genruns

[genruns]

VMM 2016 - A Mountain Marathon to Remember

Hanoi and Sapa, 21-27 September 2016.

Like most runners who never learn, the memories of pain and suffering from past races somehow give way to stronger cravings for new goals and adventures. Despite the hiatus I promised myself after the UTA in May, I found myself signing up for the Vietnam Mountain Marathon (VMM) in September. This was a 42km event in the mountains of North Vietnam, a beautiful place called Sapa. 

I signed up for this with Danny and Vince. This would be Vince's first trail race, and he had only started seriously running barely a year ago. His last marathon was 10 years ago. I admired his bravado and secretly thought him mad. We were joined by Eus, who signed up for the 70km, having done the marathon event the year before. Andre signed up for the 100km race to obtain the remaining points he needed to qualify for a ballot in his dream event, the 170km Ultra-Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB) in 2017. In comparison, my running aspirations are considerably meeker. I am content with taking part in and completing 50km races and marathons. For the foreseeable future I do not see myself going beyond this milestone until I feel that I could clock a reasonable timing for such distances. 

Hanoi   

Visiting the city of Hanoi was an event in its own right. When I first set foot there, so much about the city offended my sensibilities as an urban planner, and derailed my senses as a Singaporean. This was a city governed by basal human instinct and a ruthless desire for making a beeline for one’s destination. Elements of civilisation such as sidewalks, traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, one-way lanes, double yellow line markings are but mere physical presences that mean nothing to the locals. The sidewalks are, if not rendered completely inaccessible by multitudes of parked motorbikes, plied by multitudes of speeding motorbikes. One can never tell if a lane is meant to be single or multi-directional, because motorbikes are going left, right, diagonal - you name it. It is easy to tell which pedestrians are local, and those who aren't, from the way they cross the road. Locals tread the tarmac with an instinctive feel for the speed of oncoming cars and motorbikes, expertly weaving through the confounding mess of vehicles and incessant honking. Foreigners take a brave step out onto the street, falter and freeze as five motorbikes nonchalantly hurl their way, fall back onto the safety of the path, mumble a quick prayer, and nervously start afresh. By the second day, becoming more familiar with how things work here, I felt that I would never have a problem jaywalking at home again. I learnt that the moving vehicles were already primed for pedestrians who blazed through the traffic adopting a fuck-all attitude, and that in order to survive this concrete jungle I had to, similarly, appear 'fuck-all'. 

Traffic and a blatant disregard for rules and possibly human life aside, Hanoi holds a third-world charm that is perceptible from its architecture and vibrant street life. In the French quarter, remnants of its colonial past can be seen from its buildings. Views from some of the wider streets even bear vague resemblances to Paris's tree-lined boulevards. Women donned in traditional Vietnamese dresses and straw hats heaving up loads of street food and other wares on sticks walk the streets. And it is amusing how us Singaporeans often rave about al-fresco dining being a strictly western luxury ("It is just too humid here!"), when all over Hanoi, roadside stalls spill out onto the sidewalks where masses of people sit on puny little plastic chairs and eat at just as puny tables. Some lay back on their chairs, enjoying cigarettes as they watch the maniac traffic scene before them. Can it get more al-fresco than that? Here we have it, the established western principles of what is considered to be good urban planning: density, vibrancy, street life, diversity. 

Of course, one has not been to Hanoi if one has not sampled their street food. To be honest, Vietnamese cuisine had never inspired me much - Pho felt to me rather bland and comfort food during a cold at best, and bahn-mi - my limited experience of them was from the little restaurant next to my apartment when I was living in London, i.e. expensive salad-filled baguettes proclaiming their authenticity just because they added sour chilli sauce and some rice noodles. Boy, was I wrong. In Hanoi, we had the most mind-blowing pho in an unassuming little restaurant. The broth tasted like it had been steeped in spices for a long time. One mouthful was all it took to dissolve in the burst of flavours, herbs and spices (beef, coriander, basil, spring onion, lime...ahh). On this trip, I learnt what proper street ban-mi was meant to taste like. Pate, with a heap of spices and herbs and delectably seasoned meat, sandwiched within toasted fresh baguettes, made all the difference. And yes, we had to go the bun-cha restaurant made famous by Obama's visit. 

Sapa

We spent a day in Hanoi before the 5-hour journey to Sapa. I learnt on the way that Sapa is dominated by the Hoàng Liên Son range of mountains, which forms the eastern end of the Himalayan range. i had no idea that I was going to be running in the Himalayan range! That thought got me really excited. Arriving in Sapa town that evening at about 9pm, we were in for a pleasant surprise. All except Eus who had been there the year before (for the 42km event), we had been expecting a mellow mountain town. Instead, we found ourselves in a bustling lively town with neon lights and street life. It was an interesting blend of tourists and Hmong tribespeople adorned in their traditional headwear and clothes, selling their wares on the streets. The streets were alive with bustling roadside food stalls with all sorts of meats and seafood grilling on coal barbecues, and there were touristy bars crowded with people. Many persistent tribes children were touting their handmade crafts to tourists, following us closely as we walked. 

The next morning, we had breakfast in the hotel and were presented with a spectacular view of the mountains. It was exciting though a little nerve-wrecking to think that in less than 24 hours, we would be running up those staggering slopes. We boarded our van for a jerky one-hour ride from Sapa Town to the Sapa Eco-Lodge, where the finish line would be. It was extremely beautiful scenery with perfectly sculpted rice terraces sloping down from the Lodge, and it gave us an idea of how exhilarating the finish would be. However, I wasn’t having a spectacular time as for some reason (probably due to the street food from the past 2 days), I was having the runs. We did not linger there too long, and travelled back to town immediately for some rest before the race. That evening, I sent Andre off for his 100km race. 

The Race

I suppose it was the adrenaline but on the morning of, I felt pretty good despite having about 4 hours of sleep. Breakfast at the hotel was meagre, with a plain baguette and some butter and jam. It was a blessing in disguise that the chronically late Vince forgot to switch his clock one hour back. He had been up an hour too early, and met Danny and me out on the street just on time. After a 45-minute bus ride, we arrived at the race start. As usual I was too charged with adrenaline to be able to snooze. The race start was a track road flanked by hills. Many of us took off to empty our bowels in watermelon farm which everyone mistook to be a designated dumping ground thanks to a misleading “WC” sign (which we eventually realised pointed to proper sanitary facilities about 500m down a curved road).   

Not long after, the race started with only a 5-minute delay (that is pretty punctual from experience). It started with a 2-3km hike upslope. We turned past a rubbish dump, and straight for a 3km downhill stretch. This stretch was strewn with huge and slippery rocks, and the runners were reduced to a single long trail, each and everyone single-mindedly focused on the task of not slipping on our bottoms. We had lost Danny by this point. The guy was too far ahead to be seen, which really impressed us as he had not trained in the months leading up to the race due to a foot injury. When I stopped to use retrieve my trekking poles (an amazing carbon fibre light-weight pair - a gift from Andre - that I soon realised were key to my survival in this race) from my hydration bag, I lost Vince as well. Having trained largely in a country where ‘off-road’ meant paved nature trails, I was really not used to this terrain. However, images of runners from the past year struggling here knee-deep in mud and terrorised by heavy rain did make me feel grateful for the wonderful sunny conditions under which we navigated this narrow trail.   

Exiting this horrendous labyrinth, we found ourselves embarking upon more beautiful mountain scenery, where we confronted numerous switchbacks, hills adorned with wild herbs and flowers. When I was about 9 or 10km in, I ran into Danny and from there we kept a close distance to each other. However, I was feeling weak during the whole time - possibly due to the tiny breakfast (I am very much fuelled by what I eat), and the runs from the day before. To make matters worse, I could not stop sniffing. My nose was running like hell; I had not fully recovered from a bad cold I’d caught a week ago, and I felt awful. Nevertheless, I persevered on, distracting myself with thoughts of an early pre-20km race withdrawal, and a self-dignifiying image of myself attaining enlightenment on what was important in life - good health and a strong state of mind, not a mindless rat race to the end! This did not happen of course, but the thoughts did serve its purpose to distract me from my despair. 12km in, I remembered I had tailwind on me. God. How could I forget.. I took a swig; the miracle formula enriched me and I inched on towards the first checkpoint at the 14km mark.   

There, I was happy to find Vince waiting. Danny caught up soon after. The villagers sold refreshments - soft drinks, bananas and sweets. I ran into some of the guys doing the 70km run here - runners from higher race categories never fail to impress upon me as a different breed of humans. They ran the bumpy terrain like I pounded the pavement from the MRT station to work, spurred on by my impending lateness at a meeting. After filling up my hydration pack, the 3 of us were off. 

Whilst the feeling of lethargy had not left, I was feeling much more motivated having hit the first checkpoint. This next section was an interesting one where we followed an undulating road track which led to a beautiful karstic landscape. Here, the ground was awash with naturally sculpted white-grey limestone, spaced between little narrow streams that flowed within fissures widened from years and years of erosion. Here, it was extremely slippery and tricky. Runners would call this terrain “technical” (which basically means it’s not very runnable - people like to throw in some jargon now and then for the heck of it). Several people slipped and fell here and I remember this fellow racer who did, laughing, “Yeah, I get it now!” It was funny at that time because the landscape, though beautiful, did indeed feel punishing. 

The trail then brought us running along the thin edges of the terraced paddy fields, where we had to keep our balance to prevent ourselves from falling headfirst into the flooded fields. This was fun and extremely scenic, but I found it extremely difficult to keep up due to my overpronation issue. A probable result of bad walking posture that accumulated over the years since my childhood, it has been difficult to correct the tendency of my feet to land, with more force than is efficient or safe, on the inner soles. This makes it difficult to keep my balance and run efficiently on bumpy and soft ground, and I felt like tipping over many times here. It definitely slowed me down, and I was overtaken by several runners at this point. After ungracefully pounding through the rice fields, I finally reached the road where we were drawn through several hills before we hit the second checkpoint at 20.5km. 

Here and again, I met Vince who was lounging on a plastic chair and eating a banana. Apparently he had been there 10 minutes before me. The race volunteers were serving instant noodles, which I happily downed for all its warmth, salts and (some) carbs. We spent a bit too much time here chatting and filling up our hydration bags, and it was 15 minutes before we left the checkpoint. The road after was a 6km-long continuous uphill with >300m elevation gain. I actually felt really good from here on. Maybe it was the noodles and the MSG (hey, it’s not always a bad thing), but damn I felt on a roll. It took me 20.5km before I finally felt right again, and I definitely wasn’t about to quit now. 

Even though it was all uphill, I really enjoyed myself at this stage. The months of training were paying off, as I scaled the mountains with a sense at last that I might prevail. I overtook several runners and luxuriously took in the breathtaking scenery, even snapping pics at one time on my iPhone (i never ever do that during races). Apart from several short downhills, it was just uphill all the way. I felt marvellous and while in pain, I was in control of that and could manage it. As compared to the weak tingling feeling I experienced earlier, this was a real boost. Vince (that guy overtook me again) was almost always within sight, while Danny was close behind me. It was a little over an hour by the time we got to the third checkpoint at 27km. I was thanking God at this stage for having brought me this far. This time, we were efficient with the checkpoint - we always learn this too late in the race! - spending just five quick minutes on a brief rest and filling up the hydration bag.   

We were now led to a steep and continuous 7km of downhill route (total elevation loss of 400m). We broke into a run here. Though my ankles and legs were tired, I felt liberated from the non-stop uphill trudging and gave into speed. I probably overdid on the hard running at this stage, and promptly sprained my ankle on soft soil. This happened in the middle of a forest path, where there was a construction tractor digging up the soil (don’t ask me why). The two workers standing close by grimaced as I sprained my ankle, and kindly sat me down at a soft spot. Though it really hurt, I knew this wasn’t going to last for very long. My ankle had been weak since I sprained it years ago in school (during a soccer game). Spraining it during races seems to be a mainstay (it happened two years ago in Rinjani as well). Still, the two workers looked concerned, as did a group of Singaporean runners whom I’d overtook not long ago. I assured them I was fine, and would take a rest before going any further. After about 5 minutes of stretching, I felt fine again, bid my thanks and goodbye to the workers, and carefully continued my way to the next checkpoint. This period of stopping, resting and slow-walking after spraining my ankle slowed me down a lot, and probably affected my final timing quiet a bit. By the time I got to the fourth checkpoint, Vince was nowhere in sight. Nevertheless, I did not feel demoralised as I knew my aim was not to finish with an impressive race time, but to end in one piece within the cut-off time. 

Crossing the final checkpoint at 34km, I arrived at a steep uphill forest track. This was at least a 40-degree incline. I wryly imagined congratulating the race organiser on a job well done for leaving the worst bit to the last, as I ascended the trail slowly with aching calves and crying quads. This was a punishing 300m ascent for 3 kilometres, with no break or downhill in between. I made a Vietnamese friend along this trail, who was also attempting this race for the first time. We continued together, and chatting about the race and why we were doing it lifted my spirits and egged me on harder. It felt like ages before we arrived at a pseudo, non-official checkpoint at 37km. I wasted no time here, and taking just the amount of water I needed, went straight to finish the remaining 5km. 

From here on, it was a beautiful downhill run to the end. Just like UTA, the last 5k never feels like 5k. Winding down and around the never-ending switchbacks, I gave it my all - pounding the tarmac racing downhill even though my legs felt incapable of any further stress. I passed several on this final stretch. Though hills and villages on the other side were visible from the track, I simply could not make out where the finishing point, Sapa Eco-Lodge was. I gave up and focused single-mindedly on the objective to end the race. I was really proud of myself for persevering even though my legs felt like stinging lead - I had no clue where this energy and determination to push my battered body came from, but man I felt in control! During the very last few hundred metres, I crossed paths with finishers wearing medals around their necks, and knew I could not be too far off. A finisher warned me that a slight uphill lay ahead, but at that time I could not be arsed to worry about anything. I was so close to the end. Finally, the route took a slightly steep turn to the left, and lo and behold, I was confronted with a familiar row of manicured trees and country flags flanking both sides of the path. We were just here the day before checking out Eco-Lodge. This was exactly the last 100 metres or so of the race. I was feeling amazing - while completely battered - as I sprinted the final few metres past the finish line. 9:59 was my timing - Damn, just one minute to 10 hours. I know that I could have done better without the cold, and had I not felt hungry and weak at the start of the race. Still, I gave it my best shot given the circumstances and that was what mattered. 

The first face I saw was Winnie’s, Danny’s wife, who cheered me into the stands. The sun seemed to be a few minutes from setting then, and was I glad to not have run into the night! Winnie told me Andre was not done yet, and we were still waiting for Danny. Vince was already there with his wife Charlene and 6-year-old daughter Sarah. I ran over to hug and congratulate him on finishing his first mountain race, and also pretty much out of this new-found sense of camaraderie of having suffered together, and seeing each other at our worst. (Though, yes, to be fair, he was mainly the one witnessing me ungraciously blowing my snot into my wrist buff throughout the race. I still claim that was done out of pure ethical reason - I could not and would not blow my snot onto the ground!) Sarah whispered conspiratorially to me, “I’m not supposed to tell you this but I got you flowers.” I didn’t think much about what she was talking about and simply chuckled in response because she looked so cute when she whispered. 

Ten minutes after I crossed the finishing line, Andre did. There were tons of cheering and applause from the crowd as apparently - and I would find this out later - my boyfriend came in 6th place in the 100k category (18:46)! Rushing to meet him at the finish line, the familiar feeling of relief overwhelmed me. (Even though this was his 3rd 100km race, I still could not help but worry about his safety en-race.) We hugged briefly. I'd expected a longer and more affectionate embrace and then a beeline for hot food - as it usually turned out. However, he seemed fixated on one thing - getting a photo taken at a good spot before sundown. Puzzled but too tired to clarify, I followed his lead. 

How I Got Engaged

By the time we found a scenic spot for photo-taking (which seemed the priority of the evening really), Danny had completed his race - turned out we all did within ten minutes of each other. Andre steered me to stand next to him, while our friends just stood on the other side taking pictures of us. Besides feeling completely exhausted and sweaty, I was really puzzled as to why we were the centre of attention. I thought we were supposed to take a group photo. I was also beginning to feel a little shy and self-conscious, even a little selfish as to be ‘grabbing’ all the good light before the sun set.   

In the middle of all this photo-taking, Andre turned to me and said, “Thanks”. “For what?” Well, okay.. not quite sure what I did in the last 10 hours except suffer entirely for my own benefit. 

“For everything.” Huh? Strange time to be so emotional. 

Friends still snapping pics away on their phones, Andre suddenly did the completely unprecedented. 

He got down on one knee, and holy moly it is happening. NOW? I feel so unprepared. I don’t even smell right. I am so effing tired. 

All those thoughts completely arrested my response and when he said, “Will you marry me?” I stood there, stunned. Completely unprepared for this. I knew the proposal would take place at some point in time, but I just never thought it would be September 2016, Vietnam. This was a quick local race we would get into 2016 to obtain the remaining points each of us needed for our targeted races the following year. Of course, that was why he had been so anxious to get a “good spot for photos” right after completing a gruelling race. I just thought he would have proposed at some spectacularly romantic moment on my birthday that December, or perhaps even during the trip to New Zealand we would soon go at the end of the year with his family. I would be dressed up, looking worthy enough to promise a lifetime of marital bliss. Not covered in sweat, mud and not to mention, my snot (all ten hours’ worth). Then again, this is so typical Andre. Making me work and run 42km before I may manage to get engaged. 

I realised I had been quiet far too long thinking these thoughts, when he nervously piped, “Uh, so will you?" 

Feeling simultaneously unrehearsed and guilty for making him wait so long, I replied, “Of course!” The answer was always a yes, yes and a yes. Yet, the usually effusive person that I was had stumbled for a reply to this simple question, managing to fudge it up with such a fickle-sounding response, and even giving him the wrong hand to put the ring on (it is so unintuitive to reach your left hand out as a gesture of acceptance!). Even when the immensity of what had just happened - truly a life milestone - dawned upon me and triggered a twitch in my tear glands, no real tears could come to my eyes as I was truly dehydrated from 10 hours of racing. To hell with the picture-perfect proposal scenes you see on movies. This is real life! 

Still, it was a truly beautiful scene. Where we stood, the mountains were serenely shrouded in blue mist behind us. Next to us were beautiful straw cottages. What a perfect setting for us both. And it was a quiet spot, with no one apart from our friends and ourselves. Our friends cheered and clapped as I accepted his proposal and ring. Sarah came up to me and gave me a lovely bouquet of flowers. Apparently some wits and charm had been deployed to acquiring those - she had gotten the rose from a restaurant manager by sweetly asking for it, while Charlene cleverly matched it with a bunch of small yellow wild flowers she’d retrieved from some bushes near her hotel. I later learnt that Winnie had safe-kept the ring from near the start of our time in Sapa - Andre had inconspicuously handed this to her through our adjacent balconies! - and nervously transported it from the hotel to the race finish point. I also later learnt from Andre that prior to asking my hand in marriage, he had tried to make a little speech (“Gen, you’re the one...”) - to which I had callously waved him off, saying “Can we leave that for later please?” (I recall looking very much forward to a shower at that time.) 

That evening, heading back to our hotel on a very bumpy ride in the van, we joked about how both Andre and I nearly came close to giving up during the race, and how he would have then to come up with a Plan B. At the same time, I had so much to think about and to thank God for. For seeing me through the race in one piece, and for emerging victorious at the finish line not only with a finisher’s medal, but also with a new status as Andre’s fiancée. I felt proud, and marvelled at the determination of Andre and my friends who all did so well during the race. At the same time, a certain pride extended more deeply within, knowing I was now engaged to this beautiful, wonderful man. I guess I had never fully appreciated the weight of the terms “engagement” and “marriage” - having always viewed it as a rite of passage, some kind of mandatory process of social labelling - till that very evening, when I truly felt the simple significance of the little piece of metal (and very nice rock) secured to my finger. 

In more ways than one, Vietnam 2016 will always be a sweet memory - of a race well run, and a very important engagement well made.

[genruns]

Ultra Trail Australia 2016

Completing the UTA 2016 50km race would always be one of the happiest and most memorable moments of my life.

Training for it was also just as memorable, though definitely not always easy. The 6 months leading up to the race was intense, with an arduous regime that involved 2-3 x runs a week with at least 1 long one of 25km or more, 1x legs-strengthening workout, 1x incline treadmill run and 1-2x yoga to stretch out. To a regular trail running athlete, this may sound like a piece of cake. Some runners clock in 100km or more on a weekly basis, and they fret over not clocking enough mileage. But for me, a rookie, keeping up with this schedule was a real challenge, mentally and physically..   

Nevertheless, keeping up with the training regime I had set out for myself was a challenge I admit I relished. Training was not just ���something I had to do”, but something that fired me through my daily life. Nothing soothed my nerves and boosted my morale like a night run, an intense workout in the gym, or a good yoga core session (it is not really yoga.). And though I cannot say that being shaken out of bed by the alarm clock at 5 am on Sunday mornings was a mood elevator, the endorphins from training runs with Bukit Timah hill repeats induced by exchanging knowing smiles with other like-minded runners drawn to the same sufferfest, marvelling at their age-defying determination and positivity, and a good ol’ guilt-free meal with my training buddies after couldn’t make for a better weekend. 

Another big part of what made UTA 50 so special was how much I enjoyed it. In the days leading up to D-Day, I was anxious about the pain and mental duress of the race. I was plagued with self-doubt: Had I trained enough to complete it? What if the pain got too much and I bailed out? Would my legs give up on me? These were all different versions of the same fear - that I would not be strong enough for an ultra-marathon. The anxiety that I had not actually attempted a road 42km, and that the longest run I had done was 30km in Bromo (a DNF no less - I had completed the course 15 minutes over the unforgiving 6-hour limit) mercilessly taunted me. 

Arriving at Katoomba, I felt differently about everything. Soothed by the cool weather and distracted by the unfamiliarity of the scenic surroundings of the Blue Mountains, my nerves soothed. I felt bathed and protected by the cool air and novelty of the experience I was about to have. The cottage we stayed at was perfect. Spacious, cosy, and with an indoor fireplace by which we would share wines and jokes in the prematurely-darkened winter evenings, it was everything we needed and more for a base. The company was great. We were all running, and shared the same pre-race excitement, though of varying levels ranging from adrenaline-charged confidence (mostly Andre) to pure jitters. Andre, who was doing the 100km, was immensely confident since he had already competed in a 100km event with higher elevation in Mont Blanc last year, finishing within a decent 23 hours. Eus was attempting his first 100km. Danny, my training buddy and fellow 50ker also about to embark on his first ultra-marathon, was cool as a cucumber. 

Race day surpassed all expectations. Having bid good-bye and wished Andre and Eus luck as they left the cottage at 6am for the 100km race start, I felt surprisingly relaxed as I prepared my hydration pack and left the cottage with Danny. Walking to the race start at Scenic World, we were so caught up with watching and cheering the 100kers on as they ran/walked their first 5km towards the mountains that we almost missed the turn to the start!

At the race start, the atmosphere was more festive than D Day-esqe. Music was playing, friends were hugging to wish each other luck, everyone was dressed in bright race colours… it was impossible to feel any nervousness. When the horn sounded for the start, it was in high spirits that we began. The first 6km or so were on tarmac roads that looped around before the trail paths leading to the mountains. I observed that the majority of the runners in our start group - the last one (since we had not submitted any records of past races) - were 40 or over. Several of them were groups dressed in matching gear, friends like Danny and myself who had trained together for the event. Everyone wore smiles on their faces, and there was no sign of anxiety or fear at the impending challenge. In fact, everyone walked. I was not used to this as this was completely runnable flat ground. Where the roads were wide enough, Danny and I overtook several people on this stretch, walking on the upslopes and bearing in mind what Andre had told us, “to run with no ego". It was with exhilaration when we finally arrived at the trails and “real country”. 

The run-hike through fifty kilometres of the Blues was never going to be easy, but it went by with much less pain than my anxious mind had pre-conceived. I took the advice of wise men along the trail: to take it checkpoint by checkpoint. Shortly upon arriving at the trails, we descended The Giant Stairway, where we probably spent a good half-hour at. There, we met a friendly local runner who, upon knowing that we were running this route for the first time, basically told us what we were to expect for the rest of the course. It came as no surprise that we were pretty much coming back up the same way we were going down. Being prudent (with a sense of self-preservation), we would not worry about that till we got to the second half of the course. Coming to the end of the Giant Stairway, we found ourselves in beautifully rugged trails adorned with creeks and waterfalls. All around us were towering eucalyptus trees with their bleached slender trunks and light green canopy. The sounds of the forest are always magical to any city-dweller, though they were mixed with the grunts and panting of fellow runners, especially as we began a very long hike up stairs. 

After what seemed like a long time (2:45 hrs), multiple quad cramps and some tarmac roads later, it was with relief and joy that we arrived at our first checkpoint at 17km. This checkpoint provided a rather startling contrast to the earlier scenery, being held next to a up-class little inn. After close to 3 hours of being in the forest, seeing a man in suit taking pictures of us from the hotel did make me feel slightly savage. Anyway, I was past caring as I descended upon the gummy bears and energy bars. We took our time to refill our bottles, stock up on sweets, and refuel with Tailwind (otherwise known as miracle water). 20 minutes later (I will later admit that that was way too long for a break), we were back on course. 

Resuming our journey, we were confronted with a multitude of stairs and hills. Danny and I both suffered a few good cramps there, which could only be soothed by the occasional sip of Tailwind (otherwise known as miracle tonic!) and the prospect of hitting the next checkpoint at 28.4km. When we did get there, we were super efficient with the break this time, stocking up on bananas, gels, even some bread rolls. I remember that was when I felt, “Geez, this is a proper 7-course buffet as compared to those Indo races!” A quick toilet break too, and we were off. Right as we were setting off for the inevitable 700m descent of Kedumba Pass, we saw the first 100k-er race down and through the checkpoint. Seriously amazing. And mad. That guy didn’t even stop for long. A few quick sips, a bunch of bars, and he was gone. He was running at my pace on flat ground, and certainly did not look like he had just completed 78.4km. I wondered where Andre was at that time and hoped he was doing fine. 

The descent down Kedumba Pass was pretty brutal - the steepness of the hill did not take kindly to the calves. I felt really battered at this time, repeatedly telling myself that this was do-able, this was down-hill, thank goodness we weren’t going the other way up. I remember my toes hitting the front of my shoes a whole lot, and I was consciously trying to keep my feet to the back.  When we did hit Jamison Creek after 8km of continuous downhill, the terrain morphed into upward slope, and we were to conquer 3 hills. Lots of people were definitely feeling the pain by this time, some had stopped by the side of the trail to catch their breath. I was feeling exhaustion, pain and exhilaration all at once. I couldn’t believe I was getting past that critical and personal threshold of 30km.

At the 41.2km mark, we finally reached the last checkpoint. Here, I got my very first dose of warm race hospitality. Here, let me explain: Race hospitality goes beyond any other sort of hospitality - we are talking about helping people switch out of their soiled socks, filling up their soaked and stinky hydration packs - stuff like that. I really wanted to get my toes taped, and lo and behold, a race volunteer comes up and does it all for me! I was really grateful for that as I would have fumbled and spent some time, given my exhausted state. Also, my mind was absolutely trained on the remaining part of the trail - a fierce, steep uphill. I know Danny was thinking the same when he asked another volunteer, “How long do you think this last 8km will take?” He replied with a grin, “Please don’t ask me questions like that!" 

A quick re-fuel, and we were off. We kept things light and easy. We chatted. This helped keep the pain in our quads and calves (and pretty much my whole body) at bay. My mind dwelled on positive things - the kindness of the volunteers, the beauty of the surroundings, the wonder of temperate climates! (For once, i wasn’t sweating in places i didn’t know was possible!) At the 42k point, I slapped Danny a high-five on having completed my first marathon. At the 43k mark, we congratulated each other on having done ultra-marathon distance! It was a wide dirt trail for about 3km, before we hit the forest trails. This felt a little like home ground, where the terrain is forest ground with rocks. It was clearly evening by that time - around 4:30pm, and we had aimed to get back to the finish line before sundown (5pm). However, this was a brutal 5k that took much longer than half an hour. There were signs mounted on the side of the trail which counted the distance down km by km, but it seemed they were there to demoralize rather than encourage the runners, as the time lag between each kilometre felt like an eternity (a sentiment later shared by Andre, which makes it doubly valid). Danny was awesome throughout, encouraging me to keep going on, and at some points, I thought we were really doing great for the state we were both in. The motivation toward the finish line, the knowledge that we would DEFINITELY finish within the cut-off time — these all helped a great deal. When we did finally reach the bottom of Furber Steps - the infamous final 900 and something steps that would lead to the finish line, I gave it my all. It was also the best part of it, because it was when all the pain, sweat and dirt had culminated into an exhilarating finish. We completed the race in 9 hours and 52 minutes - within the 10 hour goal that we had set. The sun had just fully set by then - perfect. I don’t think I ever felt more accomplished at achieving a personal goal. 

This race for me will always be an important milestone in my life, a symbol of what I can achieve if I really put my mind right and work hard at it. What I love most about this sport is not the bragging rights to superhuman feats (though I’d like to think I deserve this just once for the UTA), but that it is truly a sport that teaches about life. I know this sounds like a cliche, but I don’t know any other sport that teaches patience, endurance and a steady mind when things get tough (or painful), how to let go of one’s ego, the importance of pacing well and not going too quickly too soon, how to be agile and adapt to change (mostly of terrain but sometimes weather too).. all at once.

[genruns]

what i talk about when i talk about running

In this busy world of ours, all too often, we let life's great moments pass us by. We get desensitised to the beauty of our world and our experiences. One thing I often promise myself to do is to fully appreciate the beauty of things I get to see, feel, hear, smell, taste, listen, read, watch.. be it of the mind or senses, these are the things that make life worth living. So I'll start this blog off with this hope.. 

Perhaps to start the blog off with some thoughts on a rediscovered gem on my bookshelf: Murakami's "What I talk about when I talk about running"

I picked up a copy in Waterstone's at Gower Street 4 years ago. I was a Geography major at UCL then, in my third and final year. Collecting reading material to further my knowledge of the endurance sport, I was preparing to write a short thesis on running in the city. A complete Geog geek, I was interested in exploring the socio-physical dimensions of engaging the urban landscape through this sport. Having browsed millions of articles from sports science & psychology, marathon statistics and the slightly more dubious fields of "gendered sports studies" (think "Geographies of Lesbianism through sport"), I was excited to learn about what this famously quirky Japanese author had to say about the sport. His experiences and writing would add a novel take to my research.

At the time, I did not run much. The most I ran was forced 5k battles on the treadmill in that dreadful basement gym at Russell Square (to ward off the Fresher's 15 that had overstayed its time). So yes, the book, it wasn't long (in fact, his shortest novel maybe), but I didn't last 2 chapters. I just wasn't that all interested. Sure, I was a nerd and attracted to the idea of how one's socio-cultural experiences & appreciation of the city could be shaped by the act of running - but I wasn't much into the whole running thing. The book felt repetitive in its chronicling of his insane training regime.

Now, I run regularly. Sometime early last year, having just started working for a few months, I decided that I wanted some other goals to aim for outside of work. And also partly due to my boyfriend's intense (sometimes near-compulsive) love of the sport, I too started running longer distances. It started with 8, 10, 12, 15, 21, 25k.. So a month ago, running out of things to read, I picked up my Murakami running book again, curious to rediscover it.

It was a whole different book now. I'm not saying it blew my mind but more than that, I was completely amazed by how much I could now relate to Murakami's experiences. Granted, I don't run half-marathons everyday like he does, but that feeling of determination and not wanting to miss something you commit to, and eventually want to do regularly, feels much more familiar now. And beyond that, I realise that certain things in the novel stood out more for my 4-year-older-self now. The simplicity of his life and his enjoyment of his daily routine and exercise regime.. his sheer and admirable stubbornness of sticking to what he just feels like doing (like ditching his successful bar business for full-time writing career, just cuz he felt like he had it in him and could really work on it), despite what other people say, all appealed to me now. 

His book does not read with a structure, and he clearly did not plan for a structure. This was a side project he added lines to each time there was some progress in his running regime, the milestones and major updates marked by his races -- alongside writing his longer fictional novels. Perhaps that's what I found most alluring. Something that could perhaps explain that admirable stubbornness is his instinctive knowledge that things will turn out fine, don't sweat over it. Not that he doesn't work for it - just take a look at his rigorous marathon training regimes - but that he does not sweat over the likelihood of a good result, and puts his whole being into making it work out, strategising. You don't sweat over planning for it, you sweat over the implementation of the plan, if that makes sense. Just like how his bar from his younger days turned out to be a success (he had claimed no natural business acumen, but simply got down to the daily hard work of bar-tending and accounts), he pursued his novel-writing endeavours despite being first scoffed at by his friends towards - as we all know- more than a modest success.

Murakami declares that natural talent in writing alone cannot make a good author, along with it comes "these two disciplines - focus and endurance", similar attributes crucial in running. Murakami is a great philosopher of the body and mind when he states:

"Fortunately, these two disciplines—focus and endurance—are different from talent, since they can be acquired and sharpened through training. You’ll naturally learn both concentration and endurance when you sit down every day at your desk and train yourself to focus on one point. This is a lot like the training of muscles I wrote of a moment ago. You have to continually transmit the object of your focus to your entire body, and make sure it thoroughly assimilates the information necessary for you to write every single day and concentrate on the work at hand. And gradually you’ll expand the limits of what you’re able to do. Almost imperceptibly you’ll make the bar rise. This involves the same process as jogging every day to strengthen your muscles and develop a runner’s physique. Add a stimulus and keep it up. And repeat. Patience is a must in this process, but I guarantee results will come."

The parallels he draws between running and writing are one of the things I enjoy most in his novel. Both require a spark of talent, but that is only a spark that, unnourished by diligence of training and dedication of focus, cannot grow.

What is it about running that people enjoy? Sometimes, I find myself yelling this to myself in my mind as I rough out the miles I set for myself that morning. I know part of it comes from my perfectionist attitude, I don't like doing worse than what i've done before, and I'm often committed to do better. Similarly when I run better, the only way to keep it up is to keep running. Another thing is fitness. Still, there are many options for fitness that don't have to be this painful (running is a painful sport). But there's something else. Murakami puts it into sweet perspective:

"Most runners run not because they want to live longer, but because they want to live life to the fullest. If you're going to while away the years, it's far better to live them with clear goals and fully alive then in a fog, and I believe running helps you to do that. Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that's the essence of running, and a metaphor for life — and for me, for writing as whole. I believe many runners would agree.”

Finally, to end with a favourite musing from his book. This question pops up now and then when people talk to me about running. I tell them I like to think about what to eat after the run. (Maybe I forgot to add that another reason why I run is because I love food so much. There's no way to keep slim by continually eating and not burning, obviously.) :

"I'm often asked what I think about as I run. Usually the people who ask this have never run long distances themselves. I always ponder the question. What exactly do I think about when I'm running? I don't have a clue."