Malta Half Marathon 2012 and I

Saturday, 25 February. It is the eve of the big day. Days before are perplexing. In the commercial world, they are sometimes celebrated with more vigour than the actual day. The day before a half marathon, I want to preserve my energies as much as possible, thus getting into an idle state for much of the day. And that means a fusion of thoughts which cannot be beaten by a run. It has to wait till tomorrow.

It’s not the Olympics. The distance is not even found in the Olympics. But worldwide it is the fastest growing race. On a personal level, it is the longest distance I’ve raced, and it is seen as the stepping stone to the mythical distance of the marathon. Having spoken to a few would be marathoners in the build-up, I am looking forward to run in their own footprints, that have left the same starting line as me two hours before.

This time last year, I was at the same starting line for the very first time facing the challenge of 21.1 kilometres. I remember my own target was to never falter to walking. Today, everything is more familiar, some faces here are the faces of good close friends, and it’s the first time I am doing the same road race twice. ‘Walk’ is only letters for the Walkathon that is part of the event, and this year as am carrying no Ipod or any other music devise there is no chance that ‘Walk the line’ will cross my mind.

The church bell rang ten times and the gun went off. The sun was out for the day, its usually direct rival the rain nowhere to be seen. And coming from somewhere too was the wind. When off the ground, us Mellieha AC runners in our new light blue vests will camouflage.

Colds have been averted and I was feeling no discomfort anywhere. The distance from Mdina to the Sliema ferries can be now attacked in relation to my stopwatch.

I enjoyed every training session. Running is after all a lifestyle, and this race is a celebration of such a way of life. But admittedly sometimes, I was feeling that I am not in my best shape. The heart beat was somewhat higher than usual. My form in front of my hypothetical mirror was looking rather bloated. Today, I had to lean it as much as possible.

Mdina led to Rabat. Rabat led to its suburb of Mtarfa. Ta’ Qali was next, and we were amongst the marathoners. I was feeling fine in these first few kilometres. We were going mostly through gentle downhills under a blue sky and alongside the local brownish fields with a touch of green. As we got into Attard, the crowds were gathering with their cheering, and I saw my family there. It was hard not to feel good.

Half the distance was over and done with, the stretch of the Mriehel bypass was ran through, the flyover that looked like a rollercoaster negotiated, and now it was time for the more urbanised part of the island. Drivers glares complemented the fumes.

It was not a very happy time for me, and my prior doubts seemed to seep through the depressive surroundings and rise to the fore. I remember getting stronger on the sixteenth kilometre at the M2S race, but here the sixteenth kilometre was done in slightly over five and half minutes. Slight or slender I surely wasn’t feeling.

The sight of the blue sea at Ta’ Xbiex was welcomed. Most people would think Sliema’s only a throw of a stone away then. But with about nineteen kilometres in my feet I was feeling like carrying stones rather than throwing them nonchalantly. At the last kilometre, I allowed my breaths getting loud, made up some lost time, and then dashed for the remaining 100 metres of the route. The personal time was 1 hour 41 minutes 35 seconds.

I was expecting better but it’s another personal best so I’ve never been any better. I was surprised by the sight of our coach Has Kesra waiting for us one by one. A few words by the man transferred to a boost overshadowing any humbleness the odd kilometre handed me.

Another medal, another memory, another feat.