Eric Tian

4 Months
Out (Mid-June)

12pm. I’m on my laptop at home, reading messages from my
running club’s group chat. Most of the messages are fairly standard:

“Who’s racing in cross country this weekend? Can I grab a lift?”
“Can someone tell coach I’m injured?”
“What’s the plan for our Sunday long run?”

Today however, one message stands out to me:

“MUAC team set up for Melbourne Mara”.

“Melbourne Mara” refers to the annual Melbourne Marathon in mid-October, covering a span of 42.2km throughout the city of Melbourne. It is usual for the Melbourne Uni team to send in a few runners for this event, though I’d never run one myself before.

“The marathon” I think to myself. “I’ve done a few half marathons already.. can a full marathon be that much harder?”

In an ideal world, I would remember that day the hip injury I’d acquired and that I’ve never run more than 25km in my life, and decide to try the marathon another time. But it turns out, today I’m sleep deprived and feeling particularly daring. A rash voice inside me gives clear instructions.

Do it.

And so I do. I go to sleep that night without a care in the
world, $160 less in the bank, not realising the recklessness of the decision
I’d just made.

3 weeks out (Late-September)

9am. I’m in the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes
while drinking a tall glass of water. It’s a Sunday, and I’m due for my longest
run in training for the Melbourne Marathon – the goal is to run for 3 hours and
10 minutes, which should equate to around 35km. I put on my shoes and hat and
run out the door. After a moment, I decide to go back in for some sunnies.

After I signed up a few months ago, it took a few days for me to realise what I’d actually done and quickly made a training plan. 2 workouts a week. Sunday long runs, steadily increasing in distance. Easy runs, strength training, mobility work and recovery every other day. Today, I’m running along the Capital City Trail; a long and scenic route that stretches along the Yarra River to the city. The trail is mostly dirt or concrete with looming trees and windy hills.

Along the route, I see a group of runners from the Melbourne Uni elite squad run past, also on their Sunday long run. I see my coach in the group, who yells “Marathon Man!” as we pass each other. I flush, trying to conceal my tiredness. I also see my friend Ahra along the way, on her own long run despite nursing a knee injury. We chat briefly, give each other encouragement, and go off on our separate routes.

After 25km, my legs begin to ache – they aren’t used to
running past 2 hours straight yet – but I hold my pace. I repeat my mantra to
myself during difficult moments like these:

Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional.

After some water at a nearby fountain, I manage to complete the 190-minute run, feeling quite tired towards the end. When I get back home, I stretch a bit, take a shower and proceed to nap for the next 3 hours. The hard aerobic work is done – the focus now is to maintain fitness and not get injured.

(This run can be found here).

Race Day
(Mid-October)

7:59am. One minute before the start of the Melbourne
Marathon. Ideally, I’d be ready and warmed up in my starting zone by this time,
but I’ve gotten lost finding the bag drop area and am now half running to the
start line. As I reach the flood of anxious runners, I hear the siren go off and
see the crowd steadily moving. I silently berate myself for taking so long to
get ready this morning, as my starting zone is now over 200m in front of me,
separated by a few hundred people.

A few weeks ago, I decided the goal was to run between 3hr
15 and 3hr 30 for my first marathon. The plan was to stick with the 3:20 pacer
for 30km, then try and take off at the end. As I see the 4:10 pacer in front of
me, I realise the plan has abysmally failed: I would now have to try and catch
the 3:20 pacer and hold on.

4km in

Flying. Having started so close to the back and desperate to catch up to the 3:20 pacers, I quickly find myself in a small pack of 4 who I’m guessing also came a little late, as we proceed to overtake hundreds of people. We pass the 4:10, 4:00 and the 3:50 pacers in quick succession. Along the way, I remember all the pasta, the gym sessions and the countless numbers of kilometres ran in preparation for this day. I wonder momentarily if it’s enough. The voice inside encouragingly whispers back.

It will be enough.

Nevertheless, I say a prayer for the next 3 hours or so,
knowing very well they may suck a lot.

10km in

The wall. The moment during a marathon when your body begins to shut down. It’s typically projected to start around the 36km mark and is characterised by immense pain, with collapsing and vomiting not uncommon symptoms. As I continue to run, I am dimly aware that I’m running closer to ‘the wall’ and wonder what it might feel like.

Along the way, I find my friend Chris, who I seem to always
bump into in half marathons. He’s a tall, Aussie bloke with long strides and a
tendency to make witty comments during races. We get along quite well. We chat
briefly when we see each other.

“How do you know when you’ve hit the wall?” I ask, knowing he has run marathons before.

“Oh mate, you’ll know. It’ll be one of the most painful experiences of your life.”

20km in

Moving steadily. We are running down St Kilda Road, a long
road that follows St Kilda Beach. It’s usually filled with cars on a sunny day
like this, but the roads are closed just for this event. Along this road, Chris
and I pass the 3:40 and 3:30 pacers. I make some quick calculations in my head
and work out if we maintain our current pace of 4:33/km, we can catch the 3hr
20 pacers. We begin to get in a rhythm and the kilometres fly by.

“How are you feeling?” Chris asks.
“Pretty good. You?”
“Me too.”
“Great.”

We say little for the next 10km, but continue to nudge each other on towards the finish line, feet pounding down together on the long, gravel road.

30km in

It came slowly, like a spider sneaking down from its long web.
But sure enough, the insidious soreness that comes from distance racing hits me
and Chris notices. He pulls out a packet of electrolyte lollies and hands them
to me.

“Want a chewy?”

I grab one and mutter a word of thanks.

“Keep going, man. You got this.”

I chew, wishing I could believe it. I was not expecting to
feel the soreness this early in the race, but it has happened, and now I must deal
with it.

Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional.

36km in

The cramps came in quick succession. One moment, I’m running
normally despite slightly heavier steps and breathing. The next moment, every
step has jolts of lightning firing up them and breathing seems like an enormous
task. I slow down significantly these kilometres, limited by the range of
motion of my stiff legs. Running up a hill near the Botanical gardens threatens
to end me, and I become acutely aware of the possibility of collapsing very soon.

Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional.

40km in

I’ve been reading a memoir recently called “Why Running Matters”.
In the opening chapter, the author says something I find remarkable:

 First you run for fitness. Next you run for speed. Then you run for meaning.

– Ian Mortimer, “Why Running Matters”

At this point in the marathon, my body screams one question
at me.

“Why are you doing this?”

My inner voice gives a simple answer.

For meaning.

It offers nothing more, no matter how much I question it.

I grit my teeth, pain firing through my legs in every step. The
lactic acid accumulation from the last 40km has caused a mind-numbing pain so
intense that I almost stop and collapse multiple times. Every time, the voice
returns for some emergency assistance.

Keep going. You are nearly there.

The
finish

The end of the Melbourne Marathon consists of a lap of the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG) in front of a large crowd of spectators. Despite it not being more than 400m, the lap feels like an eternity. As I stumble to the end, I vaguely realise I must be the last runner for Melbourne Uni to finish. I nearly collapse at the finish line but am caught by a volunteer and helped further along. As I cross the line, I look up to see my friend Joanne standing in front of me, also volunteering for this event. She sees me, smiles, offers her congratulations and hands me a medal. It’s a nice distraction from the numbing pain that my body radiates. We chat briefly and she takes some photos of myself and Chris. I do my best to smile, acting as though I have energy to spare.

It takes a while for me to realise the race is over. My brain and body have been shocked so badly I suspect it’ll take a few days for me to register what’s just happened. Later that day, I find out my net time is 3:20:59, an average pace of 4:43/km – I never ended up catching the 3:20 pacer. As I begin stretching, I wonder if I’ll do another marathon in the future. The answer comes fast.

Yes.

But why? People tend to run away from painful experiences,
not towards them. And for painful experiences, this one tops the list by far.

Perhaps it’s for meaning.

(This run can be found here).