And finally . . . we are on the home stretch . . . or at least the road leading up to it.
I was huffing and heaving when I passed my buddy Gary and a friend he’d picked up along the way. Because they were going to miss the cut off for the road closures, they’d been re-routed. They were plodding their way along St Kilda Road. Gary shouted out, “What’s all that puffing about Missy?” I scowled, too exhausted for frivolity.
The course seemed never-ending. I lived for the drink stations where I could walk while I drank (my self-imposed rule). I forced myself to start running again, though I use the term ‘running’ very loosely. We went up yet another incline that felt like crawling up a sand dune the size of Everest. A lady in the crowd shouted, “The finish line is just around the corner! It’s only 400m away! You’re going to make it!”
This is why Melbournians can’t reverse park – they have no sense of distance. Her 400m was more like 900m. I didn’t know this at the time though and her encouragement and support seeped into me and I had hope that I would actually whimper across the line.
Lesson #12: Not seeing the finishing line can be a good thing. Blind faith that it is within reach can be a beautiful lie.
After rounding the aforementioned corner, and veering to the left and then gently to the right, I saw it. It was big and red and inflatable and flanking the road up to it were crowds of strangers clapping and cheering and spurring us all onwards. Some runners found ‘a bit in the tank’ and sprinted gleefully under the arch. I had nothing left. Absolutely nothing. It was all out there behind me, waiting for someone to come along with a rake and scoop it up.
I smiled though – and crossed the line – as the announcer declared that the five hour runners were just coming through. Five hours. Or four hours, fifty-eight minutes and twenty-eight seconds. I wasn’t euphoric. I wasn’t leaping and high fiving. I was spent. Physically, mentally and emotionally spent. Admittedly, I wasn’t grumpy any more. But I had nothing.
I wandered away from the finish line and found a tree. I thought I could lower myself to the ground. My calves had other ideas.
“Excuse me,” I asked a stranger, “could you help lower me to the ground?”
“Of course,” he said and rushed over to help me sit down.
“How are you going to get up?” his friend asked.
I smiled. “Oh I’ll worry about that later.”
Lesson #13: Sometimes the next step is a mystery. That’s okay. Lean against your tree and suck in tranquillity. The next step will reveal itself when the time is right.
I texted Gary that I’d finished. He told me that he’d be a while, that I should go home and he’d catch a taxi. I took a couple of selfies and posted them on Facebook. I swapped stories with a couple of competitors and posed for one of the official photographers. I limped to the car and sat. It felt good.
I could see Gary and his new friend walking/limping/crawling/crying along the looping route that the slower competitors had to do to make up the part of the road course they’d missed. On the final loop, he signalled me to join them.
“I’m not moving,” I called. Then I regretted it. We should cross the finish line together. I hobbled towards them. By the time I’d gone 100m, Gary had crossed the finish line, collected his finisher’s medal and was halfway to the car. He’d crossed the line 15 seconds before the official race cut-off time. If I’d hobbled along with them, I would have held them back and they wouldn’t have made it.
Lesson #14: It’s okay to be imperfect. It’s human to be imperfect. And sometimes, believe it or not, other people can more easily achieve their goals if you aren’t beside them, aiming for sainthood.
Gary hugged me tightly. We’d done it. We’d finished a marathon and lived (so far) to tell our tales. Gary looked at me, like only an age-old friend can. It was a moment to relish, to remember for the depth of friendship it conveyed. Then Gary spoke: “That is the last stupid thing I am ever doing with you.” (Insert from Gaz: However, before long we will be looking for something stupider and crazier to do together.)
Lesson #15: Real friends know that the craziest ideas often give us the most treasured memories and so will never let you set out on insanity’s road alone.
Gary Pearce is the founder and organiser of the Col Pearce Corporate Triathlon, a supporter for the Hervey Bay 100 triathlon and lover of, and tour guide on, Fraser Island. He’s also the best mate a girl could want! My deepest thanks to Sharon Pearce for finding Gary’s running singlet, and bundling him to the airport on time – and more importantly for sharing the crazy life of my good buddy.