It was more than a month ago that I finally got myself in a race. I consider it was historical. It was almost 8 months since my first attempt to run and I still belong to the Turtoise Club. Keeping my 8-minutes a kilo only succeeded for the first 2K, after that I began slowing down to 9, then 10 and finally ended up walking in the last kilo in my 5K training. So I signed up for 2.5K at Wintermar Jakarta Free Spirit Run at Ragunan Zoo, much with confidence that I would do it right.
So, this was what happen on the race day. May 5, 2013.
So, this was what happen on the race day. May 5, 2013.
What?
I couldn’t believe it. However, amid my dissapointment, I decided to run along the race path for approximately 2.5K before the gunshot, just to get the feeling that if I didn’t do the Fun Run race on schedule, I wouldn’t judge myself as a deserter. I could then walk out and went home.
I finished the 2.5K when other runners were warming up with Zumba Dance. Ten minutes later, they prepared themselves in the start position. Every runner looked very eager, enthusiastic and high-spirited. The youngs and the olders. The Indonesians and the foreigners. Both the bigger and slimmer, though-like ones.
Then an idea came up. Why wouldn’t I run again? The race seemed to be a rather open event anyway and many people bring their family (without the number). Hell with the timing chip. I didn’t care about the race number not shown anywhere in my shirt. I didn’t care that I haven’t prepared to run 5K nonstop. I could always walk, right? After all, it was about trying out and having fun.
So I started to run, long after the sub 20-minutes runners roared. It was a moment of doubt. Mostly because I never thought I could do it, because I wasn’t well trained for it, because I was there as alone as I could be. The zoo terrain was also hilly and a little bit wet after heavy rain the night before. I kept running with that hopeless thoughts and of course I began to slow down after the 2K sign, knowing that I was almost hit my limit. The 3rdK was hard. I could barely run. It was harder in the 4th. I ran, I walked, I dragged, I jumped, anything I could do to make one of my feet move in front of another. People passed me by in the last kilo. They wanted to finish strong. I wanted it, too, but my limbs just couldn’t do my brain’s recommendation to go faster. The Marshalls shouted loud cheers and clapped their hands. “Just few hundreds more. Come on!” they cried.
And there it was. Standing strong and tall and graceful. Full of crowds, of course. It must be the finish gate. Yes! I did make it! For some seconds, it felt like all people along the finish line shared my victory. I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me. But we had something in common. We were finishers. Run or walk. Jog or drag. Alone or with the clubs. We were still the finishers. My first record of 5K then was 47:26. And it was more than satisfying at that time. I danced inside, celebrating this little triumph.
Then another day, another week after the moment passed by so fast. So, what’s left from the race? What’s make that 47 minutes something joyful? Well, I don’t know. One thing I know, I would keep running because another run could means another race. Another chance. Another dance. Or else, I’d be happy with just doing it with no stress.
I couldn’t believe it. However, amid my dissapointment, I decided to run along the race path for approximately 2.5K before the gunshot, just to get the feeling that if I didn’t do the Fun Run race on schedule, I wouldn’t judge myself as a deserter. I could then walk out and went home.
I finished the 2.5K when other runners were warming up with Zumba Dance. Ten minutes later, they prepared themselves in the start position. Every runner looked very eager, enthusiastic and high-spirited. The youngs and the olders. The Indonesians and the foreigners. Both the bigger and slimmer, though-like ones.
Then an idea came up. Why wouldn’t I run again? The race seemed to be a rather open event anyway and many people bring their family (without the number). Hell with the timing chip. I didn’t care about the race number not shown anywhere in my shirt. I didn’t care that I haven’t prepared to run 5K nonstop. I could always walk, right? After all, it was about trying out and having fun.
So I started to run, long after the sub 20-minutes runners roared. It was a moment of doubt. Mostly because I never thought I could do it, because I wasn’t well trained for it, because I was there as alone as I could be. The zoo terrain was also hilly and a little bit wet after heavy rain the night before. I kept running with that hopeless thoughts and of course I began to slow down after the 2K sign, knowing that I was almost hit my limit. The 3rdK was hard. I could barely run. It was harder in the 4th. I ran, I walked, I dragged, I jumped, anything I could do to make one of my feet move in front of another. People passed me by in the last kilo. They wanted to finish strong. I wanted it, too, but my limbs just couldn’t do my brain’s recommendation to go faster. The Marshalls shouted loud cheers and clapped their hands. “Just few hundreds more. Come on!” they cried.
And there it was. Standing strong and tall and graceful. Full of crowds, of course. It must be the finish gate. Yes! I did make it! For some seconds, it felt like all people along the finish line shared my victory. I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me. But we had something in common. We were finishers. Run or walk. Jog or drag. Alone or with the clubs. We were still the finishers. My first record of 5K then was 47:26. And it was more than satisfying at that time. I danced inside, celebrating this little triumph.
Then another day, another week after the moment passed by so fast. So, what’s left from the race? What’s make that 47 minutes something joyful? Well, I don’t know. One thing I know, I would keep running because another run could means another race. Another chance. Another dance. Or else, I’d be happy with just doing it with no stress.