At home, nursing tired feet and calves from the long run. Odie is asleep beside my feet as I sit here, typing away on the white Mac.
Ten hours earlier
Awoken by the phone alarm and I stayed in bed until I knew I shouldn't anymore. Sher came over, so we walked to the Piazza, where hundreds of others were awaiting for the cue at the start line. As the loud horn filled the air, everyone whizzed by us, including Sher later on, and we were separated by time and distance. I was on my own, feeding off No Doubt, Kings of Leon and other random music on my playlist. I kept my eyes on a few individuals I picked as my pacesetters but soon after, they all disappeared as well. I kept replacing them like worn socks. One by one. I'd jogged, then walked, then jogged again.
As I crossed the road, I had hit the wall, and I was close to just walking the whole marathon. It felt like I've done 5km and even after I picked the green elastic band (which I later found out it was the 6km mark), I was in no mood to run.
But one of the pacesetters kept my attention and I didn't think about anything else but to finish it. I was giving myself 2 hours and 30 minutes to finish the 11km mark. By the time I reached the finish line, it was just 2 hours. My soles and calves were in so much pain, I literally dragged them home.
So I used to be one of those who sniggled at those who tortured themselves running to death, but now I am one of them and I can't say I'm not pleased with my new profound achievement.
