I saw the finishing line, right up there, I could almost touch it.
Just a few hundred meters to go, and I heard a familiar voice shouting, “Vasan, you did it!” I was startled to see my wife beaming, one of the bystanders. She had decided to spring a surprise by flying down from Bangalore to see me finish.
Confusion reigned. I wanted to stop and hug her, but I also wanted to keep running because it was just another two hundred metres. I grabbed her arm and made her run with me. Her heavy backpack (she’d come straight from the airport) didn’t let her. She stopped and shouted, “I’ll see you outside Gate 4.”
I got past the finishing line, aching but happier than I can ever remember.
They wouldn’t let non-runners inside the area of Azad Maidan, so my wife couldn’t follow me. That’s why Gate 4, I realized. As I stood in the queue for the medal, exhaustion and pain hit me. I felt like sitting for a few minutes, but I didn’t want to waste even a second to get out to Gate 4. I hobbled through the queue. Once I had my medal, I rushed out (walking, as I was done with running for the day), found my wife waiting and collapsed into her arms. “Take me home, please, just take me home,” I mumbled.
“That’s just what I came for, Vasan,” she replied.
All is well, I thought. All is well.
I hope you liked reading my story. If so, a few claps would let me know that you did. For the curious ones, here are some facts:
- I started running in January 2015, when I was 48.
- I have finished more than a dozen half-marathons, my best timing has been 1:59:37.
- I finished this marathon with a timing of 5:14:52.
- Any other questions? Please ask in a comment, I’d be glad to answer.