[This was written on August 22, 2011]
Twenty-four hours after completing the run, my
stopwatch is still paused on the time when I crossed the finish line and
had the medal slipped around my neck. Everytime I reach for the re-set
button, the heart rebels. I want the numbers to stay on my wrist for
just awhile longer. It might have made sense if I had knocked a whole
bunch of minutes off my previous time, and set a new Personal Best. But
the numbers on the dial of my watch mark the second worst timing I had
ever turned in at a half marathon. But in a race where things go as
horribly wrong as they did in the BNP half marathon, just finishing is
an achievement.
The Borivali National Park is beautiful at any time of the year-
rolling hills, lush forests, gurgling streams, tribal hamlets, exotic
flowers, chirping monkeys and the occasional roar of the big cats - but
it is in the monsoon that the place really comes alive. Bare rock faces
get adorned with waterfalls, the streams swell up and threaten to
overflow, clouds dart across the rock faces teasing you to catch them.
There could have been no better setting for the Half-marathon
organized “by the Runners, for the Runners” than Borivali National Park,
and no better time for the race than in the monsoons. The course would
be challenging, we had been told- we were prepared for the steep climb
at the midway point of both the loops. What we had counted without was
the fact that there would be one brief shower early in the morning,
after which the sun would make a rare appearance and bless the
proceedings for the rest of the morning.
We started out strong, gradually finding our groove. Running with
friends you were meeting after long, or after the last weekend. Admiring
the lush green canopy, delighting in the patterns formed by sunlight
filtering through the leaves, smiling at the antics of groups of
monkeys. “Is this the steep incline?”, first timers asked on the gentle
inclines, and I smiled silently thinking of the surprise in store for
them. Yes, the first lap was delightful- relief cars and bikes going
past shouting encouragement, smiling volunteers handing out drinks,
exchanging high-fives with returning runners.
But somewhere after the first turn around, things changed. The course
had been tougher than we had assumed it would be. I hadn’t hit anywhere
close to my target time. The sun, which till then had been so
benevolent, suddenly turned stronger and nastier. The streams and
hamlets no longer looked as pretty, because I couldn’t ignore the fact
that I would have to pass them two more times in steadily worsening
conditions. The eyes started searching for the kilometre markers, and I
looked not at the distance run, but at the distance still ahead.
It was after turning back for the second loop that I realised how
utterly foolish had been the decision to leave my water bottle behind at
an aid station. My electrolyte balance was going haywire. I wanted to
swallow an energy bar, but didn’t have water to wash it down with. I
slowed down to a run-walk, which soon became a walk-run. It was still
sheer torture. For the first time ever in all these years of running, I
seriously contemplated dropping out. “Forget it”, I told myself. “This
is just a race. It is not worth killing yourself over this. There are
people who need you alive. Drop out now, and come back again next year,
if you must.” But the mind had lost the capacity to implement decisions.
I put one foot in front of the other, and plodded on.
In that delirious state, I passed many of my friends on their way to
completing the first loop. Kripa, Neeta, Anjali, Chitra. All showing
various degrees of exhaustion. All with a look of intense determination
on their face. Unbidden came Washington Irvin's words-
“There
is in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies
dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and
beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.”
I took strength from my friends, and a sip of water from Kripa, and
plodded on till I reached the aid station, where I gulped down three
glasses of water and a sachet of electrolyte. “Only eight kilometres to
go”, someone said. “You can do it.”
“Of course I will”, I shot back, sounding braver than I felt. But
when I tested my running feet, I found I had regained my rhythm. My old
problem of water retention has re-surfaced- I could no longer flex my
fingers, and I knew my face had puffed up, but my stride didn’t faulter.
I crossed my old friend, Tushar, just before the steep incline that
marked the approach of the last turn-off point. “Do you want me to wait
for you?”, he asked, concern registering on his face. “No, carry on. I’m
fine”, I said. Regardless of how I looked, I was okay.
Nothing mattered any more- not pace, not distance, not time. I
stopped looking at my watch. I could see the kilometre markers, but they
barely registered. People overtook me in a sprint, I overtook them when
they slowed down to a walk. It went back and forth, till I saw the last
kilometre marker. “Come on guys”, I told them. “You can’t walk now. You
owe it to yourself to run the last kilometre.” None of them really
wanted to, but they rose to the challenge.
Five hundred meters from the end, I saw Roshni running up to meet me
as she always does. My pace quickened to match hers. She speeded up, and
helped me finish on a sprint. The Finishers’ medal was slipped around
my neck. I had completed. I had won.
Never before had I come as close to quitting as I had during those
three kilometres where everything had gone horribly wrong for me. Never
before had I recovered as well, to finish as strong.
“When you think about it, what other choice is there……give up, or Fight Like Hell." ~ Lance Armstrong
For the next hour, the finish line was crackling with emotion as one
after another of the runner girls finished their runs. They ran, they
walked, they would have crawled if they had to, but they crossed the
finish line. Tears mixed freely with sweat, sealing moments and memories
that can never be taken away.
It had been a gruelling race. But I had done it. We had done it.
"Women
are angels, and when someone breaks our wings. We simply continue to
fly. On a broomstick if need be. We are flexible like that."
You get back home. Life takes over. Memories blur. You forget how
your core values were tested and of how you rose to the challenge. Maybe
that is why I refuse to re-set my stopwatch. To remind myself that some
things are bigger even than ourselves.
