A few weeks ago I found myself toeing the start line of race; it would be my first race in almost a year. My heart starts to beat and I’m feeling those pre-race jitters. I do a quick mental body scan. Legs feel great, ready and willing like a Doberman ready to pounce on a burglar. My Camel-bak is full and loaded with nutritional goodies. My shoelaces are tied in knots that would make a sea captain proud…I’m ready… the crowd around me becomes quiet and focused. The man beside me is setting his stopwatch.
“Going for a PB” he says. He looks confident.
I stretch my legs and visualize gliding effortlessly down the road.
The people I’m with know that I’ve done some serious races in the past and they encourage me to be a front runner…Maybe.
“I might be able to win this" I foolishly think to myself.
At last a gun goes BANG and the 2000 strong competitors in the “Variety Santa Fun Run” are underway... Now bear in mind that it is a condition of this race to wear a full Santa suit whilst competing. This is after all a charity event, a light hearted way to spend the morning and a way to give back to society by supporting charity.
However, any thoughts of philanthropy evaporated when I began sprinting wildly down the Esplanade at full speed. It was at about 1 k into the race that I’d realized I may have overestimated my fitness, that sprint hurt like hell. Sure, now I was at the front alright...but I’d have to maintain that or face the humiliation of being passed by “Fun runners” in Santa suits…I gasped for air and sucked in vain at my Camel–Bak straw.
Behind me I could hear a “Flap, Flap” sound. I turned in horror to see the runner behind me quickly closing in, to my astonishment he was wearing thongs! This can’t be happening I thought to myself. So I dug deep and kept going.
“Hey, Only three Kilometers to go!” said an enthused Elf supporter. I thought about cursing at her but the “Christmas sprit” made me force a smile at her instead.
I trudged onward, ever mindful of the “Flip-Flopped” Santa’s” hot breath only meters behind. “This damn Santa suit.” I mumbled, sweating hard now, clearly not designed for sprinting. Finally we turned down South Terrace, the main street in Fremantle. People lined the streets and watched from cafes, cheering and waving while they comfortably sipped at lattes. Not one to disappoint I launched into sprint again. My side ached, my feet were sore. The finish line appeared on the horizon and hinted at an end to this madness. At last I ran under the giant inflatable banner and crumbled into a heap at the finisher’s area.
My wife and kids had come to watch and were laughing hysterically at all the “Try hards”… it wasn’t until that point that I really realized just how foolish I had been. I laughed at myself and we watched the more sensible runners and walkers come in.
“What was your time?” my wife asked
“I don’t know.” I said and I didn’t I never bothered to set a watch and this race didn’t have timing chips. I did all that because it was my nature I guess. It’s funny now. That was the hardest 4 k race I ever did!
