Words By: Stephen Turner
Adrenalised runners formed on EMAAR Boulevard excitedly sharing high fives and “have a great run” with each other as they inhaled wet fog. The early kilometres were punctuated by toilet stops due to the cold and consisted of avoiding fast-starting hand-bikers who slalomed their way through the pack of runners, and the elite 10km-ers overtaking us to the whoops and cheers from everyone.
Only a few comedy runners had entered the marathon compared to other races. One couple were clad in green Lycra one-pieces – “Morphs?” – one man ran in a suit and tie and several men wore pink breast cancer charity shirts. Most runners used branded trainers, some five-finger shoes, a few in just sandals and one was completely barefoot. Ouch.
The route aimed for Burj Al Arab and as Al Wasl-Al Mina crossroads approached, police kindly withheld hundreds of stationary vehicles. Some drivers vacated to view the scene, some miserable because of the delay. Didn’t they read the road closure signs?
The course took us onto Jumeirah Road via a U-turn at 9km where runners shouted encouragements over the dividing wall. Hmmm. I am already 10 minutes behind people I normally run with. I can’t seem to get my legs moving today. I chat to a co-worker who is enjoying her first ever marathon. She steadily maintains her pace to a record 5hrs 22mins. Respect!
A runner stops to hold his little daughter’s hand and is photographed by his family, whilst friends cheering on his progress. A bearded man is sat at a bus stop, I think he will have to wait several hours.
We saluted the elite runners returning home behind the travelling cameramen.I doubt that I could match the leading group’s speed for 100m. Later, I spot another friend looking in great condition who completes his run in 3hrs 30mins. Magnificent.
Sunshine bursts onto returning to Jumeirah, which feels longer than outbound. A knocking pain behind my right knee has developed. I encouraged my co-worker to keep running to the finish however much it hurts. A Sikh competitor nods his agreement. A Polish runner adds, “Just keep moving.” I swap notes with two German ladies in my schoolboy German. They seem relaxed. “Ja, we have done many marathons. No problem.” An Italian lady cramps up in front of me and uses the kerb to stretch her leg. A South African guy begins to walk. “Just run baby steps, don’t walk.”
Spectators encourage us with cries of “not far to go.” Yes it is, I scream in my head, its 15kms. At Satwa, I want to rest but a lady from the cycling club sees me so I can’t. Approaching the Trade Centre, 50 per cent of the runners are now walking. I am reduced to a jog as we completed the perimeter of the mall. The last kilometre takes an eternity with medal-wearing finishers applauding, so I muster a smile.
This marathon business is tough. They call it a “sufferfest.” When will the endorphins kick in? After that, I slept all afternoon. It’s 200,000 USD to the winner and 200,000 smiles for everyone else.
