Run for the High of Running

I could hear my thumping heart as I stretched all my limbs at 4:45am that day. I was taking extra care to ensure that all my muscles were alive and awake. My head was buzzing with the thoughts of what potentially could be in store for me over the next few hours in the lovely, tree filled trails of Auroville, for I was poised to take part in my first ever marathon.

My training over the last few months hadn’t gone according to plan. 25km was the longest that I’d ever run, and that was over half a year ago. In the previous month, I’d run only on Sundays and I couldn’t do the 30km run that I’d planned on one of the days as it coincided with Pinkathon (due to which Cubbon park was closed to the public and that’s where I run). My total mileage over the previous month was around 80km and I wasn’t consistently doing my stretches or workouts. Despite the insufficient training, I found myself starting the marathon with a time target of 5 hours.

I suppose it was my enthusiasm which made me believe that 5 hours was a realistic target. It was an enthusiasm that grew through the previous day. The sight of the trees and happy memories of the trail as we entered Auroville on our bikes only added more fuel to my zeal. I like to believe that my enthusiasm was contagious; if not contagious, at least it was evident to the nine others in the group that had made the journey from Bengaluru. On the day of the run, I woke up promptly to my alarm at 3:30 and was so restless that I felt it fit to start running right then. And a little over an hour later, close to the start line, my excitement had reached a zenith.

Just after 5am, the run was flagged off. We were all given small torches to help us navigate through the trail. And in the fading darkness of that starry dawn, among the trees, with the cool air standing still, on a slow trot, I had started a unique journey that would take me to a never before run distance, testing my physical and mental resilience; I had started my first marathon.

As soon as I started running, there was something in me that kept me at a slow pace, despite my enthusiasm and urge to run. I wanted to maintain a pace of 7:00 minutes per kilometer for the first half of the run, but my body suggested that I continue at the 7:30 pace that I’d settled into after a kilometer. Vishwa and I, running next to each other, couldn’t help but remark how this slow trot through these trees awaiting the day’s first light was truly a joy.

Vishwa and I discovered that we had an incredibly good rhythm going as we maintained the same pace without feeling tired. After an hour and twenty minutes, we’d covered a fourth of the distance. As the full marathon is run as two loops of 21km, this quarter distance point was when we started seeing distance markers reading 30km and above. Everyone who’d run a marathon had told me that it’s at 30km mark you start wondering why you’re even running. I found that baffling as we’d be so close to the finish then and I couldn’t wait to experience it for myself. As the day grew, we continued running together, exchanging words of motivation at every distance marker and revelling in our steady advance. However, we slowly drifted apart as we approached the end of the first loop. And as I saw the distance marker read 21km after a few minutes over 2.5 hours, I let myself have a moment of small triumph. I felt adrenaline coursing through me and I increased my resolve to run the same distance again.

I found that my pace was gradually dropping and from the 26^thkm, my slide started. I hadn’t run a step beyond 25km previously and now every step seemed to be take a lot more effort than before. Not knowing what to expect, I thought I would be able to run the rest of the distance at this reduced pace of over 8 minutes per kilometer. My mind started recalculating the time I’d need to finish the run at this pace and I figured that 5.5hours would be the realistic target. To give myself a little boost, after 27km, I decided to turn to my music for help.

As soon as I plugged in my earphones and heard Dan Tomkins shout “let me burn” (Evolution by Skyharbor), I felt aggression in my veins as I vehemently agreed with him on the burning part with a considerable amount of headbanging. The music player next turned to Riverside’s Time Travellers and Mariusz Duda’s voice made me think wistfully of the times when I was a kid and innocence was untouched, moving me close to tears. Next when Patrick Watson sang “ain’t it feel right? Ain’t it feel nice?” I was sure he was talking about my run. And I thought John Mayer was an unheralded genius when his song proclaimed fear as a misunderstood friend. Although the songs I listened to made phenomenally more emotional impact than usual, they didn’t improve my pace.

I noticed that I was taking over 10 minutes for every kilometer. Wearing a Garmin then seemed to be a terrible idea as I was tempted to look often at it to see if my pace got any better and given that that didn’t happen, it caused me much consternation. Around the 33km mark, I couldn’t see any runner ahead of me and loneliness seemed to be adding to my woes. At another point, I wondered if one of the distance markers were missing coz I’d run for a long duration and hadn’t seen that distance marked yet. But after running a little longer, when I saw that distance on the next board, I too, like others, wondered why I was running still. My legs wouldn’t respond as usual, I felt a faint pain at the top of my foot, and my mind wouldn’t stay focused as usual, as the gruelling nature of running over 30km was revealed to me.

Going through all this, I realized that there was only one way to approach this: that was to think about nothing else and run at whatever pace I could. That way it would be mind over matter. And I’d still enjoy the run. I then listened completely to my body. I ran as much as I could, walked where I couldn’t. Every cheer at the aid stations brought smiles to my face, invigorated my patience. The new found mental resilience carried me through, at a slow and unsteady pace, to the board that read 40km. Then I seemed to find a new physical resilience too.

My pace picked up, my excitement grew again. I was nearly there, at the end of a marathon. My body seemed to cooperate despite the faint pain, tight muscles, and exhaustion. The board that read 41km released some more energy in me. I couldn’t understand how, but I could run like I did at the beginning. I left the road and entered among the trees for one last time, as the trail turned left. I ran through the trees and emerged on to a clearing. The finish line was in sight, just 200m away. I sped. As I saw my friends standing beyond the finish line cheering me on, I sprinted with everything I had, arms out wide embracing the occasion. The moment I crossed the finish line, I was drowned in ecstasy and in relief. I had run a marathon.

I stretched my sore limbs again for a while as I let the feeling sink in. The high I was on right then was incomparable. All my struggles in finishing a marathon left me thinking about how we have descended into a state where utter competition drives everything, leaving us no time for the proverbial smelling of flowers by the roadside. While there are people who thrive on that, and I thought that I was one of those, I’ve come to realize that the smelling of the flowers, for me, gives me more satisfaction. I had timing expectations at the start of the run. But as the run wore on, I realized that I was running for many reasons, and timing wasn’t on the list. I ran under starry skies allowing fascination about our place in the universe envelop me, I ran under the shade of the trees breathing in their exhale only, I ran trampling the fallen leaves, I ran on muddy roads with the dust rising on every step, I ran becoming aware of my limitations, I ran realizing I can push my limitations, but most of all, I ran because it moved me like no other experience. I ran for the joy of running, for the high of running. 

And I Went West on a Cycle

Tatte idly for breakfast is a swell option on any given day. When you are one among the 9 cyclists who have cycled a minimum of 30km on a chilly December morning from Bengaluru to Harohalli, a breakfast like this is an absolute delight. With our muscles just about warmed up and our minds well made up for a ride that would take us to Mysore that evening, 16 tatte idlys topped with a wad of butter, and 22 uddin vade and maddur vade were devoured in no time among the nine cyclists.

Manish, one of the riders from Bangalore Bikers Club riding with us, had found the first breakfast place for us. I say first because it was the first day of a 6-day ride along a route charted to take the riders from Bengaluru to Mysore to Madikeri to Kalpetta to Ooty to Mysore and back to Bengaluru. Riding over 100km on each day, the ride would total more than 700km. Attempting this whole ride, along with the aforementioned three, were Santosh and Sriram (who hadn’t joined us yet, and unfortunately couldn’t ride beyond Mysore due to unavoidable circumstances). An exam restricted Vasanth until Madikeri and a wedding restricted Vasisht and Varun until Mysore. Along with Jineshwar, I was the only other rider in the group who hadn’t done long distances yet.

My cycle was a mere week old and had seen only 18km of riding; the trip I made to decathlon and back for all the cycle accessories was the only ride on it. Despite lacking prior long distance cycling experience, I had backed myself to ride until Madikeri, a distance of 260km over two days, with the second day poised to take us through some tough inclines on the Western ghats.

As we were finishing our breakfast, another customer to our breakfast place asked us where we were headed. When Vasisht told him our final destination, the incredulous response of “Ooty na?!” had all of us in laughter! I wonder how he’d have reacted had he known that we were going via Madikeri (which is a detour from Mysore). Townsfolk everywhere seemed to be fascinated by this group of riders, who were riding what must have been to them fancy cycles, and wearing fancy attires of reflective jacket, helmet, and sunglasses. Later that day, while riding on towards Mysore after lunch in Malavalli, someone having his curiosity raised by seeing a few of our riders already, stopped me to ask where we were headed. The next day, a goods auto decided to ride slowly next to me to ask about us. Again on the second day, when I’d stopped for a tender coconut break, one of the people sitting under the shade of the thatched roof of the small shelter observed - what he decidedly thought was irony in life - that people like him desired motor bikes, while we desired such cycles.

Group of nine riders on fancy cycles and wearing fancy attires.

Among these reactions, the best always were from the kids. I had a conversation with a couple of kids, one of whom owned a cycle, near the same place where I had the tender coconut break. I asked the kid sitting on the cycle, “ಸೈಕಲ್ ನಿಂದಾ? (Is the cycle yours?)”

He replied, “ಹೌದು. (Yes.)”

“ನನ್ ಜೊತೆ ಬರ್ತಿಯಾ? (Will you come along with me?)”

“ಮಡಿಕೇರಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ದೂರ ನಂಗೆ. (Madikeri is a little too far for me.)”

As I rode on after this conversation, he sped by with his friend seated behind him. The moment they were ahead of me, the kid on the carrier lifted his hands as he rejoiced overtaking me!

When I was riding alone on the inclines of the ghat section, a bunch of kids asked me where I was going. When I said Madikeri, I heard the entire bunch go, “Come on anna, super!”

We also happened to ride next to a school that apparently had just ended for the day. There were a lot of kids with cycles, just pushing them along, walking with friends. They obviously needed the cycle to reach school on time, early in the morning. Now they were in no hurry to go back home. Why would they want to part with friends so soon?

Kids everywhere mostly greeted us with cheers and shouts of “ಅಣ್ಣ (brother)!” Raise your hand, and they will cheer more loudly for you. These kids got me thinking if I was having enough fun riding, because they seemed to have a lot more fun just cheering for us. Whether we were riding under the hot sun or were being careful to avoid the traffic, seeing kids cheer for us always made me smile and I always raised my hand for them.

Even though such incidents could infuse one with enthusiasm, riding long distances can prove to be an energy draining affair too. An injury forced Jinesh back from Mysore. Vishwa’s cycle had a flat tyre on the first day and broken spokes on the next. The blistering afternoon sun forced me to take more water breaks than I’d intended. I had to ride with a stomach ache for over half the distance on the second day. As we got closer to the ghat sections on day two, the roads became narrow, which meant more vigil on our part was needed. Although the ghat sections themselves were beautiful to ride on, we had to watch our pedal to stay away from the traffic coming from both directions and the fact that it was dark made it more difficult. And despite being mentally geared up – literally geared down – for the inclines of the last 14km to Madikeri, I found myself huffing heavily to make steady and slow progress. When I was on the edge, what perhaps irritated me the most were the badly timed speed breakers! A speed breaker on a downhill meant that I couldn’t build great momentum and one on an uphill meant it slowed down an already slow rider. When the riding got tough, I sometimes motivated myself by reminding myself that every next pedal took me to a personal best distance.

Just before the inclines to Madikeri got steeper.

On both evenings, we reached our destination with tired legs, but with triumphant minds. I personally felt more elated in Madikeri, as I’d completed a grueling climb that had me panting loudly with every pedal. And given how much tougher the Kalahatty climb on day 4 was expected to be than this, I also felt satisfied in not carrying on. And reflecting on the ride over the two days, I kept going back to the sunset I witnessed on the way to Mysore.

And we'd made it to Madikeri!

The sun, a little to the left of my view, had started sinking behind a small hill. Emitting the last red hues of the evening, the sun was setting quickly, with heat also sinking along with it. There were a few trees by the road and the traffic was moderate. Soon, the sky was bereft of the sun. I was sailing peacefully on the roads, chasing the already set sun.

PS: for a day to day account of the full 6 day trip, read Santosh's post here.

The Call of the Mountains

The human species is a dwarf when compared to the mountains; a dwarf in space and time. While the enormity of the mountains is immediately apparent, the mountains have existed for far longer than the human kind and perhaps will also stand witness to the demise of this sorry species. With my mind preoccupied with these thoughts, I saw the mountains standing shoulder to shoulder, stretching endlessly. I was instantly filled with a sense of awe, feeling belittled all the while. This hubris-check was felt at the foothills; foothills of one of the youngest mountain ranges and the tallest mountain range in the world. I had arrived at the foot of the mighty Himalayas. The very thought of the enormity that was in store for me over the next fortnight made me bow my head down to these mountains.

A question that I often asked myself on my second ever visit to the Himalayas was this: what makes these mountains so fascinating and why am I drawn towards them so much?

Did the fascination lie in the changing landscapes of this brilliant mountain range? We crossed the 5583m high Parang La (La is the word for pass in local tongue) on day four of our trek. The initial two days were short and they passed with relative ease. The third day saw us making steep descents which took us to a deep ravine and also saw us making equally steep ascents that led us to the Parang La basecamp. For three days we had trekked on a barren terrain with boulders being a common sight and never could one spot a tree. Initially on day four, the terrain was the same and snow at close quarters was seen only in patches. But that was about to change and how! On a misty drizzling day, it had taken steady efforts on my part to gradually ascend towards the pass. Behind me was the now familiar barren terrain and when I cast my eyes beyond the pass, I was transported to a different world where snow blanketed every inch of the land in front of us. Right at the pass was a huge mass of white that was the glacier. It took the guides over an hour to find a path down this glacier, after which it took us an hour of trekking to get off the glacier. As we trekked further that day, the trail led us to walk right by the river formed by the glacier water. The next day saw us wading through those icy-cold thigh-high waters. Two more days later, as we left the course of the river, we were staring at incredibly vast meadows that stretched on for miles. One was bound to gauge the miles wrongly, always underestimating it. And there was still no sign of a tree. Nature must have challenged herself to outdo the majesty and variety of her creations at every turn.

Snowfall could transform a barren peak into a snow peak overnight

The landscape didn’t change just with distance, they also changed with time. The Tso Moriri - a huge lake at an altitude of 4543m with a perimeter of about 60km - changed colours every few hours. The interplay of sun and clouds led the lake to take on varied shades of blue. A thick cloud cover in the afternoon would render the lake a deep shade of blue, while a sparser cover gave the lake a light blue shade. Different parts of the lake would assume different shades at the same instant due to the uneven distribution of the clouds. The clouds affected the mountains too with their snowfall and rain. The landscape change is so intriguing that the colour of the mountains changed just with rain, as the soil on the mountains mixed with the rain and deepened in colour. Needless to say, snowfall could transform a barren peak into a snow peak overnight. Nature must still be challenging herself to outdo the majesty and variety of her creations with every hour.

The interplay of sun and clouds led the lake to take on varied shades of blue

Nature also used the moon to paint a landscape differently. That night at the Norbu Sumdho campsite, when I crawled out of the two man tent where I was huddled along with five others and where laughter was raging for a long while, Nature had me staring at her painting for a long time, speechless. The waxing crescent moon lit up the landscape; the gently flowing glacier water – the gentleness also heard in the sound that she made - was now streaks of silver on the path below, a path that she had long ago forged among the mountains and the mountains themselves were now a silhouette of black all around. The unflinching clouds which decorated the sky, especially gathered around the peaks, seemed to be competing with the stillness of the mountains. A multitude of stars completed this picture of few colours. The still cold air was chilling my bones. Yet I stood, transfixed, moved by the majesty and beauty of this incredible sight.

I know that it isn’t just the changing landscape that draws one to the mountains. The white band of Milky Way was seen on many nights, stretching across the sky, reminding the consciousness induced stardust that we are of our origins and of our place in the universe. On the trek, we saw a lone wolf limping away, herds of kiangs grazing, marmots popping in and out of their holes, bar-headed geese on the lake, and a hare ran past us! Being severed from civilization, in the mountains, we are a lot closer to Nature.

At the end of the trek, I still couldn’t convincingly answer why I was so fascinated. Hindsight also hasn’t proved to be successful in the quest for an answer. But it is perhaps not a question that should be answered at all. I’m inclined to think that the question is invalid even.

All I’m left with is this. The Himalayas called. I obliged. And I will continue to answer them, for I have fallen prey to the calls of the mountains.

A glimpse of the green grandeur of the Western Ghats: Kumaraparvatha

An undulating and never-ending mass of green all around was the view that I was offered by the Western Ghats as I sat on the rock, facing the towering Kumaraparvatha. The clouds drifting all around added to the charm of the view. Kumaraparvatha stood taller than the other peaks around, like it was standing guard over them and the wildlife that inhabited them.

It had taken us 3.5 hours on a steadily ascending path from Kukke - trekking through tall trees, some leeches and the occasional snake – to reach the midway point (Bhattara mane) of this Kumaraparvatha trek. Despite it being the season for rains, it didn’t rain until we reached Bhattara mane. And it was an hour past noon already. But once we reached that point, rain was unpredictably on and off. The forest department was quite strict about not allowing us to trek past that point and quite understandably so; in a recent incident, lightning strikes had claimed lives. We had the entire evening to ourselves. An evening of nothingness to look forward to, with a large expanse of mountains to immerse ourselves in. Brilliant, no?

The cloud cover was a near constant and rains were very unpredictable. Heavy bouts of rains were separated by mere minutes, which made sure that we all were constantly draped in our ponchos or raincoats. However, as the evening wore on, there was a point when the rains did subside. The clouds were still among us and it seemed like the clouds were rising up from the valleys below, to join the bigger ones hovering above us.

The cloud cover was a near constant...clouds rising up from the valley

We found a smaller peak which we wanted to trek to and we occupied that for the rest of the evening to come. From this point, towards west, we could see the civilization below where the mountains ended. We could also make out the trail of the Kumaradhara river below, as it coursed through the woods. The river in itself wasn’t seen, but the clouds rising up from the path of the river plotted its slender path. To the east of the point lay the Kumaraparvatha. And on the other two sides, the clouds, mountains, trees and greenery completed the view.

About time for the sunset, I sat myself on one of the rocks around, admiring the huge mound of green in front of me. Calling it a mound of green doesn’t do enough justice for many reasons. One of them being that there were many varied shades of green. The grass and trees, feasting on the frequent rains, had produced innumerable and rich shades of the same hue. Also, setting sun playing behind ever moving clouds created such varied effects on the greens and the towering peak. All the clouds around us seemed to be attracted to the peak, offering different amount of cover to the peak, as though they were guarding the peak from the prying, hungry eyes of the people at its base.

Clouds seemed to be guarding the flat peak

There weren’t any signs of animal wildlife in these spots of the mountains; none if you exclude the leeches! The animals stay away from humans, I was told. The next day though, I would wake up to the song of a whistling thrush! How delightful was his song, whistling away to himself, safe from our eyes. The Himalayan whistling thrush supposedly stops whistling midway through, like he’s forgotten a note. This fellow in Western Ghats seemed like he knew his notes all too well. Or maybe he composed them all too well.

Back to my place on the rock, the cloud and sun combination allowed us the privilege of just a glimpse of Kumaraparvatha’s rather flat peak, a glimpse which lasted for just a few seconds. The moment was met with a collective aaahhh! I wondered if that was the Ghats' way of telling us that we humans should be limited to mere glimpses, and that if we're given more, we'd probably not leave them the way we saw them. At that moment though, the rock I sat on was the perfect place to savour this glimpse. Had I stood up and walked a few paces westwards, I’d have seen sights of civilization down below. But on this rock, there was no civilization to ruin my experience. I could as well have been in heaven. Really, at moments as special as this, seated as perfectly as I was, I start wishing for heaven to be real and for it to be an experience akin to this. But perhaps I’m looking at it in the wrong light. The heaven that I was wishing for would be a heaven worth dying for. The heaven that we have here is a heaven that’s worth living for.

नक्षत्रनिर्मिताणि

विश्वावृताणि मात्राणि

तारकस्फुटनेन हि |

लोके सर्वाणि भूतानि

नक्षत्रनिर्मिताणि वै ||

A fond smile of recognition

It was impossible not to cry. Tears that had filled until the brim, threatening to overflow, flowed gently down my cheeks. I couldn’t quite say if I was happy or sad. Retrospectively though, I know that I was both happy and sad.

About a year and a half ago, I had undergone a rather minor laser eye surgery to stop the fluid inside my eye from overflowing through a cut which had developed when a football had struck my right eye from close range. I had frequent eye checkups since then at the same hospital, a hospital which was close to my house. A fifteen minute walk would suffice to cover the distance.

After one of my check-ups on one sunny afternoon, walking back home through one of the quieter cross roads, I saw a bunch of kids near a construction site. They were children of the workers there, clothed by dusty, ill-fitting clothes. There were about five or six of them, all playing around, running and hopping. The eldest was a girl, no older than six or seven and the rest were all younger than her by at least a couple of years. The youngest of the lot was the one held by the girl on her hip and he was barely two. Like most kids their age, they looked like a happy lot, with no responsibilities and indeed even without an understanding of what responsibility might mean.

These kids, I thought, will never have a childhood like most. Their childhood will be filled with extreme sacrifices made by their parents to just earn a day’s meal. And being in an environment where most of their wants possibly will not be satisfied, they might also outgrow their innocence soon. The sight of these children playing, having fun, oblivious to what life had dealt them, put me in a pensive state of mind. I made up my mind to make just one of their days special in a small way and walked over to one of the elders in the group. I asked if I could take them to a nearby bakery and buy them what they asked for. The man agreed without any hesitation and called out to the girl and explained that she was to accompany me to the bakery.

I asked her to tell the other kids that she would bring all the stuff for them and that they were to stay put in her absence. She did so, and came along with me, still holding the boy at her hip. As we walked to the bakery, I made conversation with her, asking her name and the place they were from (neither of which I can remember now). I held her hand and crossed the main road, across which was the bakery. At the bakery, I told her that she was free to order anything she liked and also to keep in mind what the kids we left behind would like. She took a few minutes to think of everything they’d want and once done, all her orders cost me lesser than Rs.200. I held the plastic bag with all the snacks in one hand, her hand in the other, as we crossed the road again and went back to the construction site.

She took the cover from me once we reached and thanked me for the snacks. That was one of the moments where I profoundly felt how unfair life was. For her, these snacks worth 200 were a luxury, while for me, I wouldn’t think twice about paying Rs.100 just to play football for an hour. And what I had done was in no way going to bridge this gap between me and her. However, I hoped that my small gesture would make her feel like life was being unfair in her favour, for a small while at least. These thoughts predominantly occupied my mind as I made my way home.

Many weeks later, I had another consultation and was walking home via the same route. I saw some of those children from that day, again playing on the street. I had almost reached the end of the road, where I’d turn, when I spotted that big girl in the group. Her face lit up in an instant when she saw me and waved her hand wildly at me. Glee was written on her face; her wide smile the letters. Those were smiles and waves of a happy recollection, of recognition.

Her happiness moved me in a way quite unlike anything else. I had gone from another passerby on the road to someone whom she remembered and someone who made her smile. I too smiled and gave back a hearty wave as I tried to prevent my eyes from moistening. I passed by her and made the turn, as I realised how I’d look back on this day with fondness, for years to come. I couldn’t hold the tears in any longer. It was impossible not to cry…

Gravitational Waves!

Billion years ago were two orbiting black holes

Closer they drew; they collided and merged through

Space-time fabric was warped; still it folds and unfolds

The colossal collision set off these gravitational waves

Stacking crest after trough, endlessly propagating, until time stays.

I wrote this poem to celebrate the historic day on which mankind first observed the gravitational waves directly! This poem - an acrostic - has more than the word formed by first line first letter, second line second letter and so forth. There’s another word in it. Can you find what that is?

Also, for reigniting my interest in astronomy and black holes in particular, many thanks to Usha Keshav!