Marathons

Are things that most people usually take as a sign of achievement, that show the true perseverance of the human spirit. It speaks volumes of a person’s character and determination when he or she completes such a feat, bettered only, perhaps, by running faster.

To me, it speaks of the ability to run/jog/walk a long distance. Just that, nothing more. For what else does it signify, really? It’s a fucking marathon, not a judge imperious, watching over your every step and making a assertion of your traits.

Whatever the perceptions (mine or others), the 21 kilometre Army Half-Marathon event took place earlier today, the gruelling run being started at around 6.30 a.m., which, in Army Time™ means that I had to report at the fall-in area at 5.30 a.m..

Trust me, it looked completely different while I was running.

Considering the fact that I was up till 1 or so last night thanks to the Singapore Fireworks Festival (of which certain samples are now in my Flickr photostream), this was a pretty tall order.

I reported, half-asleep, to the Singapore Padang, where loudspeakers eliminated any chance that I had of catching up on my rest with a quick snooze before the actual run. Having not trained for the period of time since my Bronco Driving Course began, I was, shall we say, fatalistic about my chances of actually meeting a predefined time for getting an extra day off work: two hours and forty-five minutes.

The race pretty much played out like the Standard Chartered Marathon that I had attended previously as a photographer for my tuition teacher: the standard blocking at the start, the annoying-as-hell loudspeakers, the stampedes at the various water checkpoints along the route, hell, even the running route was almost step-for-step with the SCM’s half-marathon event.

About the only difference was that the Army wasted no effort in pulling out as many obtrusive-as-hell signboards as they could, along with hiring the worst singers I have ever heard. And I listen to a lot of shitty music, by the way. The fact that they were mostly all rappers didn’t help, either.

I was a little perplexed, I will admit, when I finally reached the 16km point and realized I still had about an hour to go before even hitting the 2:30 mark. I honestly did not think I would make it that far, that fast without stopping for a drink, a snack and a fucking overnight stay in the Ritz.

So pure, so white, so clean.

I decided to walk the rest of the way, and made the finishing line with a nice, comfortable timing of two hours and seventeen minutes (Actually, I think I made 2:16, but let’s be safe here), probably a timing I shouldn’t be hoping to achieve again.

Considering I got this short on sleep and fitness, though, I’m pretty pleased, though my legs tell me otherwise. Well. They’ve pretty much recovered by now, but what’s more important is the fact that I didn’t really feel that breathless throughout the entire run. Which means that I’ve finally reached the point where my legs will die before my lungs explode.

Which means my asthma is now irrelevant. Which, in itself, is a victory far sweeter than any stupid marathon could ever hope to provide me with.

Excuse me while I now celebrate by stuffing myself with all manner of junk foods (especially potato chips) and end up needing 100% oxygen by the next morning. Victory!

Oh, and I am so proud of my shoes. They’ve served me well indeed. Any pair of shoes that lasts a marathon deserves an honourable mention, at the very least. They should start stamping medals for shoes that take this kind of bullshit abuse and refuse to tear apart on your smelly, stinking flat feet.

Seriously.

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