Delusional, what?

When you look at the lady in this picture what do you think she is?

Writer; Academician; Professor; you guess. You'd be right.

Thirty-five year old Dr. Elizabeth Hawker is a polar oceanographer who has worked with the British Antarctic Survey, and was the consultant author of the Oxford University course-book which accompanied the BBC's Frozen Planet series.

So it is one of those rare cases of the photograph describing the person.

Not really! While she is all of that, Lizzy Hawker's claim to fame is something quite different. Quite simply put, Lizzy Hawker is Britain's Top Endurance Athlete.

Three weeks ago, she set out into the unknown in her first 24-hour race, and proceeded to cover a world record distance of 247km, over 3 kms ahead of her closest (male) competitor.

And now, she is off to the Kanchenjung Base Camp, from where she will set off on a run of move than 1,600 kms on the Great Himalayan Trail- a journey, which she expects to be spiritual more than anything else.



So, apart from the fact that a photograph didn't tell the whole story, what's so delusional about it? Nothing really, except the fact that forget the general populace, even among long distance runners, she is almost totally unknown. While the Paula Radcliffes continue to gather media attention, she cannot even lay claim to being forgotten- you first need to be known, before you can be forgotten, and she is totally unknown.

Her's is not the only case of mis-proportionate media attention. When Steve Jobs passed away, bankers, writers, students and consultants all changed their face book profile picture to the white apple on a black background. Newspapers are still full of random people paying tribute to him, and making him out to be some kind of a demi-god.

And when Dennis Ritchie passes away, it is almost a case of "Dennis Who?". His work revolutionalized program coding as we know it, and yet, few are even aware of his passing. Not for him status update tributes like, "Growing up, I hated apples, but you taught me to love Apple. RIP Steve".


There is so much information floating around these days. Why then do we still know so little about things that should really matter? Delusional anyone?

Lessons from the A to Z blogging Challenge

On Arithmetic

A lot of you probably know that I run (and those of you who don't - now you do). Unlike my fellow running burrowers (Hart and Leanne), however, I started running only when I was well into my late 30s. Though I love running, I am not particularly fast, even after making allowances for my age and the fact that I started late. But what I lack in speed, I make up in tenacity - if I start something, I finish it, somehow.

Which was what I did during my first (and only) full marathon. Less than six months before the race, my hypothyroidism had been diagnosed, and I had subsequently gone through a hysterectomy. A couple of weeks before the race, I had fallen ill again, and was struggling to even climb stairs. And yet, come race day, I pinned up my bib, laced up my running shoes, and lined up with three thousand others at the start line. Less than mid-way into the race, I realised I could either keep running, or finish the race - I couldn't do both. I chose to start walking. Two-thirds into the race, the road was thrown open to traffic, and I got off the road and onto the pavement. People all around me dropped out, but my feet took on a life of their own and refused to stop till I crossed the finish line.

On Bucket lists

This year's A to Z Challenge was no different from my first full marathon. My life was spiraling out of control when I signed up for it, but I hoped I would get some order into it by April. In the second half of March, I was thinking of taking a sabbatical from blogdom, because I could just not manage all the things that I was required to do. But before I could formally announce by break, April was upon me, and I decided to write a drabble "On Arithmetic", and take every day as it came. On April 2, I had no idea what I was going to write about, and wasn't even planning to push myself to think of an appropriate B post- but out of nowhere, a drabble "On Bucket lists" floated into my brain, and almost wrote itself.

The rest of the month was no different. On most days, till lunch-time I would not have any idea what I was going to write about, but by evening, an idea would germinate, and the drabble would get written. Twenty-six non-Sunday days, twenty-six drabbles. None pre-scheduled. All posted before dinnertime. Almost all of them exactly 100 words on first attempt.

On Zero

It was only when I reflected on it after the month was over that I realised the magnitude of what I had accomplished. For no reason other than sheer necessity, I had converted myself into a reliable drabble machine. Whether it was an internal editor at work, or a writer who had exactly understood her brief, it was almost incredible that the first draft was always between 97 and 106 words long, and those few words took only a minute or two to get added or subtracted (or both simultaneously).

Which only goes to show that writing is a skill like any other, and practice does make you get better and better at it. If I could do it for the A to Z Challenge, I wonder why I can't do it otherwise. Maybe I just have to force myself into a chair for half an hour a day, Everyday!

Shot Heard 'Round the World

So for those of you who are up on your American history, you already know that it was on this date that the opening shots of the American Revolution were fired - you know, Lexington, Concord, midnight ride and all that jazz. Officially, that makes this the state holiday known as Patriot's Day. Of course, it just wouldn't do to have a holiday on a Tuesday - no long weekend! The horror! So it was observed yesterday instead, along with another long-standing Bay State tradition, also involving a gun - actually, make that a starter's pistol. That's right, time once again for Marathon Monday here in Boston.

Don't be getting any ideas though - I didn't run it, and likely never will (I managed about two miles last night before getting distracted by some friendly terriers who liked the way I smelled... or something), but I'm an enthusiastic spectator, along with about 500,000 other folks. After all, with 26+ miles of course to stand along, you can pack in a really big cheering section!

So, a little more history, this time race-specific. This year marked the 115th running of the Boston Marathon - it's the oldest annual marathon in the world, started in 1897 (after the first Olympic Games in 1896). For those in the know, just qualifying for it is a huge accomplishment - you can't just sign up for this one, you have to prove you can run the thing fast enough that you won't still be bumbling along the course when it gets dark. Of course, there are those that do fundraising for various charities and win a spot that way; and then there are the bandits, runners who aren't registered and don't get an official number but jump in along the way (some of them in outlandish costumes designed to get attention from the crowd - I kid you not, I saw a guy in a lobster suit one year). For those runners with really good qualifying times - like, have-a-shot-to-win-it times - there are the Elite categories, who get to start at the front of the pack (in the case of the women, about a half hour earlier) so they don't have to shove through everyone else. Oh, but I shouldn't forget that not everyone is running - there's a sizable wheelchair category too, most of whom are self-propelled, but then there are the Hoyts. You may have heard of them; Dick and Rick Hoyt are a father-son team, and Dick pushes son Rick's wheelchair (he has cerebral palsy) - frequently beating most of the "regular" runners, who aren't pushing a full-grown man in a chair! Talk about inspirational.

Anyway, I also wanted to mention a couple of friends while I'm at it today. First off, happy birthday to my college roommate, Emi, who is the world's biggest sweetheart and a damn good violinist too - just wish she lived closer than Switzerland so we could see each other more often! And another violinist, my old friend Margaret, who not only ran the Boston Marathon but did it from the Elite Women's group, finished 31st, and had a time of 3:04:02 - but not this year. She ran that time in 2004, the year she died attempting approximately the same distance, except across the Grand Canyon. So I miss them both today, for different reasons.

Emi (far left) with students

Margaret (right) after a race

Oh, you probably want to know who won the Marathon yesterday, huh? Geoffrey Mutai set a new record of 2:03:02 for the men, while the women's winner was Caroline Kilel. No surprises that they're both from Kenya (that place turns out serious runners!). For the wheelchairs, Masazumi Soejima took men's honours, while countrywoman Wakako Tsuchida won her 5th straight title - and goodness knows the Japanese could use something to celebrate, so good on them! But hey, the race is on Patriot's Day (errrm... observed), so it might be nice if an American won it once in a while. Got fairly close this year, 2nd place woman, 4th place man... well, there's always next April!

Am I who I seem?

A couple of days back, Tara tagged me on this "Tag Your Friends" image form TagMyPals.Com. Since Facebook was playing up (as usual), I couldn't see where she had placed the tag and spent many minutes trying to guess. Some I ruled out immediately- since I have no intention of going through I a gender switch, I could not be 'the ladies man', and though my kids may think I am one, in the present company, I definitely would not qualify as 'the gentle giant'. I don't 'love ponies', and nor am I 'the muscle man'. While I could not be 'the president', would my current fondness for the colour pink would make me qualify to be 'the princess'? Leanne is 'the vegetarian' and most of us qualify to be 'the sweet tooth', 'the mess' and 'the rebel'.
"Cant' get the tags to work", I wrote. "Which one am I?" I guessed the tag would be on 'the short kid', though I knew that 'the mystery' and 'the (righteous) anger' would qualify too.
Pat came the reply. "The Athlete."
"The Athlete"? Me? How is that even possible? There are dozens of labels I've placed on myself, but 'the athlete' has never been one of them. So why on earth am I being called 'the athlete', instead of any of the others that came close?
"Of course you were the athlete", informed Tara. "(you are) Miss MARATHON LADY."
Eh?
Sure I completed a marathon, but that still doesn't make me an athlete. I am the most fundamentally un-coordinated person I know, and the most accident prone. How could anyone ever even dream of calling me an athlete?
Then I thought about it. And thought about it some more. A majority of my recent status updates on Facebook have been about my running. My current profile picture is one of me running, as was the one before the one before that. And while I may only spend a few hours a week actually running, I do think about running much longer than that. While 'athlete' may not be the most accurate description of me, 'runner' certainly was one of the more accurate ones.

What could be the other words that describe me, I wondered. Labels tumbled out as clothes often do from my overstuffed cupboards. Mother. Co-worker. Daughter. Boss. Wife. Subordinate. Photographer. Daughter. Mentor. Friend. Fundraiser. Neighbour. Writer.... (well, the last maybe not)......and........ Runner.
All those roles give me different levels of satisfaction. Some of those roles have been thrust on me. A few I wish demanded less from me than they do. Some I would want to not have to live up to. All those labels describe me. And yet, strictly speaking none of them really describe me.

What then is the label that IS me? When is the time I am most in touch with myself? When is the time I am free from labels and expectations? When is the time I can be me, and not have to live up to sanyone's perception of what I should be like? Is there such a time? Is there such a role?

There is- Running.

Running is my meditation. It is the time when I am in touch with my elemental self. A time when all the layers are stripped away, and I am answerable to no one except me. A time when I am thinking of nobody except me. A time when I am free to think any thoughts I want, or not think any thoughts at all.

If there is a time when I am most ME, it is when I am Running. Which does make me a Runner. I am definitely not a good Runner, nor ever will be. But I am a Runner. And if you don't believe it, here's a picture that will convince you- I am sweaty and tired, but I have just run up a hill I never thought I would be able to conquer, and the sheer joy on my face says all that there is to be said.

I am definitely a Runner. I can let that label define me.

Whether or not, being a Runner makes me an Athlete is quite another thing. And I will keep that for the next time I have a post to write, and nothing to say!

Keep Running

A little over two and a half years back, I took part in my first half-marathon. I was never a runner, and wasn't even particularly athletic, but had registered on a whim, and having registered was determined to see it through. On the days leading up to the race, I told myself three things - 'finish the race, try to run at least half of it, attempt to do it in under three hours.' Since I had never run more than 13 kilometers before the race, I had no idea if any of the three was even possible, but I was determined to give it my best shot.

At the 20 kilometer mark, I was within striking distance of all three of my pre-race goals – I had a little over a kilometer to go, had definitely ‘run’ much more than twelve kilometers, and at that stage could have crawled backwards and still made it within three hours. Minutes from the finish line, guess what I did? I slowed down and started walking. It wasn’t that the legs couldn’t run anymore or that the lungs were bursting – my mind decided that it did not matter whether I ran or walked any longer, so the heart told me to Quit and walk the rest of the way. I tried getting myself to run, but couldn’t manage more than a few steps at a time.

The last kilometer IS the hardest!

And then, I saw him.

A young boy with cerebral palsy, valiantly pushing his wheelchair, while his concerned father walked beside him. That was the picture of true grit – he was so fatigued he could barely move his arms, but still plodded on unassisted to reach the finish line. There was nothing in it for him – no cash prizes, no medals, no sound bytes. Nobody would have blamed him had he allowed his father to assist him. But he did not. He was determined to do it on his own, and he was doing so.

Tears came to my eyes. I wanted to go to him and congratulate him. Instead, I decided to pay a silent tribute to him by doing what he would have done had he been in my place – I started running again. And I continued running till after I crossed the finish line.


One year later, I was back again. This time I was battling cramps; every step I took was excruciatingly painful. I should have dropped out, or at least slowed down to a walk. But that was

never an option. If that boy could wheel himself towards the finish line, so could I. One hundred meters from the finish line, I built up speed. I finished in a sprint and collapsed the moment I crossed the finish line. The Heart Won.

Running is the best metaphor I can find for Life. Whether you run on the road or on a treadmill, running is less about the legs and the lungs as it is about the mind and the heart. There are days when you are rested and carb loaded, when everything is going well, but after a couple of miles, you quit because you just don't 'feel like' going on. And there are days when you muscles are sore and your breath is coming in short gasps, when every step is sheer torture, but you keep running, because quitting is not even an option.

On any given day, when you lace up your running shoes and do your gentle stretching exercises, you cannot predict how the session is going to go. It is only when you start running that you know whether your legs and lungs are going to determine how far and how fast you run, or your heart.

You may have run 7k a day, everyday for the past three weeks, but on the 22nd day, you may suddenly decide you have had enough. That is the day when you will ask yourself, 'Why on earth am I doing this? Will anyone even know if I drop out, much less care?', the day when you question the personal goals you have set for yourself, 'Will the world be a better place if I finish running 7 kilometers today, instead of dropping out at 5?', the day when when you even question why you are running at all, 'The number of calories I burn covers only half a brownie - doesn't it make more sense to just indulge the chocolate tooth less?' On those days, you have to force yourself to run, you have to tell yourself that you cannot quit, you need to remind yourself that it is not about burning off an indulgence. And if you still drop out, it is about dragging yourself to the next run the following day.

Because, when you love running as I do, no matter how many questions you ask yourself, or how many times you give up - you are always back. That is Running. That is Life.

What keeps a runner running is exactly what keeps a writer writing. It is the compulsion to do what you love, because you cannot live otherwise.

And that is called Motivation. Sometimes you have it, sometimes you don't, but it is for you to keep seeking.
_______

Images in Public Domain -

Runners

Wheelchair athletes

Elite Athletes

[If Rayna M. Iyer can bring a fraction of the Motivation she brings to Running to her Writing, she would have a substantial body of unpublished work on her hard drive. But something is better than nothing, right?]