That Kid from Satara

“Don’t walk! You have not come here to walk!” she said. 

Simple words, really. It is a wonder how words out of the mouth of a juvenile in a school pinafore with slick, twin plaits tied with red ribbons can stick with you even a year after you hear it shouted out over a cacophony of music, screams, yells and cheers. Over the sound of your own labored breathing. Over the sound of your heart thumping louder than the dhols, struggling to pump hot blood to your throbbing veins. 

That one sentence is what defines my first half-marathon experience for me. Although an avid runner for many years, the Satara Hill Half Marathon was my first half marathon, and as they say, you never forget your first. The sheer energy and positivity that SHHM brings to the table is unparalleled. Never before, and not ever since, have I been surrounded by a vibe so pure, so exhilarating! 

I always knew it would be a challenge to run the distance, but I had grossly underestimated the power of a hill to make you realize how small and insignificant a human is. The first few miles were the easiest, fresh legs coupled with the arrogance only a barely-thirty-year-old mind can carry. Then came the climb. Arduous, unforgiving slopes that posed a challenge to even the toughest of runners. That is when the arrogance was cracked, and fear seeped in. The fear of not being able to complete what I started, the fear of giving up. 

“Jai Bhavani!” someone yelled. “Jai Shivaji!” I heard myself reply, barely recognizing the powerful baritone of my own parched throat. Even more surprised that my legs had somehow picked up pace, not bothering to pay heed to a mind that was already imagining the pleasure of slowing down to a walk.

The SHHM isn’t just another race. Sure as hell isn't just another hill. Running through the narrow streets and up the slopes, what I felt can only be described as uncorrupted beauty. Thousands of people of probably every caste, creed, colour, religion and profession known to man, and yet no sign of prejudice. Hundreds of voices yelled over drums, dhols, guitars and tutaris, and yet it wasn’t noise, it was music. No Sir, this isn’t just a marathon, this is a festival. Still struggling to put one foot in front of the next, I had never felt as alive as I did in that moment. 

That, however, did not last. Soon enough, I was hurting once again. Every muscle sore, every muscle begging for a break - then demanding it. Worst of all, the mind - the fickle thing that tells you that you are good enough and then asks you: "are you, really?" 

Who was I to even consider myself capable of conquering what only God could have created? I had no business challenging the mountain. I had to climb not over a hill, but over my own inflated ego. I did that. I told myself that I am but a man whom the mountain has allowed to climb. I told myself that the mountain had won. I told myself that I had failed to complete my first marathon. My legs slowed to a walk, then stopped altogether. My hands found their way to my waist, my shoulders drooped. The mountain had won, and I had lost.

And then I heard her. “You have not come here to walk!” I remember looking at her as she looked straight at me. Pompoms in her hands lay forgotten; she was probably tired of waving them. Arms in front of her, she was leaning forward as if pleading me to run. She didn’t have to plead. I started to run again. Not to conquer a mountain, not to conquer my ego. But for that little girl who stood there for hours, making people like me believe that we could, I ran!

Lying in bed that night nursing my aching muscles, I silently thanked her. She deserves a medal. My SHHM Finisher’s medal belongs to you, little girl! Watch the Curtain Raiser for SHHM2017 here Image Credits: https://www.shhm.co.in/photo-gallery/1/gallery-head