It was a Run, not a Race

RAK HM Feb 22

Standing on the start line I didn’t feel nervous, I felt ready. I wasn’t there to race; I was there to run. My plan was painfully simple, and I was confident that I would be able to execute it. I looked around me and could probably count on one hand how many other females I saw in our starting pen. I felt privileged to be in Sector 3, but I felt like I belonged. I sipped my water, said very few words, and waited for the gun. 

Marcus had said a couple of weeks prior that he would run with me when I told him my race plan. I agreed with him, but didn’t feel like I needed it. I knew what I wanted to do, and I knew I could do it. Somewhere between that conversation and the start gun, Marcus also came to the same conclusion. His way of telling me this was by shooting over the start line way above my starting pace. I questioned his pace in my head momentarily, then let him go. 

About 1km in, I located Abdel and our paces synched. We smiled and ran the next 15km or so step for step. We laughed when we accelerated out of a roundabout, like it was Track Tuesday, and when Skinny and Rob would appear on their bikes with their encouragement/abuse. I would click my watch as we swept through KM markers, but never once looked at the total time.

As we ran back through the race village, the half way point, I felt easy, perhaps a 6/10 effort. I knew I could give more. No words were exchanged, as we gradually upped the pace and picked off a few more runners in the meantime. 

With about 6km to go, I told myself it was basically a 30 mins TT to the end, and I could run harder. I upped my pace, perhaps a tad too optimistically, dropping 10-15sec a KM, which was then rectified when I remembered I had been picking up fatigue throughout the race. 

I was present, aware, and happy. I was running, not racing. Sure, it was satisfying to run down those who had gone off too fast and couldn’t sustain. But more than anything, it reminded me how simple yet complex running can be.

At the 20km marker, it was “just 2.5 times around the track” in my head. I could do that. Obviously, I did have a bit of brain fog here, as a Half Marathon is in fact 21.1km, and I also didn't account for the extra couple of hundred meters that I had picked up by not running the course efficiently. Either way, I had kicked, and now I ”just” had to hold on. 

Crossing the finish line was the first time I clocked the total time, even then I wasn’t quite sure if it was true, 1:25:15, a new PB. This was somewhat faster than my training HM pace. My legs then decided to be done, and I was on the floor. There was a hand to pop me back on my feet, which I rejected, later to find out it was Jack's! Within seconds, I stood myself up to his smile, a hug, and his congratulations of “what the f*ck did you just do?” I found a bottle of water to down, and I was content. 

For me, RAK was not about racing. It was about being present in the sport that I love so much, being true to myself, and allowing myself to live.