My First Marathon – Part Four

The Race

I was hit with the majestic realisation that I was finally running my first marathon. 

After months of hard training, my moment had come as I joined shoulder to shoulder with fellow runners, a massive wave of bobbing heads and heaving bodies, our feet together unsettling the cool morning dew, spilling into the empty Melbourne streets behind the shadows of the rising sun. It was incredibly inspiring to know, despite being from all walks of life, men and women, young and old, we had all been dedicatedly training our minds and bodies for this very moment.

As we came down St Kilda Rd, I noticed a few portaloos had been setup along the way. A few anxious runners who, like me, had missed out on getting to the toilet before the race began, tried to get in but realised the organisers hadn’t yet unlocked them. Unabashedly, they then proceeded to relieve themselves by the road side. I wasn’t prepared to commit such an indignity to such a beautiful city, so I continued to hold on. 

I remembered the advice to hold back in the beginning, so I kept my cadence at an easy pace. However, it was not long before I found myself passing the 4 hour pacer as we were coming out of the MCG. After 10 km, as we rounded the corner into Albert park, I soon caught up with the 3h 50min pacer, who was a marathoning veteran in his 50s. Although I didn’t feel I was overexerting myself, when I checked my pace I was surprised to find it was 5:06, which was pretty fast for me. I figured any headway I make now would only payoff towards the end when I would be tired and slow, so I continued to cruise along at this pace while enjoying the sight of ducks waddling in the lake along the route. After finally catching sight of a public restroom, I took my chance and went for it. By the time I managed to rejoin the race, I had lost sight of the pacer and had some catching up to do. I also started feeling a mild pinching sensation arising at the back my left calf. Cautious that the discomfort could progress into a bigger problem as the race progressed, I tried to apply some plaster on it. Unfortunately it seemed to make it even worse, so I had to quickly remove it again and continued on with the race.

Exiting the park and coming down St Kilda Road towards Port Melbourne, I still at a comfortable pace, it felt amazing taking in the view of the road lined on both sides with the encouragement of cheering crowds spurring us forward. The scent of the sea was in the air as we rounded the corner to Beaconsfield Parade along the shoreline. Running beside me was also the Incredible Hulk. I don’t mean a metaphorically beefy guy or even someone wearing a Hulk T-shirt, but here was actually a man who was dressed from head to toe in a neon green novelty Hulk suit, complete with fake green muscles, face mask, Hulk feet and everything. Now normally this would seem quite amusing, but he also happened to be blazing fast (well, I guess he’s the Hulk after all), it really was quite impressive given how hot it must be under the weight of his costume. Everywhere we’d go,I’d hear calls of “Go Hulk!!!” from the crowd. 

At 16kms in, I soon caught up with the 3h 50m pacer again and after staying with him a little, I picked up my pace a little and continued to pass them. Beaconsfield Parade seemed to go on forever, a never ending, completely straight and flat stretch. When I finally thought we come to the the end, we merely turned around to go back the other way. Normally at the 20km mark in my training, I’d start feeling tired and slow, but here I now felt I was truly and comfortably in my element. It felt like the time to hold back was over and I should really start pushing myself. Donning my headphones, downing a energy gel and and taking a gulp of water at the next drink station, I was ready to go. I blasted off, blazing past other runners, leaving them in my dust. It felt incredible to be finally running free!

My new found enthusiasm, unfortunately, did not quite last as long as I had imagined. After gaining on other runners for a few more kilometres, like a leaking balloon, I slowly found my energy slowly being sapped away under the weight of the beating sun, now high overhead, while the dull aches and pains in my legs also started to call out louder for my attention. By kilometer 28, the tables had really started to turn, as runners I had gleefully zoomed passed before were now easily overtaking me again and I was really beginning to struggle, regretting the surge I had performed earlier. The Hulk had long left me in the dust and I was growing ever more frustrated I could not muster the energy to keep up as I helplessly let others pass me left and right. The only redeeming thing I could do now, was to try to ignore the ever louder screams of pain in my legs and just to keep going. At kilometer 30, any trace of that feeling you get that running is so much fun had completely disappeared. The pinching sensation that was in left calf I had felt earlier in the race was barely even noticeable compared to crashing crescendo of pulsating pain tearing through my whole body as I continued to lift one foot after another. 

It was now a question of whether I could survive through this.

My First Marathon – Part Three


I had arrived. One day before my race, I landed in Melbourne.

It was time for the best part of my training: mandatory carb loading. Since I was staying in Footscray I was also pleasantly surprised to discover the streets were a thriving hub of African communities. I soon found myself gorging at a Ethiopian buffet and relishing the divine aroma of traditional Ethiopian coffee. Even though I was supposed to avoid too much caffeine so I could sleep later at night, I really couldn’t help myself as I poured one cup after another. I even bought extra servings of Injera bread to take back home for additional carb loading. I chatted with cafe owner who told me how his brother was also doing the marathon and how Ethiopia was home to the most legendary runners in the world.

Later that day, I also struck up a conversation with a lady in Federation Square who had been a veteran of three marathons. She offered me some sagely advice: the race doesn’t start until kilometer thirty. This juncture is when the real test of all my training will begin. The mistake many people make is to use up all your energy by going hard too early, because it only going to be much harder later, she warned. I thanked her for the much needed wisdom for my upcoming challenge.

At dinner I diligently scoffed down extra servings of rice with my meal. Despite all my efforts for an early night, I didn’t get to bed until 10.30pm.

Waking up at 5am the next morning, I ready to go. Before the trip I had spent time meticulously preparing my pre-race drink, carrying it all the way from Sydney. In my mad rush to get out of the house, as I was forcing down toast with one hand and bananas in the other, I had inadvertently forgotten my drink on the kitchen bench, already prepared but sadly undrunk. There was not much I could do as I couldn’t be late for the first train.

With the race starting at 7am, the earliest train available didn’t arrive at Flinders Street station until 6.17am. After 20 minute walk just to get to the Melbourne Cricket Ground, where the race was held, I had to find my way through confusing and long snaking lines to drop off my bag. When someone yelled out that the race was about to begin, I literally ran out of the bag drop area and raced down (yes a pun) another half kilometer to get the start-line. The gun had just gone off. Melbournians had started running. There was no time for that last minute bathroom break.

The race had begun!

My First Marathon – Part Two

Continuing on from Part One, here’s the next part written in my Covid self confinement

The Training

Months went by and my half marathon achievement was all but a distant memory. My marathon plans long forgotten.

One day my colleagues suggested we go for a light run after work. Having not trained for a very long time, after barely 8km I was already struggling, slow and out of breath. Somehow my left knee just did not feel right. When they asked me how many weeks until my marathon, it hit me. I had only 8 weeks left. To put that into perspective, 3 months is generally the advised minimum time one needs to train for a marathon. Matt, my colleague and a veteran of 3 marathons, told me how he used to run 30km every weekend for his training before the race. And here I was, barely surviving a 8km run. This was the wake up call I needed, because there was no way in hell I was about to do 42km. 

My training started that weekend. I decided to go for just a short jog around the neighbourhood because my left knee complained anytime I tried to go any further. As I drew close to the end of my run, I felt my foot catch an uneven part of the pavement. I stumbled and with my legs too weak to stabilise myself, it turned in a fall and I was propelled headfirst into the hot morning asphalt. I found myself on the ground in a strewn heap, momentarily dazed, my glasses nowhere to be seen. A crowd of old ladies started to gather around me, the inspecting the curiosity that had interrupted their morning stroll. As the pain finally began to emerge, I picked both myself and my pride off the pavement and apologetically signaled to the crowd that I was OK. I inspected the damage. There was a massive bloody gash on shoulder, a bruised face, my hand and wrist were torn with blood. ‘Well, at least my legs are still ok’, I assured myself. That’s all I needed to still run, right?

Bruised but unfazed, my training continued as I started adding more distance to my runs. I was still woefully slow, but I could see my pace gradually improving as I was surviving for longer. My regime of after work home runs begun again and the challenge now was trying to find creative ways to extend them further. I found myself running in the dark through unlit park pathways, chased by a phantasmagoria of awaiting murderers spurring me on faster. Not wishing for an encore performance of my fall, I also had to keep a keen eye on uneven surfaces in the dark. For inspiration, I listened to audio books by Haruki Murakami, Meb Keflezighi, and David Goggins. I remember, exhausted after one training run, when I finally managed to achieve the distance of a half marathon, 21kms, I thought, wow, do I seriously need to be able run that entire distance again? Every extra step I had to take was already associated with an exponential amplification of stabbing pain in my legs. It was also in that moment that I could really start to respect the distance of a full marathon, whereas before 42kms was merely an abstract number in my head.

Along with the training came the inevitable injuries. The pain in my left knee never actually went away as I had hoped. How far I could last was limited to the point when my knee would feel like it was detaching itself from its ligaments, whereby I would need to limp the rest of the way home. When I finally saw my physio, she questioned the efficacy (and sanity) of my masochistic tendencies. It also seemed that as a result of this injury, the right side of body had also been overcompensating for the imbalance and was now too tight. To untangle all the knots I never knew existed, she put me through brutal massage I had ever experienced, then strapped my leg with k-tape and sent me on my way.

About one month out from my marathon, the Sydney Running Festival was in town and even though I wasn’t a participant, I had planned on cheering my enthusiastic running friend Harshi at the finish line. It was also a training weekend so I needed to work out a plan for where and how I could still get in my runs in. Then an idea occurred to me. The festival’s finish line was at the Sydney Opera House, why don’t I just make my commute there on foot? No, I didn’t exactly live close by, it was around 28kms away I worked out using Google maps. Although the idea might have also seemed a bit crazy, sanity didn’t seem to be a restraining factor at this point in time, everything had just become a new challenge. So on the day, with my body still adjusting to being wrenched out of bed (these events seemed to always start painfully early), I laced up my Asics and hit the dew covered pavement. Between the rhythm of steady breaths, it was fascinating to be able to clearly see in the vista of the rising sun, the paths that I normally ran in the dark of night home from work. It didn’t take long for the sun to start aggressively wear me down and my enthusiasm start to wane as I traversed distances previously unencountered.

Battered by the time I finally arrived in the CBD, I also realised all the roads had been closed off for the marathon. Watching the competitive runners pass by and unsure how I was going to proceed to the Opera House, it occurred to me the most direct route there was lined with markers and cheering onlookers on both sides. As I slipped seamlessly unnoticed into the race, my energy suddenly lifted and the fatigue that had pulled me down moments ago all but dissipated. Shoulder to shoulder with fellow runners, my battle was no longer a solitary struggle, but one of solidarity with all of us striving and perspiring together against this Sunday morning asphalt. Over the overpass that had been especially built over Hyde Park, I felt faster and stronger, as I powered through corners and overtook other runners with ease. 

That morning, as I met Harshi at the finish line (and no, I didn’t run through it), in the midst of a sea of other runners, I came appreciate what our shared experience meant to us. An experience in which words are too impoverished to describe, yet can be more easily understood with your running shoes on. It’s in the meditative rhythm of the body, bearing witness to the clear present experience unintruded by the disruptive thoughts of a stressful day.  It’s in the catharsis of searing pain from your screaming quads as you are compelled to explode into another step forward. It’s in the fits of euphoria as you hurtle down the hill after every last speck of energy was spent ascending it.  It’s in knowing that any obstacle, no matter how seemingly insurmountable, will eventually crumble, if we can just keep our attention, not on the raging monster ahead of us, but on the humble work of putting just one more foot in front of the other. This is why we run.  

As the race drew nearer, more injuries came and went. I had a fight with a stationary bin as I was running towards it. The bin won and I was left with a bloodied gash on left arm. A blister had formed on my toe, and I had to keep applying Vaseline before each run to keep it down. I had now perfected my pre-run routine involving strapping my left knee with k-tape to keep it in place and stocking up on energy gels to use along the route. 

My goal was to achieve a finishing time within 4 hours and 15 minutes. Although coming in under four hours would have made it a nice round number, that would be trying to achieve my sub two hour half marathon time back to back on my first full marathon. Realistically, given the pace I was doing on my training runs, there was no way I was even going to be close. In fact, just aiming to finish the race would be epic achievement in itself.

During a grueling 28 km running through scenic Kiama, my wife followed me along on her bike as we took in the breathtaking splendour of the Woonora river. Towards the end of the run, my right calf felt like it was being stabbed every time I put another step forward. In between my long distance runs, I also mixed in more intense interval training and performed lunge and box jumps to condition my legs. I needed to tread a fine line between being fit enough to survive the distance and pushing my body too hard and causing injury to my already stressed body. The longest training run I did was 35 km, where I had maxed out the number detours I could find on my route home. By the end of it, my legs were basically made of lead, as I struggled to lift one after another and wincing through the pain as I put the next one down.

On my final training run a week before the race, I felt like I was an old man, I was slow and my feet ached all the way, wearied from all the training. I now just needed to rest and let my body recover for the final day. 

My First Marathon – Part One


It has been a very long time since I have posted anything here. No good excuses really. I just haven’t. 

But since there also aren’t any actual readers here, its all good. The force is still in balance.

Last year, I wrote in my own personal journal about running my first marathon. It was a remarkable experience for me, so I wanted to document my journey. Then I thought, hey, this could be something nice to put on my blog. Soon, it became really long and was also just some badly written ramblings on a page. So, I did the only sensible thing in this situation, procrastinate. Finally, after some of cleaning up, I decided it might work better as a series of blog posts. 

So here’s goes. Hope you (my non existent reader) like it!

The Beginning

I still remember when it all began. I was running late. Like really late. Our meeting was all the way across campus. There was only one way make it. Panting and wheezing on what was actually a very short sprint, I realised, ok, all those burgers had taken a worrying toll on me. I was really unfit. 

Ever since then, I took up running, first as ‘eye of the tiger’ moment, but as I enjoyed it more, it became my go to for my relaxation. There was no better way to live than going for some fresh air, exploring my surroundings while breaking a sweat. 

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to run the SMH Half Marathon. On my first attempt, I finished in 2hrs and 1 minute. Next year, I thought, I’m gonna really put in effort and finish under 2 hours. 

The next year my time was 2:05. Not quite what I had hoped for, but I also hadn’t ‘put in the effort’ I rationalised. Then the next year after that my time was 2:10. Alarmed with my gradual decline, I resolved it was the moment for some of that ‘eye of the tiger’ again. I’m really gonna get this 2 hour mark next time. For the first time, I had a goal and I wanted to meet it. 

As the race approached, I started my training with regular runs, mostly after work, gradually increasing my distance while maintaining or increasing my pace. However, it wasn’t always easy to squeeze in the time to keep my routine up. Then I had an idea: why don’t I simply run home from work. Two birds: I’d get my training in and I will arrive home. At first this seemed a bit cray cray, I didn’t exactly live close by and my normal train commute would take around an hour door to door. But what did I have to lose? After mapping out a route and leaving all my belongings at the office, I braced myself and took to the streets. 

My first attempt was hard, hobbling through the dark, I was exhausted, spent, yet it also felt fantastic when I wobbled through the door at home through the pain all on my own two legs. It felt like a momentous achievement, if I could do that, what couldn’t I do? Yet despite the distance, I was still pretty slow. I knew, if I was going to make sub 2hrs, I really needed to up my training and push myself even harder. Over the next few weeks, I continued to run home once a week, pushing as fast as I could and I could see my time slightly improving with every run. I mixed in some interval runs to increase my power and I felt confident that if I could keep this momentum up, I may just reach my goal this year. 

On race day, with my stomach full of guilt free carbs, I was ready. Huddled at the start line, with my running friend Harshi, we took in the buzzing energy of our fellow runners. The gun went off and so were we. As I heard our feet rhythmically hitting the asphalt disrupting the morning dew, I felt it was such a joy and privilege to be there. The cold air, however, was not kind to my asthmatic lungs, unaccustomed to such an early start, I had to take a few extra squeezes of my puffer as we twisted round the corner towards the Rocks. Around 5kms in, on the overpass towards Pyrmont, with the splendid view of sunlit Darling Harbour glittering to my right, I felt I had finally found my rhythm. 

I knew the route well, the same every year, but this time it was also different, I pushed myself unrelentingly through every corner, incline and step with a fierce vigor towards my goal. As we climbed the hill past the observatory, the slope was the source of my exhaustion and pain. Yet somehow, this also fueled my fire further. In a cruel joke only the organisers could find amusing, as the end approaches and you are wanting nothing more but for it all to be over, the route directs you past the finish line, with its cheering crowds and all, but does not let you cross it. It then redirects you to do a full lap of the Royal Botanical Gardens before letting you circle back. The last few kilometers were just hell. When I finally reached the finish line in an exhausted bliss, I looked at my time: 1 hr 53 minutes. I had beaten my goal by an entire 7 minutes! I was stoked.

After munching on some free fruit that was offered for recovery, a thought welled up. If I could do this, what else could I achieve. Whats next, I thought? “It’s time you did a full marathon”, Harshi, said to me as we stretched out our beaten legs on the grass. I had just been thinking the same thing… 

In the following months, the warmth of Autumn slowly faded along with exuberance of my half marathon achievement. The chilly weather provided me the perfect cover to lazily rug up under my safe blankets and ignore the cruel pavement. My wife had a spare flight ticket we needed to use. Having once romanticised about the idea of a destination marathon, I considered how awesome it would be to see a city and run a marathon while doing so, like some sort of masochistic tourist. I googled upcoming marathons around the country and they were all too soon or far into the future. I found one in Hobart sponsored by Cadbury and wondered what sort of disconcerting relationship they must have in place. The next one I found was in Melbourne, who would be hosting their marathon in October, perfect.

With my tickets booked, Melbourne, here I come. 

I will try and get theses posts up every few weeks, so stay tuned for the rest!