Small Wins.

I have just run my first road race since my major cardiac surgery late in 2022. I’ve been a regular at the gym since then but stepping out with other runners where hills have replaced the treadmill’s constant and subtle incline is a different matter. In my younger years I regularly raced in road runs, including a number of marathons. And yet today I had nerves about running a measly five kilometres.

One of our daughters was going to be my pace car but representative duties on the cricket field called. In her absence, Kirrily pinned her race number to her shirt and I affixed mine – number 1028.

As the race commenced I was reminded of the melee that takes place in the first 400 metres. Although now I was a 61 year old observer rather than a 21 year old vying for clear air among the leading pack. I could still feel my competitive DNA bubbling to the surface but common sense kept pushing those bubbles back down.

Ultimately, the pack thinned out and I found a series of runners to pace myself against, although my days of monitoring split times are long gone. Everyone seemed to have Apple watches which they tapped at regular intervals. By comparison, my watch bordered on being a sun dial.

At 800 metres I was struck with dread as my calf muscle objected to the whole idea of running 5 kilometres but somehow its disgust subsided and I trudged on. In my mind I was dropping into a nice rhythm and memories of running marathons started to surface. And then I saw my shadow. Rather than the striding athlete I imagined, the silhouette beside me looked like an old man making an effort and there was a realisation that shadows don’t lie.

After the turning point, I passed Kirrily coming the other way. We reached out and gave each other a “high five” but I had definite reservations that there was going to be much to celebrate. In the end, I was satisfied to run my race on my terms, one hill at a time. I projected forward and promised that I could do better next time but I was far more motivated by the imagery of waking up in the Intensive Care Unit post-surgery. Regardless of what time I achieved, I had come a long way from being limited to 7 minutes of shuffling along the hospital corridors with tubes and drains coming out of my body and an IV stand on wheels beside me.

I lifted for the final 400 metres and the time ticked over – 30 minutes and 31 seconds. Surprisingly it was faster than my treadmill times – perhaps my competitive DNA broke the surface just a little. Ultimately, the maths was not encouraging. At the pace I ran this 5km, a marathon would’ve taken me over four hours – IF I could keep that pace up. Back in the day, I ran marathons in a touch over three hours.

However, this was without doubt as satisfying as those mammoth efforts of my youth. I had been hesitant about ever participating in such an event ever again and although the time was not supersonic, it represented a major milestone. It represented the initial months of recovery and rehabilitation and the subsequent hours that Kirrily and I had spent in the gym over recent years. Sometimes it isn’t about the competition or a personal best time. Sometimes it isn’t about where we sit in the field. Sometimes it’s about the small wins.