The 'Kobayashi Maru' is a no-win scenario, part of the curriculum for cadets at Starfleet Academy. It's used to assess a cadet's discipline, character and command capabilities when facing an impossible situation. There is no one answer to the problem. James T. Kirk became the first (and only known) cadet to beat the no-win scenario. After taking the test and failing twice, Kirk took the test a third time after reprogramming the computer to make it possible to win.
I know how he felt. The P2P might just be the Kobayashi Maru of the running world.
I distinctly heard the low rumble of mountain laughter as I pushed off for my next set of eight. Ten steps into to my shuffling stride I felt an almighty jolt in my right calf. Argh! Then, with the very next step, the same in my left. Whoaaargh! What the hell? I tried again. Instant agony. Holy shit ... Another look at the watch. Oh dear, not eleven miles covered, the toughest section yet to come. This, my friends, was not good.
Walking as fast as I dared I weighed my options. Stop and stretch or soldier on and hope things loosened up? The road rose inexorably ahead. I lengthened my stride, mini-stretching with each step. A nice idea, but alas, to no avail. How about another gel? The blend of relentless heat, ibuprofen and SIS had my stomach doing flips and twists. Another shot of goo was not going to help. I probably needed something more substantial. I'd passed a young woman miles back with the legend 'it's a long way to the top if you want a sausage roll' across her shirt. Now, the though of such greasy fare made my belly lurch.
As so often at times like this my thoughts turned to training, or lack thereof. Hill reps were a great idea but you need to do an awful lot of them to prepare for this kind of slog. I'd mapped out my course in my diary some time ago, but publishing platitudes in these hallowed pages counts for nought when the road demands its toll. Ah well, 'suck it up, big fella'. Moyleman was a stickler for preparation. His words floated up off the hot asphalt even as my bitter sweat fell to meet them.
Andre the Giant made his move. As I waddled furiously he broke into his giraffe-like lope, moving away easily. I had nothing. Five Fingers followed soon after but at least had the good grace to slow to a walk just ahead. I battled on, focused on bringing my minutes-per-mile rate down below thirteen. That, in my broiling mind, might be enough to salvage 'a time'. I started a bizarre game of Countdown, feverishly trying to calculate distance over time left by minutes-per-mile, until metaphorical smoke started pouring out of my ears. I couldn't make sense of it. That wasn't so much the point, of course. This mental juggling was taking sensory perception away from tight quads and screaming calf muscles.
Another glance at the watch, another round of sums. 2:30 looked doomed, but sub 2:33, a PB, was still on, provided I could run a bit. I tried. Ok, plan B. I pushed on, pumping my arms, waggling my elbows, trying to flap my way up the mountain, a stooped, giant man-bird with a dayglo forehead. Up ahead the road turned sharply left. Aha! The turn for home. I'd walk to the turn and have another go. Incredibly, both Pony Tail and Five fingers were just ahead. In fact many of the run-walkers around me looked familiar. It was as if someone had hit 'slo-mo' on a video of the race. This brought me some comfort. Clearly many were struggling. Relentless heat, building lactic acid and the forever steepening climb was sucking our collective spirit. Another hundred metres and I was past Pony Tail. She looked all-in. Five Fingers kept shuffling away before drifting back as I stormed after him. My pace slipped over 13 m/m. This would not do. We rounded the bend and hit a horrible camber. I ducked into it, forcing my wailing legs on.
I expected to see the road flatten a tad here. I was sorely disappointed. Yet another rise in gradient, more run-walkers marching on a voyage of the doomed. I could see a point, about 300 yards ahead, where there seemed to be some respite. I took dead aim and pushed again, daring to jog. More calf pain, but then I flattened my feet to the road and bent my knees. I could, in the loosest definition, 'run'! This gave me heart, so I crouched into this ungainly stance and padded on. After a minute or so this became unbearable so I eased back into a furious stride. Five Fingers hove to, glancing across at me. That look told me he'd been playing P2P Tag too. I grinned at him, a horrible lear, intended to be friendly but almost certainly striking fear into the young man.
We walked on side by side, no longer overtaken, eating up a continual stream of sagging walkers. I glanced left and almost stopped in my tracks. Oh my. Below us, over a thousand metres down, lay Hobart, the city, and beyond its suburbs, fields, rivers and hills. What a sight. I turned to Five Fingers.
'Bloody hell, it's worth it for this view!'
He turned, eyes wide. 'Too right! Wow.'
We smiled together this time, sharing the revelation, our reward for all this effort.
'My calves are shot' I said, as if giving him permission to press on.
He smiled again, nodding.
'Yep, pretty much done here, mate'
I looked up the road. The Narwal's Lance sat off to the right. A spindly comms tower lay dead ahead next to a pile of tall rocks. My heart lifted - that's the bloody finish! I adopted the crouch-run one more time, delighted when my legs didn't immediately coil up around my ears or simply fall off. I padded past a few more desperate souls. Sure enough, as the road rolled up and over the last brow there lay the blue finish mats. Yells and claps of encouragement rang out from runners clustered around the finish. I gave it everything - slap-slap-slap - pulling up on the line, reaching to stop my watch.
2:30:23.
Yes! PB nailed!
I couldn't help but feel a small sting of disappointment. 23 measly seconds off a sub 2:30.
I'll have to come back. But not for a while.
