By 8.29am on Sunday, I knew a thing or two about grit and determination. That's around the time I hit the finish line for the half marathon (21.097 km), clocking 2 hours 22 minutes. While comparing timings is a source of pride after a run, participants tell only half the story.
My timing doesn't quite reflect the cramp in my foot around the 17-km mark, and my sheer horror at the thought of not being able to finish the race. My timing does not tell the story of all those moments along the way when I was on the brink of giving up. Or the moments I had completely run out of breath and my lungs felt they couldn't pump in any more air. Or the time an earlier injury from a long run two weeks ago began to act up.
Finishing the half marathon had as much to do with the six months I'd trained in three different cities (London, Delhi and Mumbai) as it had to do with the sheer extent to which Mumbai's bystanders extended themselves for those running the race: Like the middleaged gentleman on the Worli sea-face who handed me a Parle-G biscuit when I was low on fuel; the Japanese contingent on Pedder Road that gave me a banana to eat as I hit an incline; the five-year-old cheerleaders with pom-poms who made me smile in spite of the pain; shouts of Bhaag Milkha Bhaag along the way; the women with hand-painted posters; the men and women 500 m from the finish line who prodded me on at a time my legs had turned to stone. They helped me run my race, a race I ran for them.
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