First, the bad news...
I’ll be continuing to write this abominable blog for another year or so...
Tough luck, you guys :p
So, SCMM 2015 done... 3:35:02.
In the true spirit of sportsmanship, I will now proceed to make implausible excuses and whine about my experience.
First there was the fog.
My 7 AM flight on Saturday finally left Delhi at 11 AM. In the intervening period, I had a lovely time sitting in a aeroplane seat with enough leg space for a LEGO person. As per a recent technical study on the effect of airline delays on runners that I read somewhere (I forget where), every hour of pre-race flight delay adds an average of eleven minutes and twenty seven seconds to a full marathoner’s finish time. So I guess I did pretty well, considering...
I reached Mumbai at around one in the afternoon on Saturday, collected my bib, went to my room and then sat around twiddling my thumbs between short naps and bouts of HBO. Probably shouldn’t have twiddled my thumbs so much. Really depleted all the carb reserves I had built up by diligently wolfing down fourteen metric tonnes of pasta in the past week. As per a recent technical study on the effect of thumb-twiddling ... Okay, you know where this is going...
I reached the start line well in time to meet friends and fellow runners who would soon be blocking my way when the race started.
I wish I could say they did, because contrary to expectations, I had a reasonably smooth start. That obviously contributed to my poor timing, because all the muscles in my legs that I had meticulously trained to zigzag through the starting crowd suddenly found themselves with nothing to do...which, clearly reduced overall muscle efficiency...
Which you would know if you had read this recent technical study...
It started pretty well, like most of my races, and coincidentally, most horror movies.
I bounded out onto Marine Drive on winged feet, driven by supreme confidence and self-belief. It was cool and dark, and silent except for the beating of soles on concrete. The roadside bands and DJs were still setting up. Some of them clapped and cheered a little. Happily, I slipped into that pleasantly numb state of mind that we runners love so much. Time seemed to stand still between my Garmin beeping out kilometer laps.
At around the 7 kilometer mark, as I was prancing along, this pretty blonde lady zipped past me. Pig that I am, my male ego smarted. So I quickly caught up with her and asked,
"Hi! What's your time goal?"
At first, she ignored me, and when I repeated myself, she gave me a look that could probably burn paper at 20 yards... I swear I wasn't hitting on her or anything!
A glance at my watch told me she was doing 3:45. I fell back, assuming she probably knew what she was doing. Other than that little anecdote, the first fifteen kilometers barely registered on my consciousness.
On the sea-link approach, I drew energy from the cheerful half-marathoners running in the opposite direction. A few familiar faces called out and waved. Strangers yelled “Go 5118!” It was exhilarating.
In Bandra, I crossed the halfway mark, feeling strong, in 1:34.
In my quest for a negative split, I had planned for a 1:37 halfway. So I had run slightly faster than planned. But not too much... Nothing that could break me.
And then, it broke me.
It was at around the 24th/25th kilometer of the race that I began to first suspect that I was maybe not going to get my target time of 3:10. My pace had suddenly and for no perceptible reason, now dropped to 4:35-4:40...and was dropping further. I didn’t feel I was moving slower, but my watch assured me I was. Mustering up some reserves, I tried a surge or two, but nothing I could do would pick it up for more than a few minutes at a time.
By the 31st/32nd kilometer, I was struggling to try to get even a 3:15. My pace was slipping down dangerously close to 5, every so often.
Experienced marathoners will tell you that there is something that happens at twenty miles. At this point, you’ve come as far as your legs can carry you. You tend to transit from the realm of solid physical ability to one of mental and spiritual strength, and rely on those to get you to the finish.
And in this realm, I was found wanting.
By Kilometers 34/35, I was feeling the sharp contrast between the weather conditions in Delhi and Mumbai like a knife in my soul (melodrama much?), and dreading the upcoming incline...I downed a gel I was carrying, hoping it would kick in just in time to help me up that slope. It did nothing for me. Stupid gel.
So at around the 36th Kilometer, It finally dawned on me just by how much I had miscalculated my target... Not only was I not going to be anywhere close to a BQ, or even the 3:18 time that my training plan had predicted for me, I was actually going to have to struggle to even get a PR... And all the wonderful Mumbaikars lining that Peddar Road incline with their smiles and cheers and music and support, couldn’t lift me out of my slump as I walked past them.
I picked up my aching feet and started running at the crest of the hill. And here I crossed the blonde lady from kilometer 7, zombie-walking on the side of the road...
I grimaced and waved at her. She ignored me again. I should be getting used to being ignored by blondes by now...
The last five kilometers were agony. I laboured along the sea-face at a pace of 6 or slower, every fibre in my hamstrings and glutes screaming at me to stop. Crossing the mat at the finish line, I managed a PR by a comfortable 3 minutes and 50 seconds, beating my Hyderabad time of 3:38:52. But it didn’t feel like much of a PR. The Hyderabad course was much tougher, with much worse conditions. If I had raced wisely, I should have been able to cut my time by ten minutes at least.
At the finish line in Hyderabad, I felt strong, and could have run on for a few kilometers more. By comparison, this Sunday, I felt completely drained, and was struck by debilitating cramps just after I finished
.
Irrespective of that, 3:10, I understand now, was a premature target. Heat, humidity, inclines, fast start, pretty blonde women... they are all lame and pointless excuses. With the perfect 4k resolution of retrospection, I see exactly why I did not BQ.
I overestimated my capabilities, and I underestimated the course.
But we’re runners. We crave pain and we laugh at disappointment.
When we fail, we call it Phase One,drink beer, and launch Phase Two.
Now...I have a year. And I’m coming at you again, Boston. Don’t go anywhere.
