Run Amazon Run

I should conclude my running story already.

So there I was on the treadmill plodding my fat arse day after day, week after week, months after months trying to cross the 5 minute timeline. I was up against myself. It felt good coming to the gym all pumped trying to up my last run. I even bought a sportsband that could clock my KMs so I could have a running journal on a website. (No, I can't be un-tech savvy to record it the old skool way with a quill and a parchment). Besides, this device tells me how much calorie I have burnt and the speed I was running so I can cancel out the roti canai and nasi lemak I had last week. (This was the start of my obsession with calorie counts).

Do you know a roti canai has 300 calories content? It takes me half an hour of running to burn that whole thing off. And that doesn't include the lemak berkrim milo ice that comes with it. I disgust myself that way so I will be able to push that plate of mouth watering brownies aside when my self-control betrays me. It works.

As the days passed by I learnt to be in tune with my body. I listened to it and made mental notes in my head. It works when I do this way. It crashes when I do that way. My breathing regulated and there were less side stitches and on a good day cramps were unheard of. I solved the puzzle.

I ran my first km. Then it was 2km, then 3, then 4 and voila! 5km. Having achieved that 5km benchmark, what I did next was to better my timing. First it was 10 hours. Then it slowly became 36 minutes. My best timing to date.

My cousin, a good running mate, told me "Don't worry, your body is a brilliant machine, it will be able to withstand more pain than you can imagine". Oh yeah? Well, here goes nothing.

I beat myself to death every week. Sometimes after a run I'd ask myself (while applying koyok all over my body making into a giant mentholated shroud) "What the hell am I doing to myself? No one is putting a gun against my head and forcing me to run. Who am I kidding? Is this how people slowly turn crazy?".

I'd have conversations with myself (this is how people turn crazy) - you couldn't even run last time but now you can do a 5km run like you were born to do this. Isn't that amazing? Who would've thought that could happen? Doesn't it feel good?

HELL YEAH!

So I signed up for the Standard Chartered KL Half Marathon(21km)Run 2011.

Oh there were still doubts along the 4 months leading to the run. Many, many, many doubts. "Seriously? Wake up at 6am to run at Lake Gardens on a freaking Sunday morning? Are you kidding me??" "We are doing this every freaking Sunday for 4 bloody months? You're shitting me" "YOU *pokes mirror* are a joke".

But that was what I did. I was determined to run my first half marathon and complete it within the time limit so I can get a measly finisher's medal, a certificate and a nice picture of me at the finishing line.

For what? For that satisfaction and self-fulfillment. For being able to prove to myself that if you put your heart and soul to it not forgetting the blood, sweat and tears, you ... YOU... yes me... YOU will be able to do any fucking thing you thought only other people can do.

I have to share my final moments during the marathon.

The final 2km was excruciatingly difficult. My toes were chaffing against the insides of my shoes, I was confident my toe nails would drop off one by one (killing themselves) when I take off my shoes. I felt exhausted, spent and I was up against time. The qualifying time for a medal and cert was 3h30m. My stopwatch showed I was at 3h10m. I did a simple arithmetic in my head - my normal 1km time is 8 mins. But my pace was in the gutters because I was panicking and my breathing was all over the place making me gasp for more oxygen and hello! lethargy was setting in. So if I want to finishing before 3h30m at what pace should I be doing?

Nothing came. It was just a big flat screen in my head with the sound of white noise. How will I face myself if I don't get that medal? All those a year and a half of punishing my knees and lower back until some days I can't even walk, down the drain just like that? Can I live with just a pat on the back and a "good job you!"?

No. This is not the way I will tell my story.

I don't know if my bionic ability (I knew I had when I was little but never came about all these years) suddenly decided to surface. But I heard the sound the 6 million dollar man makes when he dashes to save someone in slow motion, ringing in my head. I picked up my pace and was sprinting with all my might towards the finishing line. I was gritting my teeth and grunting like a charging mad bull at the imaginary flapping red cloth. It must have been an adrenaline rush. My ears were hot, I know my legs were cramping, my heart was pounding against my chest but I kept on running and running and running if my life depended on it. (It did).

When I crossed that finishing line, a wave of emotions enveloped me. I wanted to beat my chest and stand at the edge of a big ship (that would later bump into an iceberg) and scream till my lungs hurt "I AM THE FUCKING KING OF THE WORLDDDD". I wanted to sprawl on the asphalt and then curl into a foetal position and cry sobbing until I had no more tears left.

I completed my first half marathon at age 38 in 3 hours 27 minutes. 3 minutes short of seeing the Finisher's Medal fly by mouthing the word loo-hoo-hoooo-serr as it passes by my face. (Yea I love beating myself up like that, just cos).

And now I am able to walk freely on this earth with a beaming smile on my face because I have achieved a dream that I thought was just a dream. Praise Allah the Almighty. Ameen. (I shouldn't have cussed ishhh).

:)

Run, maggot.

I started my running very slowly. So slow it was actually just brisk walking. But nothing was ever good enough for my PT. He would circle around my treadmill like a vulture eyeing a wounded gazelle. Or worse, he would park himself right beside me and furiously prod the speed button unsure which was not working, the speed button or me.

We started off with a one minute run. He told me running is all about controlling my breathing. Inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. Slow controlled breaths. All I was concentrating on was the time. 20 seconds. 30 seconds. This is how I'm going to die. 40 seconds. Right now. 50 seconds. I'm dead, I'm sure I'm dead already. 60 seconds. TIME! And he'd decrease the speed to brisk walk.

I'd run for 1 minute and walk for 3 minutes. Run for 2 minutes, walk for 3 minutes. Run for 3 minutes and die a thousand deaths. You catch the drift. This went on for a couple of months. The objective was to incorporate the breathing into my regime. Make us one. There were at least 40 of us at that time in present.

Right now you would think I hate the treadmill, the PT, the smell of stale sweat permeating from every pore of the gym floor (walls were mirrors - I can't control my breathing but my brain was still 20% functioning so I know sweat cannot permeate from mirrors), the stinky towels, the people who were running all around me without clutching their chests, who could still have a chit chat with the runner next to them talking about how wonderful the smell of roses coming from their gardens when they woke up that morning.

But no. Something in me started to spark. If I can do 1 minute, what's 2, if I can do 2, I'm sure I can do 3. If I push a little more, 5 is definitely in the books. It was tough love. I struggled at 5 minutes forever. But that 5 minutes was like a lifetime achievement. It's never happened before.

There were the stitches I had to deal with. It was so painful I might as well just stab a fork in my kidney and show my PT "Is this what you want? Just take it, I have 2". "Oh it's not the kidney? Here, take my liver too, I'll get my sister to donate a third of hers". Every single organ in my body felt like it was trapped in a cocktail shaker. But the PT opened my eyes. You breathe, you avoid stitches. You avoid stitches, you rule the world.

I was far from conquering the world but I was interested to find out what it would take to do it. I was stepping into new territories, a strange place I never knew existed. I envy those runners on the treadmills. But I found the key to their secret place. It was simply breathing with a technique. That was all to it. If they can do it, why can't I.

Running sucks

I can never run. Is what I tell myself from as far back as I can remember. And that would be for every year when Sports Day is nigh, when all students start going for their qualifying try-outs. I hated all those try-outs only because I am very competitive and can never be any good at any of the events. 100meters, 4x100 meters, long jump, high jump and every other event that can ever bruise a child's ego, especially a child who at 11 got her first quasi part-time job as a librarian in the school library. This child loved books not race neck to neck on the school field with some hyperactive jumping bean.

But I wasn't all nerd sticking my nose behind a book throughout those years, I did find my niche in sports, I am a natural at racquet games. And once upon a time I was on the bowling team (only because the Pink Ladies and T-Birds made it uber cool).

The ordeals continued in secondary school. In addition to the same qualifying try-outs, there were the annual compulsory cross country runs I had to endure for 5 years. I'd run and get stitches throughout. I knew running for more than 5 straight minutes is something only a non-human can do and I made up my mind on that ..for good.

Fast forward circa 2006.

I (re)joined the gym across the office and got conned into signing up with a personal trainer who for obvious reasons was the more serious party in this 'relationship' - he has a KPI which I have paid for.

He told me to run on the treadmill, my whole childhood flashed before my eyes, I told him no, anything but running. My pleas undeniably fell on deaf ears. He started up the treadmill on speed 6.3. I ran.. for 30 seconds.. before I slammed the emergency button so hard we both got the shocker.

I remembered the look on his face when I spoke to him between pants while clutching my chest "AIH ...TOHLD ...YOUH ...AIH..CANNOTH...RHUN!" His jaws stayed open for a couple of minutes. When his soul entered back into his body he said "You're right.. but that's ok. We will train and after this you will be able to run. I promise you"

I had devised many a plans to quit the gym after that day. Cos I can't just quit the PT. I'd still bump into him when I do non-running stuffs in the gym. Hassle.

In the end I chose the easier way out of this - I gave in and face up to the one thing I hated in my life. I was going to run.

Sorry it has to (re)start with a grouse

I've missed this..being able to express my thoughts in more than 140 characters. Please know that I don't like it as much as you do when I have to spam everyone's timeline because I had 382,379 characters to type in order to form a coherent storyline to let everyone know MAS delayed my luggage for 3 days on my 5 day business trip to Singers last week.

As you can probably tell, I'm still not over it. Because they haven't had the decency to send me a proper apology (for inconveniencing me) in a form of Ringgits. Am I just another unlucky passenger that got screwed, experienced some tough love, oh well, life goes on, babe?

You don't mess with me like that and get to skip, skip, skip to my Lou, my darlin'.

I had to scramble after work on the 1st day, all knackered and oily (forgot blotter), to the nearest shopping mall to purchase my bare essentials - toiletries, work clothes AND undergarments. I wasn't sure if I needed 1, 3 or 5 days of clothes because MAS couldn't tell me when they would be able to locate my luggage. Super!

To cut the story short, after much shouting (in total: 2 days) to the Lost and Found personnel in Changi Airport, they finally located my luggage (it went to Surabaya!) and sent it to my hotel on the 3rd day. They told me I will be compensated RM75. *DISBELIEF*. Another round of shouting, I recall I told him my toiletries alone cost more than that but he couldn't wait to end the conversation and told me I will need to write to MAS if I had spent more than that, have a nice day, *click*.

Never got the RM75.

So I'm still enraged. It's not much about the money that I'm hitting the roof for but more of whatever the hell happened to the simple bleeding courtesy to acknowledge my 3 days of being out of sorts trying to get my life sorted. Is this what they call Malaysian Hospitality? Fuckers.

Tomorrow I will draft my complaint letter. Suddenly I feel beat. I think it's cos it's been a while since I wrote longer than 140 characters.

Today..

..oh my god I still remember my ID and password.