Author: MR25

Start Line

As the deafening sound of the horn blasted across the sea of runners,  runners in the sub-four hour pen fumbled to get a decent start.  For some unknown reason, the chain separating the recreational athletes and the elites was still in the midst of removal when the horn went. And as everyone in front seeminly took off with relative ease, I narrowly ‘escaped’ the suspended chain. ‘Heng arh’ I thought,  otherwise it would be my shortest marathon attempt ever.  And perhaps my last as well,  if I had tripped and trampled to my demise.

As in every distance race, there would always be people who would start their race as if they were robbers, only to slow down as fatigue catches up, and block the path of oncoming runners. Logically thinking, given the sheer distance of the marathon, one would not expect such nonsense. On the contrary, it seems that there are people who like to test their anaerobic capacities (and perhaps stupidity), with disregard to people who want to run a decent race. I, as with the majority, belong to the latter group.  I have to admit though, that temptation in the form of an elbow jab or clothesline would be nice, perhaps even euphoric, but being gracious is something that one should strive to be, aye? (Road(runner’s) rage?)

6th to 9th Kilometre

The average recreational marathoner consumes anything between three to x number of gels,  where n is defined as the maximum number of gels one can carry,  in addition to whatever amount one can take from the course (Soon, 2011). Joke aside,  most people would purchase specialised race belts which enable a runner to carry multiple gels,  hands-free of course. I,  on the other hand, prefer my ‘patented’ method of taping the gels to my body (think of it as a runner ‘terrorist’). It worked for me last year, and so I decided to stick with it,  albeit with some ‘improvements’ to the technique. I have to admit that taping something solid like tablet chews to the lower back was pretty much difficult and a failed attempt; the ziploc encased chews fell off during the warm up. Final inventory at the start line: Two gels taped to the body, another two in hand,  chews in the other hand.

Somewhere during the sixth kilometre, I felt the tape on the left side becoming a tad loose. Before I could remedy the situation, it fell off, giving off an unmistakable slap as it hit the ground. With three gels left, I was not too worried as I used three gels in the previous marathon. Another kilometre or two later, the tape on the right side began to peel off.  Instinctively, I ripped it off and held it in one hand, the remaining two gels and chews in the other. With three gels and chews in hand, I was pretty much safe from bonking (crashing into the proverbial wall). Or so I thought…

Approaching the 10th Kilometre

My marathon refuelling usually begins at the tenth kilometre mark with the consumption of a gel with water. And there was where problems started. As I discarded the emptied gel packet, the other two slipped out of the other hand on the downswing. Zero gels left by the tenth kilometre. If it is any time to panic, this would be a good time. To add on to my predicament, GI distress (stomach discomfort) set in a few minutes later. And at that moment, my 2008 marathon fiasco flashed through my mind (in short, the most expensive toilet break ever).

At this point in time, and considering the events of the past week, it almost seems that an unnatural force was trying to hold me back from running well.

1) Six days before the race, my Garmin watch failed me (reset button stuck inside watch body = design fail) and I had to find a replacement urgently. I managed to get a newer model the next day, though I was a little pissed at my predicament of paying for an overpriced but essential piece of equipment.

2) After figuring and testing it out, I realize that the accuracy of the speed and elevation profiles were extremely off. I ended up getting a replacement set from the service centre on the other side of the island, only to find out it turned out to be the same. (Note: GPS watches are accurate on straight road and big loops, but on track,  they become ridiculously inaccurate. Up to 15% off,  and imaginary hills.  But then again, my previous watch did not seem to have this problem.)

3) And perhaps the most debilitating event was running a fever on Friday evening. A fever 36 hours before a race. Much of it subsided by Saturday morning, though my entire body felt very stiff, pretty much felt like I got run over by a train. How I managed to feel alright by race day morning is nothing short of a miracle. Very thankful for that.

Pitch-dark

Devathas, Chee Yong and I ran as a pack for much of the race, hovering about a sub four-minute pace (per kilometre, not miles!). We turned into the long and surprisingly dark stretch of East Coast Park. So dark as though in an abyss. The reality of slipping or running into a lamp post was quite real,  given the wet road conditions and sharp turns. What was even more aggravating was that some of the volunteers (bicycling) nearly collided into us. Too much excitement in the first hour I would say.

Still battling the effects of GI distress, maintaining a constant pace was a challenge. It was not until the halfway point that I began to ease up. 1:24 at the halfway point. Not too bad given that my PB was about 30 seconds faster. The possibility of a sub 2:50 seemed doable, but in the event that I bonked or have a cramp pretty much spells the end of it, and a possible DNF.

Breaking Point

En-route exiting ECP was perhaps one of the more pleasant experiences of the race.  Seeing the mid-packers coming in, and a couple of familiar faces helped to alleviate the monotony of pounding our feet against brick and tarmac. But perhaps the highlight here was when we overtook last year’s runner up Ashley. Crossing my fingers,  I waited for a response as we went past him. I did not dare turn around to see, lest I jinx the moment. After what seemingly felt like forever, nothing. No response. Within the pack, two of us were in contention for a podium finish. Mok Ying Ren, who was different class of athlete, was minutes ahead of us.

As we exited East Coast Park, I decided to consume the chews for what I hoped to be an energy boost. On the contrary, I ended up choking and had to spit it out. In retrospect, it was an avertable mistake. I had only tried the chew once before the race,  and it was just a sample taste and not during a training run.  The same can be said for the gel; tried a new brand of gel once only on a easy run.

The final blow came when a stitch struck a couple of minutes after spitting out the expresso chalk concoction. I gradually succumbed to the pain, no longer able to keep the pace, watching in despair as Chee Yong and Devathas plodded away.

Bridging the Gap

Over the next two kilometres, the stitch eventually subsided. I was at least half a minute, or perhaps even a full minute behind them. With the legs already beaten up, the probability of catching up seemed ever so low. Mustering whatever strength left, I managed to cruise just under four minute pace, hoping still that I could somehow pull off a sub 2:50.

Approaching the Marina Barrage, I caught sight of Chee Yong, Devathas, and a middle-aged man running as a pack, hundred odd metres away. They seemed to have slowed down quite a bit, but given my current pace there was still much work to be done.

Within the next three kilometres, I managed to narrow the gap to about sixty metres.  Like a predator stalking its prey, I was cautious not to make any sudden noises,  lest they sense my presence and take off again. At the base of Singapore’s very own ‘Heartbreak Hill’ (the infamous Sheares’ Bridge), the gap had narrowed down to about thirty metres. The trio ahead seemed to have slowed down even more,  perhaps to conserve strength for the remaining few kilometres, or warding off possibility of cramping. ‘This is it. This is my chance.’ Speed was never my fortè, but I was fairly resilient on hills. With whatever strength left I had, I upped my effort on the slope.

Attempting a ‘Wesley Korir’

A few metres away from the trio as we neared the crest, I threw the hammer down. Eyes closed, arms pumping and head arched back, I launched mysef forward, probably looking like a deranged maniac. By the time I had reached the crest,  I had passed the trio. The cohesiveness of the pack began to break, as they responded to my surge. Trying to fend off a counter attack and to increase whatever minor lead I had, I accelerated on the descent.

Hanging On

However, my lead was short lived. Chee Yong, formerly a middle distance track athlete, had the speed reserve to respond. I could hear his footsteps behind me as he gave chase down the slope. By the time I hit the flat section, he was already twenty metres ahead of me. Trying to launch another attack was impossible; the surge on the uphill had began to take its toll. I could feel the lactate pooling in the hamstrings. Fearing that I would jinx the moment, I dared not look behind.

With the cumulative fatigue, the final kilometres felt excruciatingly long. Pounding my way towards the Esplanade, I found myself running alongside the runners from the half marathon. Weaving past them was akin to fire movement in the jungle, or taking evasive maneuvers in an aerial dogfight. With my head tilted and arms flailing (Zatopek-esque, perhaps even uglier), I sped round the final bend and down the final straight. ‘2:49:3X’. Crossing the finish line in disbelief, I checked the distance registered on my watch. ‘It’s official. PB-ed’.