Beach to Basin

It’s never a good idea to take a sleeping pill at 2am when you’ve signed up to run 9km in mere hours.

I’d gone to sleep all right but was woken at midnight by a twin who was upside down and back to front and all disorientated in bed.

After rearranging him I was padding back to my room when I remembered the impending event.

“Don’t switch your mind on, don’t switch your mind on,” I told myself.

Too late. Clammy dread shot through me and I was wired.

It had been eight years since I’d last run the Beach2Basin. Always one to come in nearly last at school cross country, running was never my thing. But I think it’s good to step outside the comfort zone now and again and I’d been proud of my 49-min score. In the years that followed, I’d come up with a last-minute excuse not to do it and hadn’t even run five kilometers, let alone nine (although I’m sure it used to be 9.4!)

Now I was keen to match my PB and interested to see if sitting in an office most of the day, as I did back then, with a run thrown in morning and/or night made one fitter than a mother on her feet all day who no longer exercises religiously.

Hubby signed me up sometime during the week before I had a chance to chicken out - he was probably sick of me being all talk – and I tried not to think about it after that.

So back to the early hours.

Counting sheep has never worked. The horrid sheep would start jumping too fast for me to keep up so, instead I lay there listening to the ‘weather bomb’ and trying every other trick in the book while resisting the urge to take a sleeping pill.

Finally two hour’s later, after watching the clock and counting down the hours with a sense of foreboding till I had to “perform”, I decided it might not hurt to take a quarter, just to knock me out without leaving me dopey the next day.

It didn’t and I was.

I fell asleep just before dawn and awoke late feeling like crap. The kids were already up and hyper with it.

With a thick fog hanging over me, I dragged my slothful self up and slovenly pulled on some running gear before dressing the kids.

I joined the masses at the start line and we were off. The running helped clear the cobwebs and I began to pick up speed.

Gridlocking during the Waimahanga Track slowed things somewhat and everyone came to a standstill waiting to cross the bridge single-file. Soon after I became aware of heavy breathing and a loud jingling noise behind me. It was hot on my heels and slightly disconcerting. After five long minutes of this, a long-bearded Neanderthal-looking fulla wearing a netting shirt with bells and chains lumbered past. Interesting.

It’s always funny passing kids along the way. Not having learnt to pace themselves, they shoot off, only to run out of steam and look up surprised to be passed by geriatrics further down the track.

But I cringe when I spot someone I know up ahead. Do you slink past and hope they haven’t seen you, or call a cheery ‘hello’, rubbing it in that you’re about to leave them in the dust? Then you have to keep up your pace in case they pass you again because then you might just end up passing them later on and you’ll have an involuntary race.

On and on I ran leaving the now-walking, heaving Neanderthal behind. I had to beat 49 minutes, or at least get the same time – and I’d be happy. Nine kilometers was definitely my limit, I decided. I only have one thing to say to people who put themselves through the torture of half-marathons and more – WHY?

I looked at my watch – there was three minutes to go and no way I would make it but then rounded the corner and noticed the finish line had moved closer than where it used to be.

With a burst of speed I went through the flags at 49 minutes to “Go Mummy,” from my small cheering squad. I stopped to greet them, then realised that was not quite the finish line. My body now hating me, I dragged it a little further through a second set of flags as the clock ticked over to 50mins.

Ahhhh well.

The finish line, on the canopy bridge resembled a ‘who’s who at the zoo’ scene but when you’re a red, hot, sweaty mess, gasping for breath with the dregs of an insomnia-induced haze hanging over you, you’re not in the mood to talk. I was keen to go before my muscles went into spasm and my legs gave out.

After hobbling around for the first part of the following week I was already vowing to beat my time next year but, by then, I’ll have a few things sorted - namely training and sleep. Getting the right finish line might help too.