Monday 23 November,2009
I grimace as I walk down the stairs at home backwards, my gwatjanms (aka ‘calves’) too stiff to permit anything else. This is the aftermath of the Grenada half marathon which I 'ran' yesterday (Sunday), in Grenada.
I hadn’t run that distance since the Barbados half marathon this time last year, so a sensible strategy would have been to say no to Marilyn when she called from Grenada a couple weeks ago to say: “Come on Vaughn, Ali‘s going to do it, and Keito too, we’re just doing it for fun”. What the hell I thought, why not, I mean how bad could it be?
My last half marathon run in Barbados happened in much the same way, Marilyn coaxing me into it, even though I hadn’t been training for it. Memories fade with time. “Yeah, all right, I’ll do it. What’s the route?” I ask. “St David’s Police Station to town” answers Mal.
In Grenada, there’s some flat ground, but that’s not where they choose to set the run. No, they climb 500ft to the top of St David’s Parish for the start, run down to sea level at La Sagesse, back up to 200 feet, back down to sea level, up to the top of another hill (200 feet) and back down to sea level again at Bailles Bacolet, up to Red Gate (220 feet) and back down to sea level, then up to Westerhall, etc, etc, etc., you get the picture.
In contrast, Barbados’ half marathon route takes you up a gentle incline to the top of Spring Garden highway to an altitude of 100 feet. The next incline is the long and even more gentle climb from Fitts Village past Appleby Gardens up to 50 feet.
On the way to the race I ask Mal “why is there a 23km marking on the road in town?” “That’s the end of the race, silly, well, a little way beyond that.” She says. But, I splutter, a half marathon is only about 21 km long (21.0975 to be exact). Well, she says rather unconcernedly, that’s the route we always do, so maybe its 24 km....this is Grenada you know. That’s when I should have wised up.
We arrive at the start. It’s a road junction in St.David’s, outside a rum shop, close to the Police Station. It’s 2.30pm on a hot Sunday afternoon. Of the 50/60 or so runners, most are teenagers, girls actually. Several of them are not wearing shoes, although several have on socks. Socks? There seems to be only a handful of adults. (click on picture to enlarge)
The whistle blows and the kids pelt off down the hill in the 3 pm heat. As we ease down the hill, I’m feeling good, good to be running a race in Grenada for the first time. Looking forward to the scenic route.
Downhills are deceptive; you need to keep tension on your muscles to prevent over speeding and damage. The first downhill is almost 2 km all on its own, and then the first climb back up to 200 feet begins. But I’m still feeling good, only the slightest tightness in my gwatjanms hints at what’s to come.
At first I run with my cousin Ali, but it isn’t his day. A late night, too many rum punches and dehydration, gets the better of him. After about 10 kms and as the halfway mark approaches, I continue on alone. I had been depending on him to pull me through, now I was alone. A mere kilometre or so later, with the worst of the hills behind me, my gwatjanms tighten perceptibly, even as my breathing is relaxed. The demons descend. They’re pretty clever, these demons. They come up with all these seemingly sensible inducements to just stop: Hey! look at that bush – jump behind it and hide, quick, no-one will see!; come on…! who needs to finish a race anyway; give up now you fool, you know it’s a lost cause; you’re gonna DIE if you continue!; too tired, too tired, too tired…
And so, with the hardest part of the run behind me, past the halfway mark, and on a slight downhill, I just stop running. And walk. It beats all logic, but it’s no stranger. In any race, you face it sooner or later. Here it is, this time sooner. The hills had tightened my legs up enough to convince me I couldn’t run a step further.
And so it goes through Woodlands, Grand Anse Valley and towards town, running and walking, but with every cycle my running pace slows and shortens and the walking carries for longer, and the finish line seems a world away.
That’s when I meet Doneisha. 13 years old and like most of the kids in the race, has never done anything like this before. I come upon her at about 15km, with all the hills behind and an easy road into town. She too is walking along, looking tired and dejected. I take her under my wings. Come on, I say, keep going. And my instinct to help her do her best forces me to rise above my petty misery and I have to run too. We run and walk alternately into town, Doneisha runs when I run, and walks when I walk.
These next kilometres are the longest and just after the 21km marker (the correct distance) I pause my stopwatch and stop running. Doneisha, I say, you have just completed a half marathon in 2hours and 15 minutes, congratulations. You can continue on into town, which is an extra 2 or so km, but remember this time, it’s yours.
As Doneisha continues on, I wait for Ali. Mal comes by in a few minutes and says he is somewhere behind. In a few more minutes he arrives. You can stop now, I say to him, we’re done, let’s go have a beer. And we do.
In the post mortem at Sunnyside later that evening, we analyse the disaster of this half marathon. Ali, as suspected, was dehydrated, and running in tropical heat for the first time did the rest (he ran the first half of the NY marathon in 1:50 after all, he’s no slouch). My excuse? (after all, my last half I did in 1:46), well, according to a friend, it take 6 months to train for hills. So there. My cousin Keito, meanwhile was in first in his age group, despite also not having trained for the run. His strategy? Pace walk up the hills, and run down. I remember last seeing him halfway along the route, moving inexorably away….
Thanks to Beverley for the photographs, I handed her my camera and she tooks some greats pics, which can be viewed here...
Posts
