Rich Minx

A long time ago, back in the glory days of January 2008, I wrote a mission statement:

“I will train for long-distance running (at least a 10km run; maybe a half marathon).”

Well, here we are in June and I’ve run a half marathon. That’s 21km. In miles - well, it sounds better in metrics.

This morning dawned cold and raining, it being winter and all. At 6.30 the alarm beeped in my face, but I was already awake. I arrived at the starting line and encountered thousands of lycra-clad, stretching, nervous runners, most of whom were entering the 10km run (sounded appealing). The rain started to fall hard. People were sheltering - why? They were about to run through it.

A rogue with a megaphone herded us to the start and suddenly, we were off. The more focused sprinters flew past us noobs with abandon and muscled calves.

As we puffed through the city, people stared as if watching a herd of odd animals being deciphered by David Attenborough (”The majestic and ephemeral runner…”). Small crowds cheered us on. Cups of water appeared. My bung knee, which had been troubling me for two weeks, began to throb but soon numbed. I kept running and running past houses stacked along the coast, alongside the rough grey sea hurling waves and salt in my direction.

Soon we crossed paths with the full marathon runners, who had left at dawn and were heading back. Their distorted faces spoke of lengths I may never face as they neared their own finish. Markers showed our progress - 5km…6km…7km…8km… I thought of the meticulously planned running soundtrack waiting on my ipod: Kanye, Queen, Rage, Zeppelin, anything I had thought might keep me moving. But I didn’t need any of it.

At 10.5km we turned and headed back to where we started, and the second half was easier because I knew I was running towards the finish. The wind picked up to gale force, and we almost got blown off the road. Caps went flying. Some gave up and simply leaned into it. I started thinking about the people who had encouraged me over the past few months, and had come out in the cold to call my name and cheer me on.

At 19km my adrenaline peaked - I can do this! I sped up, smiling, heart pounding. At 20km the buzz wore off - where is the damn finish line?! The final km I just moved my legs forward and breathed. Shivering people circled the finish: “Well done!” someone cried as I tumbled forward, admittedly a little emotional, and realised my feet were hurting like hell. I hobbled forwards to collect my banana (yep, I ran a half marathon and I got a banana for my troubles).

So I did it. How do I feel? Proud. Happy. Sore. Planning to have some fun after the past few weeks of focus. Will I do it next year? Yes - I want to beat this year’s time (not hard!). Will I run a full marathon? No thanks.

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