A Journey to Remember

The latest wave to hit Chennai’s shores was the Chennai Marathon ’05 on Sunday, February 20th. Kiruba, Jacob and I were absolutely pumped up before the d-day, meticulously keeping track of what to eat, the route, etc. In spite of all these attempts to keep myself primed before the actual race, my knee decided to pull an arthritic cramp on me the week before, and in Mumbai I was attacked by the worst cold I’ve had in a year. So, did I run? Did I arrive in glory..or on a stretcher?

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5:30 am Sunday morning. I was still sniffling, had a slight cough, but I felt significantly better than the day before. I knew I didn’t have to run, but it meant something to me, and I had to do it. So I stuffed some cotton in my ears, packed plenty of tissues in my pocket and scoped out an auto to take me to the beachside Anna Square, where the race would begin. I arrived at the location well in time before the start of the marathon, but was astounded at the enormity of the crowd that had already collected until that point. I hadn’t gotten my number till then, so by the time I actually waded through the crowd, found the table and pinned the number, the announcers were asking runners to take their positions for the marathon.

“Men, the Main Marathon is about to begin. We repeat, the Full Marathon, the Main Event, is about to begin. Take your positions!”

Soon after, it was time for the half-marathon, i.e. the Ladies Marathon, to begin. It is believed that women cannot run a full marathon (or are unwilling to) so we are conveniently denied the choice. I heard the announcers announce, “Ladies and boys, take your positions, the Ladies Marathon is about to begin!” As soon as this was announced, the crowd surged forward in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the women. While at first I was annoyed that they kept calling the full marathon the “main event”, I actually felt sorry for the men after I realized that men who actually wanted to only run the half-marathon, couldn’t do so without some serious damage to their self-esteem.

The whistle was blown, and we were off. Some of the men whistled, and I could hear the strains of some lewd filmsong floating in the salt breeze.

Filmsong or not, the key was to keep going. The first few km are always the hardest for me; after 8km or so I can keep going at a steady pace. At the 6 or 7k point, I stopped to blow my nose. Soon after, I felt someone patting me on the shoulder saying, “Go on, you can do it!” It was Michelle, a wonderful Maltese pilot/newmom whom I just met at the starting line. I couldn’t help but think how nice it was of her to pause her own running to cheer me on. I kept going.

The 10k point was nearing, and I could see a water stop in the distance. Two young boys, both perhaps around 9, were handing out water in cups to runners. “Some water?”they earnestly enquired. When I stopped to fill my own bottle from the water can, they rushed over and tried to foist a cup on me. “Don’t stop, just take this water!” they urged. I looked at them, thought of something to say that would express how thoughtful I thought it was for them to be doing this, especially at their age. I couldn’t think of anything, so I smiled, and went on my way.

The turnaround point came, and the bluish-white waves of the Besant Nagar beach became visible. A group of slum-children, clearly taken aback by the strange spectacle, had seated themselves comfortably on the sandy pavement near the road. They gawked at the runners, pointed, smiled, waved and cheered us on.

15km down, and I knew I could make it. 12-time marathon runner Jacob, who’d been counting the number of girls before me, paused momentarily when he saw me to cheer me on, “Come on, Smita, you can do it, you’re in the *th place now!”
The sun was beating relentlessly now, I was feeling a bit stuffy and I was on a busy road stretch before the finish line. Standing in front of the thatchments of roadside fruit-sellers were some appointed water bearers who were handing out sponges and water. One man caught my eye, and I turned to take a better look. Sure enough, an old fruit seller, in his tattered veshti and muddy shirt, was handing bottles to runners. This man is offering me water, I thought, who probably has no drinking water for himself…

I did finally make it. But when I approached the finish line I realized that my finishing was just incidental to the experience. The beauty, it struck me, was not in the arrival, but in the journey. Lao Tzu sure got it right when he said, “A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.”