Читать книгу Mt Kilimanjaro & Me - Annette Freeman - Страница 9

In May I took up running. Attempts at this in the recent past had led to a dreaded case of Achilles tendonitis, strained calf muscles and a general cry from my body to ‘stop!’. It seemed that while brisk walking, even up and down hills, was OK, the impact of jogging and running was too much for the poor old thing. But I had observed that runners had great cardiovascular fitness, and I felt that this was an element missing from my training regime. No matter how far and long I walked, good cardiovascular fitness was slow in coming.

So gradually I added in some jogging segments to my morning walk and eventually converted it to a three kilometre jog. Then I took up running on the treadmill at the gym. By the time I visited Chicago in May on a business trip, I was doing five kilometres a day. In Chicago, I could see from the hotel gym windows that there was an attractive path leading around the waterfront, and for a few mornings the jog was considerably improved by taking place along the shore of Lake Michigan, from the river mouth to the planetarium and back. On my last morning, I did have a minor wake up call. I tripped over my own feet on the Columbus Avenue Bridge, gouging my knee and shaking myself up, but beyond a battle scar or two, there seemed to be no lasting ill-effects.

Back in Sydney, I was feeling good about all this running, perhaps too good, and I entered the Sydney Half Marathon – twenty-two kilometres. I’d never attempted such a thing before, not even contemplated it. I had, for a few years past, run in the great Sydney fun run called the City2Surf, held each August and attracting about 60,000 competitors. That’s a thirteen kilometre course and includes a number of challenging hills. I was looking forward to running the City2Surf again this coming August and to getting my time below eighty-five minutes.

But a half marathon? My friend Kyle, who runs full marathons (halves for training), showed no particular surprise at my decision and seemed strangely sure that I could do it. Kyle has a knack of saying things as if they are already so, and this often results in a kind of inevitability. He gave me a few tips and assumed I’d be fine. I tried doing ten kilometres a few times on the treadmill. Apart from feeling a bit light-headed, I survived.

I learnt that the half-marathon circuit was to be completed twice, and that if a runner didn’t make it to the eleven kilometre halfway mark in one hundred minutes, they would be disqualified. I set myself the sub-goal of not being disqualified. On the morning of the race I was up early, kitted out, drank some supplement, packed my potassium-and-glucose jelly beans, grabbed a banana, and turned up. Turning up is eighty percent of success, right?

Off we set – me, very trepidatious. What the heck was I doing? Still, all Kyle’s tips and my trainer’s advice were fresh in my mind as I paced out the opening of the course through the Hickson Road wharf area of The Rocks and under the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Sorry to say, within a few minutes of the start, my bladder decided that the modest amount of magnesium-supplemented water I’d drunk was nevertheless too much. No way was I going to stop this soon, so an ever-flowing damp patch seeped its way down my black (thankfully) Lycra legs. ‘So,’ I told myself, ‘you don’t know any of these people around you. You’ll never see them again so just keep going.’

And I did. Along George Street, up the seemingly mild but insidious slope of Hunter Street – always giving myself permission to stop and walk for a while but never actually doing so. Kyle had said, ‘Don’t stop. Go as slow as you like, but don’t stop.’ Then, with false relief like reaching a false summit, I reached the relative flat of Macquarie Street, and an elegant swoop down and around into the gardens of The Domain. On I went, damp but determined, past the Art Gallery and down to Lady Macquarie’s Chair, a beautiful viewpoint opposite the Harbour Bridge and Opera House. This was familiar territory. I’d done an eight kilometre run along this route just a week before, in the Mother’s Day Classic fun run for breast cancer research. I was pacing myself, feeling a little spacey but OK, as we wound out of the Gardens and back along Macquarie Street, down Hunter (much better than up!) and back to The Rocks. I took heart that I wasn’t completely last. I kept an eye out for Kyle, but didn’t spot him. I did see Dan, one of the trainers from the gym, lapping me in a grand manner.

The route now took a detour up another hill: the Argyle Cut. Again, I gave myself permission to stop and walk, but kept pacing it out very slowly. Down Kent Street we swept, we of the rear guard, into Napoleon Street and back to the starting line in Hickson Road. By my watch, I wouldn’t be disqualified! I could take a rest and walk now if I wanted, but I didn’t. Then across the line as cheers went up for the first finishers – a full lap ahead of me.

I also gave myself permission to stop after the eleven kilometre halfway mark. But on I went, one more time around. Looking back, I can hardly believe that I began that second circuit. Certainly it required more mental toughness than physical. After a while, my mind just blanked out what I was doing and the second circuit passed by in a haze. By the time I shuffled down to the finish line again I was wet to the ankles, with a historically awful chafe which was to leave a stinging scar for weeks afterwards, and my feet were completely numb. I crossed the line with the little electronic timer tied to my shoelace registering two hours nine minutes and forty-two seconds, a respectable time for a first-timer who thought she wasn’t going to finish. When I proudly reported this result to Kyle, he said, ‘Great! That means you could do a full marathon in under five hours.’ Not today, Kyle. Thanks so much for the vote of confidence, but maybe later.

Apart from feeling decidedly wobbly for a while, I appeared to suffer few ill effects from this mammoth effort. A nice hot bath was appreciated, plus some salve on the chafed regions, and all seemed well. In the next few days, though, a sore calf muscle sent me to Debra the chiropractor again. But she zapped it with electric current and gave it a tough massage and the pain cleared right up.

A deeper and more persistent little issue was brewing, though. I couldn’t be sure that the half-marathon was to blame, but it seemed a likely candidate for the niggling ache in my right foot, which gradually became more painful over the next few weeks. This was a setback. If I could only limp across the room, how would I ever climb Mt. Kilimanjaro?