Since I had committed myself to the full marathon in March, I decided to do some research online to see what sort of training programs I could use to prepare myself.  The first site I found was:

http://www.marathontraining.com/marathon.html

Suffice to say, the training program runs over a course of thirty-seven weeks.  I checked out a few other sites and the shortest I could fine was still twenty-one weeks.  Here I was trying to condense twenty-one weeks into twenty-one days…  Good luck to me. 

In the site above, they did not recommend anyone running a marathon if they had not been running consistently for at least a year.  They wrote:  "the 26.2 mile distance of the marathon must be respected… most people can B.S. their way through the training… leads to the marathon participant surviving instead of enjoying the race." 

Gosh, that almost sounded like grandpa talking me to me during the last seven kilometers of the Great Eastern Pacesetters race.  If I was truly honest with myself, I don't really think I've ever enjoyed a race.  The whole aim of the game had always been about completion, and of course, that shiny piece of medal to show for it at the end.

I will also be the first to admit that I have never really enjoyed training for races.  Clocking in my time on the treadmill was a chore I would not have minded skipping altogether.  The whole thrill of a race was in the finishing and nothing else mattered.

PCL and I had a "get fit" agreement that saw us running a couple of laps around the TTDI track twice a week.  After watching me struggle to complete two miserable laps, she asked perplexed, "How did you managed to run the PJ Half Marathon without training?" 

I flashed a Cheshire grin and simply replied, "I perform a lot better on race day."

In uttering that single line, I realized what it was all about for me.  I believe that the ease of achievement in anything has a strong correlation with desire.  In my case, I had the desire to complete a half marathon, but I had no real appreciation for running.  It was on my checklist of "things I to do before I die" and I just wanted to be able to tick the box.  And because I had completed a half marathon, I had just created another box labeled: "complete a marathon", so here I am.

After the Great Eastern Pacesetter's 30km run, I recall mentioning that I would never again try anything more than a half marathon.  Sitting by the cendol stand where I had collapse as soon as I managed to crawl for my food, GB who overhead my solemn vow shook his head and disagreed, "That's what I said, but then I go back and I'm running again.  After each race I say it's enough, but I keep coming back for more."

Too tired to argue, I just thought to myself, that's you, but I'm me.

Expecting to have to get the bulldozers to get me out of bed the next day, I woke up feeling relatively pain-free.  The following day after that felt just as good.  Surprisingly, I was making a remarkable recovery. 

A few email communiqués transmitting between D and myself and my ego had swelled larger than the size of Ben Hur.  Intelligence went out the door and I found myself signing up for the KL Marathon – the full forty-two kilometers.

I ought to hand D a medal for she has a way with words that can stop the rain from falling and make the sun shine.

The day of reckoning had arrived.  It was a day to be proven or to return with my tail between my legs.  With a barbeque ending at about eleven thirty the night before, I felt surprisingly alert after four and half hours of sleep. 

Recalling the whopping flapper I developed on my little toe after completing the last 10km race in my Nike trainers, I made sure I had packed my New Balance runners.  Also a little wiser from experience, I packed my MP3 player (uploaded with some zippy running tracks) into a waist pouch with three sachets of Power Gel, some money for a cab and a mobile phone to call for help. 

I charged up with a double helping of Weet-Bix and succumbed to my weakness for my morning "pick-me-up" of that magical brown elixir.  Armed with my combat girl water bottle and cap, I hit the streets even before the sun woke up.

S, D and T were car pooling and we were planning to meet up near the Lake Gardens Club.  Despite the fact that we were meeting half an hour before the race began, cars were already amassing around the starting point.  I scanned the multitude of faces for someone familiar but found none. 

Perhaps they were already at the starting line, I thought to myself.

I parked the car and took turns ringing each of them.  No one picked up their phone.  I was getting a little nervous. 

Please tell me they didn't bail.

I got out of the car and started walking towards the starting point.  I had barely walked five meters when I saw S and D rounding the corner.  T was nowhere to be seen.  Apparently, he had called up on Friday to inform D that he was not going to make it because he did not feel ready.  We all agreed it was weak and D was delighted to hear that I had rung his mobile to disturb him at this ungodly hour.

D felt the need to pee.  I figured it was just a nervous bladder, but we both went anyway.  Surprise, surprise, it was the men's toilets that had the long queue, while the ladies' were quite manageable. 

We stayed in the middle of the pack, the three of us pacing together for a while.  The beat of the music was inspiring and I felt good all the way up to the ten kilometer mark.  That was about the time when S pulled ahead and D caught up.  After a while, I was not paying attention to the music any more.  Even the MP3 player was getting tired because it started acting up and going silent from time to time until I jiggled it back into sound.

I could see the faster runners heading back in the opposite direction and I felt that sickening hollow in the pit of my stomach as it dawned upon me that I would also be running back the same way.  I felt a great reluctance to take each step for it meant I was putting more distance between me and the finishing line.  Each stride was another meter I had to run on the return journey.

The trail took us across Jalan Duta and into Sri Hartamas where one of the race marshals shouted, "Five kilometers." 

I guess my brain had malfunctioned and thought I was running twenty kilometers, because I remember thinking, Thank God, only five km more to run.

Heartened, I pick up my pace and kept running and running and running.  It was the longest five kilometers I had ever run.  Even with my brain weary from the physical fatigue, it finally realized that the race marshal meant I had run five kilometers after the first  ten kilometer lap, meaning I was only halfway through the race, not almost finishing.

I remembered that D mentioned we had to run past the mosque in Sri Hartamas.  I kept looking out ahead for a mosque that would mark the return journey of the race.  As I passed Plaza Damas, my thoughts flickered to the mobile phone that sat in my waist pouch.  I lingered on the tantalizing thought of running into the shopping complex and calling the hubby to pick me up. 

I looked at my watch.  He was probably still sleeping and I was certain he would hardly be sympathetic to the cause of rescuing his wife from a fate that she had brought upon herself, so I kept running.

The mistake I made was not consuming my powergel until I had reached the 20km mark.  By that time, my throat was so dry I could barely swallow the gelatinous liquid.  My energy was spent and it was taking too long for the powergel to kick into my system, so I slowed to walk.  Sheer arrogance had made me lose my head to common sense.  Feeling vitalized, I thought I could continue without the powergel.  A grave oversight…

I spent the better part of the last 10km walking.  The funny thing was that I could probably walk as fast as I had been running.  From time to time, when I knew the next water station was up ahead, I would find the extra burst of energy.  Perhaps it was the knowledge that respite was just around the corner. 

Somewhere along the way, an elderly gentleman old enough to be my grandpa slowed down to spur me on.  "Don't stop running," he said. 

With a groan, I quickened my pace into a slow jog.  If grandpa could do it, so could I…  Funny to think my mind could still be so proud even when my body felt like it had been beaten to a pulp. 

I kept pace with grandpa, while he talked to me about the merits of understanding a long distance route.  He also explained the difference between running a race and enjoying a route.  Funny, I was just there to put a tick next to my 30km mark.  Apparently he had been observing me for some distance because he noted that I had the ability, but my technique was out.

I remembered running a half marathon and I had always found the "distance to go" placards very encouraging.  When I hit the "3km to go" mark, I thought, You've got to be kidding!  I've been running forever and there's still three kilometers to go?  The sentiment was no different when I saw the "2km" and "1km" signs.  At the 1km indicator, my fatigue overruled my pride, and I told grandpa to run ahead.  When he was out of sight, I stopped to walk.  I felt ready to pass out.

We turned into Lake Gardens where the crowds were loitering and giving encouragement to the runners in their last leg.  After some cheering, I picked up the pace again.  The battery on the MP3 player was long dead, so the only musical inspiration was the song in reverberating in my head was "I can go the distance". 

I went past a group and one of them shouted, "Only another five hundred meters!" 

I smiled at them, but I think what emerged upon my face was more like a grimace.  He could have said five kilometers for all I noticed.  In the last hundred meters, I pelted down the track with the promised vision of collapsing at the finishing line where they would have to carry me if they wanted me to move.

After crossing the finishing line, a little boy handed me a bottle of water that I was too tired to carry.  I walked over to where some marshals were handing out the vouchers only to find that I had to walk another hundred meters to the food stands.  I swaggered across the field like an inebriate.  It was such a concentrated effort to put one foot in front of the other that I felt like a baby learning to take its first steps.

When they handed me the goody bag, I peeped inside and smiled at the sight of a shiny sliver of silver gleaming up at me.  All this pain for a piece of metal…  I had to be out of my mind, but there it is.

After trudging through a rather muddy field to the finishing line of the Mizuno Pacesetter's 10km run, my almost brand new white New Balance W1220 shoes had taken on an unbecoming earthy brown hue. 

When I got home, I took to the unpleasant task of cleaning them, when my eyes caught sight of the washing machine.  The cogwheels started turning and the light bulb upstairs came on. 

Conclusion: washing machines are great for washing muddy running shoes.

I thought it was a better idea than J's "running in the rain" suggestion.

Note: Since I have a top loader, I left the spin cycle on.  Leaving the spin cycle on for a side loader may not be advisable.  If I ever get a side loader washing machine, I'll let you know how it goes.  For now, I shall leave at the reader's discretion.

Camp5, 1Utama Rockclimbing Gym
Level 5, Skybridge

The opening of Camp5 marked the time to come out of the climber's hibernation I had subjected my body to for the last six months to a year. 

My feet, too accustomed to open-toed shoes, whinged as they were cramped into climbing shoes two sizes too small.  Weighted down by a couple of extra kilos that had not been there before, the muscles which had softened with disuse complained with every pull.  I clambered up the wall with all the grace of a buffalo in a ballarina's tutu.  A few climbs and my fingers could barely curl around the chalk ball, for so fatigued were the muscles in my forearms.

After being goaded by a fellow climber, I tackled the lead wall with a great deal of bravado and the confidence from long-forgotten successes.  For a while, it felt as though I had back that old climbing flow of "water on the rock".  My "mental" shattered into smittereens when I froze on the lead wall barely two meters from the anchor.  It was as if a switch went off and the collected calm that held back the torrent of fear came crashing down like a tidal wave against a rugged coastline.

I felt beatened, but not defeated.  Watch this space.

Okay, so we're erring a little on the late side posting this entry, but hey, I had a wedding to attend - mine!

Isn't it ironic how things often seemed like a great idea at the time of conception and how far from great that same notion becomes when you have to wake up at some ungodly hour on a Sunday, haul your lazy arse out of bed and onto a running track?

That's exactly how I felt on the morning of 18th of December, 2005.  As I reached out to switch off the alarm on my phone, my weary mind lingered on the alluring thought of staying in bed instead.  My thumb caressed the buttons on my mobile phone, blindly typing out a message to M that I had a headache and would not be able to make it to the race.  It hesitated just as it reached the "send" button. 

Of course M would know it was a lie, but he would reply understandingly with a message along the lines of "sure, catch you next time".  Oh it was all so tempting…

Whether it was that fighting spirit within me, the sense of commitment to my friends or something else, I managed to garner enough energy to propel myself into the bathroom.  From there onwards, it was simply a matter of riding on the momentum of being up and about.

M, J, T and S were already at our meeting point by the time I pulled up in the Kelissa.  They appeared ready and rearing to go.  I sighed wearily, if only I could catch half of their enthusiasm, I might be able to batter off the thoughts of crawling back into my warm spot on the bed.  Ah yes, life would be so much better as a cat…

After much warning from friends that I should take it easy leading up to my big day, who would have thought I would somehow manage to injure myself just from walking!  For indeed that was exactly what I did.  I did not fall while racing; I slipped on a spot of concrete slimy from the last rainfall and the accumulated oils from the passing of cars.  How ironic.  Here was my perfect excuse to proclaim an injured knee so I could turn around and head for the comforts of my warm bed, but no, I would press on. 

The first 5km was fairly easy going and my watch informed that I was making good time by the time we hit the first water station.  Hah!  I thought smugly, who needs training?  I was going to hit sub-1hr without it, imagine what I could do if I did train?  It would appear that my visions of a grand finale came far too quickly, for the next 5km was far from a breeze.  We tackled some ominous slopes that would have tested even the best of us. 

Right from the gunshot at the beginning, I never even saw T or S.  M passed me at the water point and J a little after.  I never had a glimmer of hope of catching up with them.  V was the only one I managed to keep pace with and for a while, I thought he had dropped off my radar entirely as well.  As we rounded the corner near where we had parked the cars, I recognized the home stretch.  Elated, I felt an extra burst of energy and increased my pace into loping canter.  Fed by the encouragement of passing onlookers who cheered me on, I pulsed like an electron trying to escape its orbit of a neuron. 

There is something about the mind that brings defeat upon itself, for as swift as my spirit had risen at the thought of finishing I deflated like a balloon without a stopper when I saw that final bend rounding up onto the field.  The little turn had lengthened the track by no more than another hundred meters, but my mind had already decided my legs were giving way.  My pace dropped to a jog and I finished up just behind V with a timing of about 70 minutes.  So much for that sub-1hr finish I had so arrogantly believed I would achieve.

All in all, it was a good race and a pleasant way to end the running season for the year.