Paul and Matt - ten minutes after the race
Sunday morning, 9 October, Paul woke me just before six, knocking on the door, Matt, get up. Crimping a few minutes, I can’t believe I have to run 21 kilometres today, he pushed the door open a foot, turned on the light and stuck his phone through the gap. Perhaps he was threatening a picture or showing the time. It didn’t matter. I got up.
Breakfast was light, a small amount of cereal and milk, a little water. ‘Tell me again why this is a good idea,’ I said, starting to feel the fear.
Paul looked at me, shook his head once. ‘You’ll be right,’ he said.
Comfortable on the couch, I applied anti-inflammatory cream to the legs and massaged the muscles.
The car park beneath a city hotel wasn’t cheap, $28 for the day. Nearby car parks offered the same space for $15. It was a bad start, financially. Paul wanted to jog to the MCG to warm up. I didn’t. We walked instead. People were running through the city on their normal morning run, nothing to do with the Melbourne half marathon. It seemed ironic.
At the MCG, people mingled everywhere. Waiting for a putrid toilet was long, people needing to empty themselves. After the stink and mess, we walked to a car park beneath the MCG, stripping off warm clothes, stuffing them into a bag and depositing the bag in a box. About ten minutes later we were among the squeeze at the starting line.
Paul looked at me. ‘I need to piss again,’ he said. I did too. We shook hands, wished each other luck and started running, heading north along Batman Avenue among 9000 people, slow runners clogging the start. The maddening, unrelenting sound of feet was heard above the iPod. Jostling for space was crucial and careful in the congestion.
I saw Paul about twenty metres in front, wearing a white singlet and white hat, like hundreds of others. Then he vanished into the throng. I didn’t see him again on the run, which was still a zig-zag for area as we turned left into Flinders Street.
It was overcast, about ten degrees, perfect for running if the promised rain held off. It was impossible not to take in the landmarks, Flinders Street Station, the cultural precinct and the gardens. Brisbane is a beautiful city too, but the Brisbane half marathon runs through South Bank, along the river and past West End factories. The scenery doesn’t compare with Melbourne.
From Flinders Street we went left into Swanston Street then headed along St Kilda Road. After three kilometres the left peroneal felt taught, pain running the length of my lower leg. You can ache, I thought, you’re not stopping me. The heel felt fine, the strapping working. After five kilometres there was no pain in any muscle. I had settled into the run.
At St Kilda Junction, the course went right into Fitzroy Street. The sky was darker now, the wind building. People ran past, I ran past others, trying to keep pace with someone just ahead, not caring if I couldn’t keep up. A man ran past wearing a Geelong jumper and matching socks. We took a right into Lakeside Drive and ran anti-clockwise around the lake. Small groups of black swans watched us run.
I dragged the ventolin from my shorts, taking two puffs. Running with asthma is easy, but I often need to use the ventolin four or five times during a long run. The signals are clear, breathing suddenly shallower, a dramatic decrease in energy and sudden urge to stop. It’s been about 25 years since I had an asthma attack while running.
Somewhere along the loop around the Lake we passed ten kilometres. It had taken 45:40, not a bad time. I felt strong as we turned left into Albert Road Drive then into Aughtie Drive for the run around the Albert Park Lake roadway.
Paul passed ten kilometres in 46:45.
A strong headwind blew down Pit lane which slowed some runners on the approach to the Pits Building. I took water in Pits lane and pushed into the wind before the u-turn back into Aughtie Drive. The race was 13 kilometres old. People were lined up off the track, unable to continue, surrounded by paramedics, a harrowing sight for those left running.
From the sporting precinct we ran onto Lakeside Drive then onto Fitzroy Street, where people running the marathon merged with those doing the half. It was discouraging to be passed by people who’d already been running about two hours.
Heading north on St Kilda road, the marathon runners veered right, leaving me discouraged by those who ran past on the half marathon run. At Southbank Boulevard we went left, then right into Sturt Street. After about 17 kilometres, back on St Kilda road, it rained hard for about ten minutes. The temperature dropped. There was a wall in front. I hit it and got blasted by the urge to stop. My breath was shallow. Grabbing the ventolin, a couple of puffs and a few slow paces restored my breathing. I picked up the pace.
Those wearing hats during the rain had the advantage over those without. I spent a lot of energy lifting my singlet to wipe water from my face and rearranging headphones. Typical of Melbourne, the sun was shining after 19 kilometres, when I could see the MCG, where the run would finish. Paul, though, had warned me before the race. You can see the MCG, but the course takes you away from it…
We ran through a park and came out near Flinders Street station, where Paul’s wife Donna and his children, James, Madeline and Jacob were waiting. It was Madeline who saw me first and yelled out, there’s Matt. They waved and cheered.
‘Hey,’ I yelled, waving back. The sun was glistening on wet bitumen, small droplets of water lifting with each step. My feet were damp, I was almost exhausted, but seeing Paul’s family yell my name was uplifting, such a small moment, a few seconds, but the next 500 metres along Flinders Street I was flying, passing people, figuring to power home. I couldn’t. Some of those I passed overtook me again.
On Wellington Parade South, I whiffed the unmistakable smell of shit. It wasn’t me. Glancing at the runners ahead, I went wide, to the left and got in front. The smell was gone. Someone, as happened at the Gold Coast, had done poo in their pants and kept running. Thankfully, whoever did it was wearing black instead of white, like that poor woman at the Coast.
From Wellington Parade South, I lifted the pace into Jolimont Road. Turning left into Jolimont Street and veering right to the MCG path, I ran fast to empty myself. The time was good, around 1:37 – I didn’t see the seconds. The crowd was cheering people other than me. A man called the runners home, his voice clear on the speakers, but too many finished within seconds of each other. My name wasn’t called. It didn’t matter.
Intent on water and a toilet, I walked from the finish line, seeing an old man with a heavy, white beard holding dozens of medals beckoning. Stopping in front, I bowed down. Totally immersed in the theatre, the old man slipped the medal gently over my neck.
‘Well done,’ he said.
I shook his hand and offered thanks. ‘It’s because of people like you I could run today,’ I said. The volunteer beamed at me.
The urge to piss was strong now, almost crippling, about two minutes until disaster. Thankfully the wait was short, barely a line up. The port-a-loo was putrid, piss everywhere. I added to the mayhem and cleaned the mess a little.
People mingled in various states of exhaustion, a hurt smile or a frown. Others showed no signs of the run, beaming in delight and laughing. A woman in black shorts and a red singlet was doubled over, her medal dangling. Tapping her on the shoulder as I walked past, muttering well done, she offered thanks and stood up tall, red faced, heaving for air.
Needing to get out from putrid clothes, I wondered where Paul was. We’d arranged to meet at gate one after the race. I was surrounded by hundreds of people. There were thousands in the recovery precinct. Less than a minute after I exited the port-a-loo, I found Paul somehow in the same space I was, proof we’re in tune, as many mates are. We shook hands.
‘What did you do,’ he said.
‘1:37 something,’ I said.
‘You beat me,’ he said. ‘I did 1:38 something.’
We went to the car park beneath the MCG for a difficult massage then changed into warm clothes. Paul discussed how he’d struggled for air during the first five kilometres, his breathing shallow and painful. ‘I’ve had it before,’ he said. ‘It got so bad I thought about stopping.’
Paul isn’t asthmatic, he’s previously been tested, lungs scanned and x-rayed, but the symptoms sounded like exercise-induced asthma. Former Hawthorn star Shane Crawford suffered from it and didn’t know until late in his career. The symptoms are similar to asthma but don’t last as long, provided the activity is ceased. Paul refused to stop, continuing to run while struggling to breathe.
As a life-long asthmatic, I am well aware of difficulty breathing and won’t run without a ventolin. I don’t go anywhere without it. It’s my safety device. If I don’t have it I worry. ‘You should try a ventolin,’ I said.
Paul shook his head. ‘I’m not asthmatic.’
He’s not, but his son James is. If Paul wasn’t affected by asthma, then it was exercise induced asthma. I told him to Google it, because treatment is available. Paul might need to use ventolin next time he runs.
‘In the end I was punching my chest to see if I could clear the problem,’ he said. ‘Hundreds of people passed me through the first five kilometres. That never happens on a long run.’
When the symptoms passed after five kilometres he ran well the rest for the remainder. Hitting his chest seems to have worked, but believe me, if you’re struggling to breathe, hitting yourself in the chest doesn’t help. Ventolin works.
Following the massage, oiled up and cheeky, we walked into the city wearing our medals, finding a café for a paltry $40 breakfast, two eggs, a piece of toast and two small slices of bacon. I don’t mind spending that on a woman. Paul didn’t eat his bacon. I ate it because it was there. Breakfast was good but it didn’t settle the squeeze in my stomach. Coffee made it churn. I had two anyway.
‘Seeing your family today was unbelievable,’ I said after we’d eaten. ‘It gave me such a lift.’
‘Me too,’ Paul said.
‘Donna is awesome to bring the kids into the city to watch you run.’
Paul sent Donna a text, thanking her for watching. Her response, you’re a great role model for the kids, was touching, possibly the greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed a wife say to her husband. I wondered how many people had ever said that about me. None, probably.
During breakfast we were overcome by the sense of achievement, getting through another half marathon, an uplifting experience of conflicting emotions, pain and ignorance of exhaustion. Even an hour afterwards it seems a blur. During the race the landmarks become irrelevant, as do the conditions. I could remember hitting the wall a few times, seeing swans, passing people and getting overtaken but I couldn’t remember what I thought about throughout.
Midway through the race you drift. It becomes primitive, one step follows another. You run past people who are struggling, but no one offers encouragement. Talking expends valuable energy. People run past and you can’t keep up. People run past you all the time, after five kilometres, ten and twenty. The sound of feet against asphalt is almost military, the sounds of coughing, wheezing, hacking and moaning abhorrent, a reminder of what could happen, what will happen, when your resolve begins to break down.
People pull out when they tear a muscle or can’t run anymore. You run past people who shouldn’t be running a half marathon and congratulate them when they finish, their time irrelevant. Old men and women will pass you, or you’ll pass them early and see them overtake you with five kilometres left.
Your body will ache. At various stages throughout a race, different muscles will quiver, old tears threatening to split. Pain is transferrable, every muscle gets a shot. You run through pain, your toes throbbing with each pace. Stomach muscles tighten, biceps cramp and sweat runs into your eyes. Thoughts about stopping are intoxicating, just for 30 seconds. Those watching on become cursed for their relaxation.
Then you see the 14 kilometre mark and sigh, another seven to go, just keep running. Just keep running, then you can stop. You can do anything you want when it’s done, just keep running.
It matters not who passes you, or who you pass. Running a half marathon is a singular test, a fight against time, against yourself. I’ve not run a half marathon to beat anyone except my opponent.
Twenty years ago a poster on the wall of the Wandal Football Club in Rockhampton preached the virtues of advantage, when you’re not training your opponent is, it read. The poster is probably still hanging up in the clubrooms. My opponent, going into the Melbourne half marathon, was myself, my love of beer, of fun, eating what I want, staying up late and ignoring many health messages. My opponent, though, could be defeated, as long as I run.
During breakfast I sent a text, I beat my opponent, to Kristine. Paul and I were still wearing our medals. Other people in the café wore medals too. I held mine up. ‘The medal is everything,’ I said.
Paul laughed.
That’s what an endorphin high is like. They can be amazing, self-indulgent sanctity but they’re short lived, a couple of hours at most. Tiredness, like a hangover, ensured a mid afternoon snooze for a few hours. I didn’t sleep. Paul did.
At two I was up. Nothing made me feel better, not water or food. My legs hurt. I asked Donna if I could have a bath.
‘You’re better off getting into the swim spa,’ she said.
I went outside to the swim spa. The water, though, was at 30 degrees, disappointing, too cold to get in when it was about ten degrees outside.
About three, edgy and anxious, I begged Paul to get out of the house. He took me to a car wash in Moonee Ponds to vacuum the boat. Given there was just one vacuum hose, I left him to the chore and walked the block, slowly down McPherson Street, trying to pick out the house my parents lived in when they were first married.
At five Paul was talking up the idea of going out for beers somewhere in South Melbourne. Exhaustion, though, had set in. I was tired, hurt and uninspired, sneaky too, figuring if I could get Paul in the swim spa, after a few beers he wouldn’t worry too much about going out.
Outside it was 12 degrees. In the swim spa, it was 39 degrees. We weren’t losing heat to the water, drinking beer and bourbon, talking up how good we were. It was easy to do. Two beers didn’t last too long. Paul’s neighbour, Alisha’s arrived to show off her bruised shoulder and fresh produce for dinner. I begged for a favour. She went inside for more beer, ice and coke.
The swim spa jets are perfect to massage tired muscles. We barely moved, except to drink and switch legs over the jets. Paul’s family got home about seven. Madeline bought beer and a new bottle of bourbon. Jacob had a swim, wanting to be thrown in the deeper end.
Jacob is the cheekiest ten year old I’ve ever met, an answer for anything, adopting things Paul says, looks like you want a case of sore jaw, and that smells like flowers when he farts. He makes me laugh. We threw him.
Though Paul’s family waited about 90 minutes to see us late in the race, it must be a huge buzz for a ten year old to watch his father run past. In the hot tub, Jacob mimicked our running style then said throw me or I’ll give you a case of sore jaw. I threw him. When he resurfaced, Paul got his attention.
‘Jacob,’ Paul said. ‘Tell Matt what you said today when I ran past.’
‘I said Matt’s in front of you,’ Jacob said. ‘You can catch him.’ He grabbed my neck near the collar bone and squeezed. ‘Does that hurt,’ he said.
When Jacob went inside, Paul rang the landline and ordered more beer and coke. James bought it out and got hit by another bought of how good we were.
‘We ran the Melbourne half marathon today,’ I said.
‘Yeah, I saw you,’ James said.
‘Did you see my medal?’
He laughed.
Though Donna had left out chops, we drank instead of eating, Paul sticking to bourbon while I alternated. Photos were taken. Sometime after nine, Paul’s neighbour Andy came in for a swim and a bourbon. He paid a heavy price for luxury, forced to listen to stories about the race, appearing to listen enthusiastically. Paul made another phone call for alcohol. There were empty bottles everywhere. We were pissed. It was ten when we got out, free from wrinkles. We’d been in for five hours.
Hangover wrecked the following morning, but our legs, courtesy of the spa jets, felt fine.
My official time for the Melbourne half marathon was 1:37:10. I ran the first ten kilometres in 45.40, averaging 4:30 per kilometre, the last eleven in 52 minutes, averaging 4:45. That’s a clear difference and proof of difficulty in the last half. Overall I finished 644th. In my age group, I came in 105 and by gender my time saw me finish 385.
Paul made up ten seconds on me in the last eleven kilometres, his official time 1:38:05. Overall he finished 718th, 119 for age group and 425 for gender. It was his first half marathon in two years. Last time out at the Gold Coast in 2009 he ran 1:33:55.
In the past four years Paul has trained constantly, boot camp, playing amateur football and long runs along the Maribyrnong. I aspire to his fitness level and dedication, curse my love of beer, but the longest run he had in the past two years was 18 kilometres, and that was a week before the Melbourne half. To use running parlance, he might’ve been just short of a run.
A week before the half marathon we both ran 18 kilometres along the Maribyrnong, my time being nine minutes slower than his. During our ten kilometre run he stopped twice to let me catch up. On ability and form there was no way I should’ve finished in front. I figured to finish six or seven minutes behind, which shows how much he was affected by that breathing problem in the first five kilometres.
To make matters clearer, if Paul and I went for any length run tomorrow, he would beat me.
On 9 October, 9000 people started the Melbourne half marathon, the event was sold out months in advance. 7514 people finished, which meant 1486 people, or 16.5 percent of starters didn’t complete the run, a whole lot of entrants who didn’t prepare properly or went in carrying an injury.
Runners were in the hands of paramedics after five kilometres. Opposite Pit Lane, after 13 kilometres, a dozen people sat in a bus wrapped in thermal blankets, under the care of paramedics.
Running a half marathon is hard. My first attempt after two years of preparation was the toughest thing I’d ever done in sport. Through winter and spring, following this year’s Gold Coast half, I wanted madly to improve. In Melbourne I beat my best time by six minutes and 49 seconds, which was satisfying.
It’s been more than a week since I went for a run. I don’t want to run at the moment. At the weekend I went for a walk around Banyo, the same streets I run during training. It felt strange walking.
Right now, getting through the Melbourne half marathon seems surreal, a sensation of denial, how did I do it. I’m sure Paul feels the same. The medal is a neat reminder, but that’s all it is. How I achieved it seems lost, gone with my motivation to run again.
What I’m experiencing right now is known commonly as the premiership hangover. In the past week, sleep has been pain free. I can roll over without waking myself up in a groan, but it all starts again, now.
Tomorrow, I’m going for a run. It is Paul Turner’s fault…
