a love affair with running

A love affair with running

When I was a very young girl (1^st grade to be exact) I came last in the 25 meter dash on sports day. I was devastated. I lived with my grandparents at that time (my parents had gone to the USA to study). I wept and wailed to my grandfather, ”I came last . I don’t know why!”

In retrospect I now do know why, I had a look at old black and white photographs from that era--—I had a nice round paunch  balanced on two tubby legs—the end result of affectionate force feeding by an indulgent grandmother!

“It doesn’t matter, “ said grandfather, “it makes no difference to your life.”

“That’s what you think! I can’t bear it.”

“If you want something,” said grandfather, “there is no point saying “I want. You have to work for what you get.  Run around the house ten times a day. You will come first next year. Anybody can do anything. You just have to try hard enough.”

I don’t think he thought I would take it so seriously. I ran around that house in Kerala every day come monsoon, cold weather or  ill health.

He was right . I ran like Usain Bolt the next year. The competition was left way behind.  I finished, stopped and turned back to look at them.

This was the start of a lifelong love affair with running.

I stopped for several years in between. When I was in medical college. The hours were too long, the days too hectic, and the books we were expected to finish reading would be better off being used for weight training.

House surgeoncy and post graduate training were no better. I had to shift into the smaller hospital campus from the lush green college campus. It was five kilometres away and in the centre of town. There seemed to be no place to run at all. (This was the era before treadmills, gyms, athletic gear and special shoes). Time was a constraint as well. No one thought of fixed working hours for post graduate students. I read about fixed 40 hour weeks for the house surgeons in Great Britain. We, in India, thought nothing of a 40 hour shift, as we walked around like zombies from labour room to casualty to the regular wards examining  children,   drawing blood and starting IV lines. There was no time to run.

Five years and two children later I woke up to the fact that I was 20 kilos heavier than when I joined medical school. I had let myself go in more ways than one. Not only was I fat and frumpy, my asthma had kicked in again. I needed inhalers every four hours, with insomnia and tremor inducing tablets and I developed attacks of bronchitis twice a year. Something had to be done

The hospital campus was more crowded than ever before. New wards had come up traffic was being rerouted. The town outside was a scary unfriendly place  with truck drivers , auto drivers and the general public leering and passing rude comments.

“Nothing is impossible.”

I remembered that and started to run a small circuit behind the buildings in the campus up to the main gate and back. If I did not get up and out by 5 am the traffic built up and it was not possible to run without fear of being knocked down.

One day I heard a thud behind me as I ran. I looked around. There was a bundle of rags behind me. As I looked closer, blood started to ooze out of one end.

A lady had jumped off the roof of the research building. She died, I lost my guts and did not leave home for a month.

Fortunately, we moved back to the college campus. The mud paths were shady, there were security guards  and I could run again. It was not easy. One day there was a python writhing on the road after swallowing a ? rat. There were  stray mongrels who though my calf muscles were fair game. There were dog owners who did not believe in leashes or restraint.

” My dog is an obedient docile animal.” They said, “wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Perhaps he was but I did not like the way he was bearing his teeth at me. Nor the low rumbles issuing from his throat. I bought myself a leather whip for protection.

Years later, the kids left home. I was well into my fifties and still running around the campus slower than ever before. Running was beginning to catch on in India and a few marathons and half marathons were being organized.

“Why don’t you run one  ma?” asked my son, now an amateur  triathlete In the USA. “You only have to finish.”

“Yes ma run”, said my daughter.

I took their advice and registered. One race lead to another. I usually come last. (Each race I hope to do better).

My son  is  right. You only have to finish,  and look at Fauja Singh to realize “nothing is impossible.”

Dr. Gita Mathai

The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.

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