It’s the night before race day and I’m in bed fast awake, my neck aching, my knee throbbing and rain drumming on the roof. Not, it seems, ideal conditions for the fast approaching race start in a few hours time. I try to recall EG’s epic
Zurich Marathon – I remember it had rained then as well and I wondered if it would likewise bode well for me in terms of a fast race, but then I remembered I had promised Mrs MLCM I would make a “sensible” decision in the morning based on the weather and condition of MLCM joints and neck. This wasn’t to be a marathon, just a 14km fun run and of no great consequence if I “gave it a miss” and I was under orders to “take it easy”. Fair ‘nuff, too.
The throbbing knee came courtesy of an ill-advised jog up and down the “Giant Staircase”, a 900-step torture-trail cut into the side of a Blue Mountains cliff. Mrs MLCM had strongly suggested we should do this the previous afternoon, so of course we did. At the time it seemed no big deal – we breezed down and up again in 51 minutes (and could have done it ten minutes faster) despite the warning signs telling us how treacherous it was and to allow “2 hours for the return trip”. 900 steps down and 900 steps up, with views to get the already thumping heart pumping even faster – brilliant stuff, but afterwards, as I hobbled another half hour along the cliff top walk back to the car I realised the jolting descent had perhaps not been the best thing for my knees so close to a race.
The aching neck however was a mystery. Muscular in nature, I don’t recall doing anything to cause it and have to wonder if it isn’t tension caused by a less than Utopian work environment at the moment. Either way it was damned uncomfortable, and as I lie awake I recalled the same moment twelve months before, when an aching back likewise threatened to prematurely end my chances in the world’s biggest fun run.
Anyway. Enough of this pity party. I did eventually drift off to sleep, and when I awoke was pleased to find I had scored a two out of three in the overnight game of general improvement – the rain had stopped, as had the throbbing in my knee. The neck was still sore, but a couple of ibuprofen tablets eased the aching and a short time later, following my standard race day breakfast of toast with Vegemite and a banana, I was more or less happily ensconced on the 7:15 train into the city for my second crack at the annual
City 2 Surf 14km fun run – the world’s largest such event with 85,000 entrants, most of them oddly intent on being on the same train as me.
After half an hour of listening to a carriage-full of complaints about plantar fasciitis (“it just won’t go away – it’s been
years now!”) and fervent discussions about the pros and cons of Vibram Five Fingers (“I can see the sense of it, but
$200 for a rubber sock!?!”) we arrived at Town Hall station and burst onto the platform and rushed the exits. Unlike last year, this time the station manager was being sensible and had all the turnstile gates open so our departure was both quick and dignified. Last year we each had to show our race bibs to the pedantic Jobsworth on the gate to prove we had legitimately travelled without a ticket (public transport being free to runners on race day) which of course did nothing for a speedy exit or our tempers.
The walk from the station to the start line however was the same this time – thousands of runners all over the city streets like an enthusiastic rash, whilst late-night revellers and early workers emerged from their night clubs and coffee shops, for the most part utterly dumbfounded that their world had apparently been invaded by gibbering madmen in shorts and singlets.
Last year I was about the first of the 85,000 runners to arrive. This time I more sensibly arrived just 12 minutes before the gun went and so wasn’t standing around in the cold for too long. Last year it had rained quite heavily and I spent the best part of a miserable hour sheltering under trees listening to annoyingly good runners despairing over whether or not they could “crack the hour”. This time there was no rain. It was grey and windy and generally pretty miserable, but apart from an inconsequential few minutes of barely visible misty drizzle at the start, it remained dry and cool throughout.
Waiting for the start gun I bided my time looking around at my fellow runners. The thing that struck me most was the proliferation this year of coloured running shoes. I thought my lime-green edged Brooks were vibrant, but it seemed just about everyone else had shoes so gaudy in colour I felt quite dull by comparison. Also making me seem dull was a much larger contingent of fancy-dress runners than last year. Spider Man was clearly super-hero
du jour but I also saw a man dressed as a banana and another with a birthday cake hat complete with flaming candles.
Standing there in the starting pen I decided that I really
do like this race. It has an undeniable friendly buzz about it. Perhaps it’s just the particular wave I’m in (“Green” group, which is the second of the six main starting waves) but there’s a nice balance between the serious business of running and the fun of getting out for a bit of a lark in what is, after all, the world’s biggest run. Yes, we’d probably all like to run a PB and may have even trained for it, but no-one’s going to mind if you accidentally get in the way and block their path, especially if you’re wearing a Batman cape or are running in scuba gear. Even the helicopters (four of ‘em!) covering the event keep a respectful distance and sort of hum like a friendly swarm of bees rather than annoy with their more usual deafening and incessant
whock whock whock.
This year even the main announcer is excellent. He’s not trying to be funny, nor is he trying to fire us up with inane drivel. Perhaps because all the usual A-list starting gun celebrities are in London, he’s operating single-handed and just does the job thoroughly and efficiently, telling us what we need to know, explaining (for example) the difference between yellow group (walkers and pram-pushers) and gold group (charity places) and the consequence of starting in the wrong wave (disqualification) whether having done so deliberately or not. As I found last year, the organisation of this race is stupendous, as it needs to be when you have 85,000 entrants and who-knows how many spectators trying to find baggage trucks, porta-loos, starting pens etc. The result is a happy, relaxed crowd and despite my dislike of crowds I feel quite at ease standing near-naked in a public place amidst a crowd of strangers. Rather like a nightmare that feels somehow ... nice.
Soon enough the MC yells “Go!” (no gun or cannon – rather quaint really) and we shuffle hopefully forward, then stop, then shuffle some more. This goes on for some time, but eventually we hit the timing mats and the shuffling turns to jogging and then quickly into a serious “Whoa! Wait a minute guys” sprint. Yep, we’re heading out way too fast, but as usual it feels comfortable and it’s easier to go along with the crowd than to slow to the desired pace. Actually, I don’t have a race plan at all, other than to try and enjoy the race. I don’t recall what my time last year was and intend to basically ignore my watch, other than to ensure I don’t go out too hard and fast. Well, that was the theory at least, but the first couple of kilometres do indeed go too fast. The third kilometre is a bit of a climb and I’m panting quite hard by the end of it. There’s a bugger of a hill (our own “Heartbreak Hill") at the 6km point though, and I’m determined to tackle it well, so now that the crowd has thinned a little I slow it down to a more sensible pace and try to enjoy the experience.
Around the 4km mark I collide slightly with a man running in a dazzlingly hi-viz fluoro green running top complete with long sleeves and similarly bright fluoro orange hi-viz running shoes. “Sorry mate” I say, “I didn’t see you there”. Although a couple of the other runners around us laughed he apparently had heard that joke more than once before and made a point of ignoring me. I plough on.
Kilometres 4 to 6 are generally flat and pass through exclusive Sydney Harbour-side suburbs. The rich set are a determined lot and nothing, especially not tens of thousands of loopy runners will prevent them crossing the road to their favourite
ristretto and a brioche breakfast cafe. Rather more worried is the look on the face of a man with a suitcase in hand, obviously destined for the airport but now stuck in the middle of the road and suddenly aware that the taxi rank he is attempting to reach not only has no taxis, but also that the road is going to be closed to all traffic for the next several hours, as the numerous road signs have been making abundantly clear for the past few weeks. Even so, I can’t help feeling a pang of sympathy for the poor blighter as he does some serious re-thinking about how he is to get from the middle of 85,000 runners to the airport. One wag yells
“Running late mate?” but he goes unheard as the man’s panic starts to set in.
I run on some more.
Despite the threat of rain, a large number of bands and DJs of all types line the route and brighten the mood with everything from trad jazz to Zappa and a fair bit of
doof doof. I love it all but my favourite was a police band standing outside the Rose Bay police station playing a bizarre brass arrangement of
“Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough” and making me wonder if that was their monthly motivational “reach your traffic infringement notice quota” music.
As well as the music, the crowd support was also fantastic, and despite the fact we were running through Sydney’s
hoi-poloi suburbs many stood or sat by the side of the road cheering us on, with little kids giving us high-fives and handing out lollies all the way.
Just after the 6km marker we hit Heartbreak Hill and a long, twisty hill climb begins. It’s probably only about 1.5km long, but sections of it are troublingly steep. I slow to my training pace or a little above and plod along at a steady rate. I’m pleased to be passing maybe thirty or more people for each one that overtakes me, and before I know it I’m at the top and realise my hill training has paid off. I allow myself my only drink for the race, pick up the pace and start to feel very, very good.
There are still a couple of short but sharp hills to go, but the net overall from this point is downhill to the finish at Bondi Beach, so I really open up for a quick second half and what should be negative splits. Around the 11km mark I run into two people from work so slow down for a while for a bit of a natter. I also have a chat with a man who has run the New York Marathon three times and insists that I run it too, saying it is even better organised than this race and an unforgettable buzz. I promise him I will do it one year... soon...
ish.
All this chatting brings us to the final downhill stretch to the finish and I really let fly with a fast downhill stretch to Bondi Beach. A final run along the Boulevard before doubling back for the last hundred meters or so to the finish line and ... done! I stop my watch at 1:19:32 and am well pleased. Later I discover that’s just 15 seconds slower than last year. Had I run with a race plan and not slowed to chat so much I’m sure I could have knocked a few minutes off that time... well, never mind I had a lot of fun and there’s always next year for a PB.
The crowd of finishers oozes forward and we’re handed our medals while the announcer congratulates us all and gives us directions on how to find ... buses, baggage, corporate tents etc. but not what I’m really after ... water! Where’s the water? I’m looking all around and can’t see any God-damned water! I’m just starting to wonder about the organisation of the event after all when out of the crowd an angel appears with a huge tray of water bottles and smilingly hands them out to all and sundry... actually a better system than queuing for self-serve, so once again I have to be impressed with the race organisers. Great job!
I follow the signs to the bus, hop on, it immediately leaves and takes us the train station where I impatiently wait a full minute (God-damn!) for a train to arrive. I hop on, it leaves immediately and deposits me a few minutes later at Town Hall station where I change platform exactly as my train home arrives. I hop on, it immediately leaves and slowly post-race blues start to set in as I realise it’s all over for this year. Yep, I have my medal and a good time, but the crowds have gone now and so has the friendly buzz and banter of the race. It may only be a humble 14km fun run, but it has a certain, special ...
something.
[Cue music . Dim house lights. Cue follow spot on lead]
No singing!
[Kill music, kill follow spot, house lights on]
Right. Sorry. So, now it’s back to some serious training.
That was fun though, that was.
Km Split
1 5:37
2 5:30
3 5:37
4 5:56
5 5:33
6 5:45
7 6:28
8 6:02
9 5:33
10 5:45
11 5:48
12 5:16
13 4:33
14 5:11
14.0km 1:19:32 (5:41/km pace)
YTD: 928.2 km