It may have been the slowest 10km race I have ever run in my life (by 10 minutes), but I was proud coming across that line.
There are four thousand people crowded into coral. It is well over 50 degrees Celsius with the humidity and the gun is half an hour late. Nobody knows when it will start, but we have heard the theme from "Chariots of Fire" three times. Here comes the anthem and, finally, the gun goes off. we shuffle across the line, anxious to get some sort of breeze.
After a couple of minutes I pass the man who is hopping 10km. He has one leg and one arm. If this guy can do it in the heat, so can I. It is one long circuit along the Atlantic Ocean, but at this time of year and at 4:30 in the afternoon, the breeze offers little relief from the heat. Luckily there is water or Gatorade at every kilometer mark. I'm only able to skip one or two.
You would think running slower is less painful . I've run 10km in thirty-five minutes, but that was in late fall in Canada when I was much fitter. This race is like running in a sauna. Why didn't they start this race at 7am like every other race in the world and avoid some of the heat? I decide it is because the race organizers hate me. Then I stop thinking entirely and focus on sweating as hard as I can. I do this extremely well. At about the 5o minute mark I see the finish line. The guy beside me starts to sprint and something clicks. "O yeah, this is a race". "Vamanos", I yell. We sprint across the line together and almost vomit at the end. My body thinks better of it and decides that it is more in need of retaining fluids than losing any more. Hi five to my competitor and into the lineup to get out of there.
I am now rethinking what I said about being proud crossing the line. It occurs to me that I may have an addiction. Perhaps I should seek counseling.