Chapter 94: city to casino

The clouds tell me that the 11 kay is cancelled and people have been given an alternative. Run the 7 kays.   There will be more people at Cornelian Bay. And there are. We see people everywhere.  People stretching, hopping and running on the spot. Groups jumping or jogging as they talk.  Plenty of pent-up energy.

How much water will I need? Too late to change anything.

The road is covered with runners. I leave my wife and edge up the road. As close as possible to the front without pushing and without being surrounded by elite runners. I speak to a few runners. They had entered the 11 kay run. They are happy with the way the race has adapted and changed to cope with the road conditions.   

It is a warm cold. No frost or wind or showers but this is Tasmania. Cold air is part of our life down here. I wear a jumper unlike many of the people around me. The jumper is because I am training for a race on the Gold Coast. Hopefully I will sweat.

Everybody is united by wearing different clothes. Skin tight lycra; loose fitting baggy pants; track suits; jumpers; singlets or shirts asking to be read. Shirts telling me where they have run in the past, which club they run for or what product I should buy. Shirts saying Tasmanian Road Runners or Solemates surround me. I look for my team. Tasmanian Masters Athletes.

We huddle united on the road. Occasionally peering forwards.

Suddenly some runners start running. The running contagion spreads back and finally reaches us. We hesitate, just to be sure, and then start to run. We are careful and completely aware of all our surrounding runners. We don’t want any collisions. After a time of shuffling, weaving, and walking we stuttering across the start line.  Because of the extra runners the road is very crowded.

The angel sitting on my shoulder says, “These people are slowing you down. You would run quicker without so many people around you.”

On my other shoulder another angel says, “Celebrate the fact so many people are here. Celebrate these people getting out of bed and doing something good. Celebrate the crowded road.”

I side with the angel praising the crowd. It is a beautiful, rumbustious, well-behaved crowd full of happy people.

 Some people passing the start line reach for their watches and push a button.

On my right people flash past me. I don’t see them coming and they fly past rapidly merging into the running peloton. Shall I settle down into safe, comfortable running or attempt to overtake people?

After the start line we head up the hill towards the Domain. We are going through a very familiar spot which today feels completely different. The centipede of legs changes the Botanical gardens, Government house and the old Beaumaris zoo site. They somehow look and feel different.

The running peloton is quiet. Very little talking. I can hear feet smacking the ground. I can hear breathing.  Running styles vary. Some are jerky. Some are smooth. Some pump their arms furiously. Some rest their arms and make enormous strides.

I watch the people in front of me. Are they struggling or cruising?  Will I pass them and finish ahead of them or will they disappear towards the front of the field?

My style is modeled on a drunken camel. I must make my strides as smooth as possible.  And as big as possible. That’s the biggest I can do. Perhaps I can increase my takeoff.

I watch the soles of the feet immediately in front of me. I then look up at their shirts and shorts.  I must try and get past them. Pump arms. Pump arms more. Faster. I look ahead down the path. Is it clear to make a move. I will go for it. I give up. I can’t make it. I settle back. Maybe later if I hang in there. 

Past the start of Soldiers memorial avenue. This is what these men were fighting for. The right of the local community to do things like this. To freely gather and play.    

I hear footsteps approaching me from behind. They sound like they will overtake me. I must try and prevent that. Legs please go faster. Faster. Move quicker. Quicker and quicker. Quick as possible. That’s the quickest I can do. Past me run faster legs. Can I stay with them? They will drag me over the line.  

I swing my arms as rhythmical as possible. Must keep the rhythm going. Keep it going. I breathe deeply. Swing my arms and stride big. A sticky sensation tells me good news. Sweat. I am sweating. Sweat fills my eyebrows. I wipe it away to stop it dripping into my eyes.  My shirt sticks. That’s more good news. I love sweat.

The finish is an air-filled blown up gate. It tempt us and beckons us to sprint to the finish. We run through the sponsor’s message and are inaudibly scanned.  The gate takes our time and will tell us later. 

I stop running and lean on my knees breathing deeply. I look around. Where can I get a drink of water? I see a trestle table laden with bottled water. Beside that is a table with fruit. I help myself.

I look for my grandson and daughter. My grandson says, “Can I put your medal around my neck.”

“Of course you can.”

He proudly parades around wearing the medal. I ponder. Should I tell him the medal is not for coming first? He should have seen that I was in the middle of an alphabet soup of runners. I was not winning. But anybody who finishes is a winner. And deserves a medal. That’s me.

I now turn around and watch the runners finishing. I applaud all of them. They have all done something good. All of these runners and walkers have made Hobart a better place.