The IVP 10,000m – an athlete’s perspective

Contributed by reader Devathas Satianathan

Bukit Gombak Stadium, Sunday, October 11, 2009 – A quick glance up towards the blue sky, if only in a desperate bid for contrast to the menacing red, followed by a nervous shuffle, and it was time. My mind filled with questions and doubts as a cool, calm Chee Yong, in lane number six, jokingly lamented his “lack of youth”.

He was my teammate in the Army Half Marathon, and I was no stranger to his impeccable talent and discipline. To my left was another companion in the form of Alvin Yong, a runner whose resilience and dedication I greatly admire, and with whom I had the privilege of racing with in this year's Passion Run. It was a race I thoroughly appreciated, owing in great regard to him.

And as I was taking in the sights and sounds, I soon realised this was no excursion, no stroll in the park. The picturesque scenery betrayed the sobriety of the event. This was a race. And I was at the start point.

“DON'T STEP ON THE LINE, DON'T STEP ON THE LINE,” the official remarked testily.

“BANG!”

Clearly not the most traditional of starting sequences, but effective nonetheless. We were off, with a ´marathon' 10,000m ahead of us. I had, for company, an adversary in the fellow ahead, a potential threat in the person behind, and an opponent alongside.

What did I sign up for?

I went back to my fundamentals. It was fear that was supposed to propel me along. Yet I felt nothing of the sort as I ran my first lap. Rather, I felt bliss. It was a great feeling to be on my two feet again, as opposed to confined to a saddle that has the uncanny ability to numb unmentionable areas on rides that span hours.

It was a great feeling to face the Sun and feel the wind, at long last relieved from my shackles that bound me to the murderously mundane elliptical trainer. It was sheer bliss, to be making art with my fellow compatriots.

Alas, my paradise was short lived. A few laps in, my legs had begun to betray me. Apparently, a week of abandonment was sufficient to deny me a passport to return to my one true passion. It was a disconcerting thought, and one that I shall not entertain any longer. My mind, numbed to the incessant arithmetic, began drifting to dangerous scenes.

One moment I was back in Choa Chu Kang, the scene of my Secondary School 2.4km NAPFA run, contemplating my ´rest points' as I was unable to run continuously throughout the distance. Another memory I returned to was my first ever 10km race, a venture inspired by my sister. It was the Mizuno Run in 2004, and I struggled to finish in under an hour. I couldn't walk for a week after.

The foundations were set, the common theme was clear. The pre-emptive strikes had begun. I was unknowingly confronting my most feared adversary of all: doubt.

I heard my name from the stands, from my schoolmates, yet I couldn't quite understand what it was they wished to communicate to me. I soon drifted so far away from reality that I was alone. I had fallen prey to my cunning foe. Yet the nostalgia, the random thoughts and the sheer drudgery were not for nothing. Indeed, they came at a hefty price, that of my performance in the race. However, they provided me with perspective.

I make no excuses for my performance, or lack thereof. I have lost to people better than me, and those whom I have finished ahead of are no less athletes than I am. Yet, this being my first race, I feel it deserves a description I have thus far reserved for my first 21km escapade in 2007, one in which I, a ´self-proclaimed' long distance runner, was overtaken by a highly respectable 110m hurdler at the 10km mark (a great friend whom will never allow me to forget about it, albeit in good humour).

The 25 laps, the long and painful journey through time and space, the nostalgia and the hurt, it was all a train wreck happening in slow motion; and I, the reluctant and helpless passenger.

Every lap soon became a number. The digits on my watch lost all meaning, and soon so did the fellow athletes around me. I was enclosed in my own ´world', a phenomenon many a long distance runner would have inevitably had to come to grips with at some point in his or her career: ´falling asleep'.

It was, unfortunately, no peaceful nap but a nightmare that gripped me throughout the rest of my ´race'. I was being overtaken left right and centre. I was being lapped at a demoralising rate and even the once-insatiable crowd soon ´had enough' as they retired to the stands and my name became a less ardent feature on the airwaves. The brutality of ´track' struck hardest with ten laps to go, when giving up became a very real option.

What's the point of running when you can't win? What's the point of prolonging your agony when there are no perceptible returns? You’re losing to people whom you shouldn't be losing to, perhaps quitting could provide you a less humiliating exit! My mind had quickly turned against me.

"Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother."

These wise words of the late Khalil Gibran, Lebanese American poet and icon of the 1960s counterculture, effectively summed up my state of mind.

Yet my legs understood none of the monologue and carried on about their business. My heart, apparently preoccupied with its ´day job' had no capacity to weigh in on such issues. So on I went.

If only to appease the few whom were still with me in spirit on the sidelines.

If only to do justice to each and every one else in that same daunting ellipse.

If only to FINISH.

I didn't want my first experience at the monstrous distance on track to be short lived. I didn't want to disappoint myself. I had lost, but I had not been defeated.

Crossing the finish, I honestly felt horrible. The ´KPI' of a race, in my opinion, would be in the ´feeling', admittedly a highly subjective test, that overwhelms one as he or she crosses the finish. Euphoria would indicate a GOOD race. Disappointment would indicate a BAD race. No prizes for guessing where my sentiments lay!

Yet as I soon regained my composure, albeit after stumbling around, much to the chagrin of javelin throwers gearing up for their attempts. My actions guided my thoughts – I was cheering on the remaining runners in the event with a ´GO 10km runners!', for it seemed the only decent thing to say. Yet upon further analysis of my words, I realised that perhaps it wasn't a total loss. Perhaps there was more to this train wreck than I had given credit for.

Just as train wrecks engender an acute sense of traumatic stress in their victims, so too do they provide an opportunity for change, for progress. Failure is the key to innovation, and it is failure that so importantly serves to humble, opening our eyes to what is important, what we may have neglected as we sped past on that locomotive, preoccupied with our destination.

"My imperfections and failures are as much a blessing from God as my successes and my talents and I lay them both at his feet." - Mahatma Gandhi.

It seems trite to proudly display our medals whilst sweeping our inadequacies under the carpet. I have often been of this view. Yet today, even after my failure, I had an insightful conversation with my friends as we exchanged our negative experiences in running, and I realised that such failures truly are goldmines. We live in a society that can be cynical and competitive, yet it is only as cynical as we, as its constituents, will it to be. It may be competitive, but competitive does not mean a blind chase for first place and disregard for failure. That is a highly myopic view, one that wouldn't yield sustainable competition.

Perhaps, then, today's experience was far more powerful than any victory could have granted. The nostalgic revisits, the pain and monotony, and the immense perspective, they were all a direct consequence of a simple 25 laps.

Fear drove me forward, yet doubt took me on a ride. Failure brought me to the brink, but friendship saved me.

Who says running is mindless?