It's over three weeks since the Bombay marathon and the Glacon family are now resident in their
clayhouse in the heart of rural India. It's evening and the lantern is casting soft hues against the walls and floor, coated in lime and cow dung in the traditional way. The sounds of crickets is constant interrupted by an occassional owl. Farmers can be heard in the distance sat on their machaans (platforms) trying to repel marauding wild boar with whoops and screams, whilst the rugged clanking of a loan bullock cart makes steady progress along the nearby track.
It occurs to me that this environment would have been the perfect platform fot the marathon. But it was not to be. Instead I'm enjoying post-marathon runs through the jungle here, trying to keep my new found fitness in tact. Mornings are spent gardening in front of the house whilst afternoons are filled with various activities on this modest but busy farm. Long lines of multi-coloured saris cut through the verdent green of the paddy, daal and vegetables and bullocks pull a silent plough. The bird-life is wonderful: egrits, herons, parrots, kingfishers, wagtails, kites, drongoes to name a few. It's a woinderful place to reflect on past events. My diet is the best it's ever been, all plucked from the nearby fields. And the beer (Kingfisher Strong and Meakins 10,000) has been complemented by Mowar - a liquor fermented and distilled from flower heads found in the jungle. If you can get it down your kneck before it evaporates it's very tasty.
We'd set off from Pune at dawn on Friday 13th January. Our 3 hour rail journey cut through the Ghats and our only task was to sit and watch junior Glaconman enjoy his first Indian railway journey. As the train stopped at the first station on came the various wallas plying their wares. Coffee, chai, wurra, omlette, cutlets, cards, spinning tops, juice, maps. They all waltzed through the isles chanting in a low throaty manor. After a minute of open-mouthed gazing junior G. looked up at me and said: 'They're singing! They're singing!'. And indeed they were. Imagine the Mongolian throat-whistling choir performing 'Who will buy' from Oliver and you come close.
Waiting at VT Station was Shilpi Auntie: dark, young and slender. All eyes and smiles in technicolour silk. And off we went to dump the bags at the hotel and enjoy an afternoon of shopping, strolling and lunching from VT down to Collaba. As we walked back through Dogri to the hotel that evening the sheer industry of this city became apparent, almost for the first time and
all-at-once. It was 10:30 at night and every doorway exhibited some kind of business as people cooked, packed, ironed, soldered, hammered and more. The intensity of Bombay at this moment felt overwhelming. Put any city ion the ring with Bombay, I thought, and not only would it come out with a bloody nose, but swollen shins and a gauged face. At times it seems like a f*cking monster. Dickens writing about The Bowry and directed by Ridley Scott.
We were staying in a cheap part of town in a place recommended. But as we lay there it occurred to us what a hovel we were in. As the fan lifted the dity curtains away from the window a robotic size cockroach scurred across the floor near junior Glaconman's old and pathetic matress. The place turned into a cell and I could sense Glaconwoman's blood boiling. She went downstairs to give them a good Bombay-style bollocking and we were moved to their best room. But neither of us slept much that night. And so it was that we found ourselves in the reception of the Taj hotel the next morning; not seriously contemplating taking a room (they start at 200 pounds) but just as a comfortable base whilst Glaconwoman tried to upgrade us slightly. I sat there amongst India's jet-set feeling thoroughly pissed-off. I'd bearly slept, hadn't run for 3 days and the marathon was tomorrow. Not only that but the city was very full with various high profile events taking place. It was a real low point.
But I needn't have worried. Within an hour we had unpacked our things in a sea-view room at The Strand. A very pleasant hotel in an old villa and just what the doctor ordered. I bathed and retired for an afternoon nap. I had butterflies in my stomach at the prospect of the run. The nerves were beginning to start. But at least now I had a fighting chance. The training had been done and I could enjoy the prospect of the race peacefully. I didn't sleep well, but did manage broken sleep, which was fine. I awoke at 5:15 and quickly changed. We skipped breakfast and took a taxi in the dark to VT (Victoria Terminus). As the half started an hour before the full the place was full of life. VT towered above the frenetic tannoy and start/finish. The crowds were already impressive and we were ushered across the line by the police minutes before the start of the half. We strolled around to the 'Maidens', home to the holding area for runners.
The first thing we saw was a Laughing Club. Popular in Bombay they're congregations of people who meet on the streets in the morning to do nothing more than laugh together. And as this circle of old friends guffawed en mass it eased my mind greatly. JuniorG, GWoman and GBrotherinlaw took off back to the start to get some video footage and I was left to mill around. I sat down and observed 60 soldiers running the marathon together to celebrate the 60th birthday of their regiment.
As the gate opened and we were let out onto the road I was joined by a woman I had met at the Expo a few days earlier. She was a Bombayite who was now very much a Surrey lady living on the Downs in Epsom. She'd approached me anxiously wanting to share concerns about the heat and humidity of the race. She'd run London 2004 but was only in India for 5 days, so no acclimatization. We both got alot off our chests in that 10 minutes and I'd decided to try and run with her for the first half of the race at least as I thought she'd be running at a sensible pace. Before long there were other people running along side us who she had befriended and it seemed like it was going to be a very pleasant morning indeed.
Bombay is a there-and-back course. Through the Victorian part of the city to the sea, along Marine Drive, up through Malabar Lines and up to Bandra. Then back again. The main feature of this type of course is that you experience each section in a very different way. Running through the city I felt stage struck; very fresh and appreciative of every clap and cheer. Then onto Marine Drive, a long and gently curving bay that stretches into the distance. With the cool morning breeze and the half runners on their way back it was the perfect start. But how that would change on my return.
The first thing of note to happen was that somewhere between 10 and 15k I left my running partners and started to pick up my pace. I couldn't help myself any more. The advice I'd been given by Nigel and others here with such intelligence and care was being slowly ignored. But you follow your instincts sometimes and I didn't honestly believe I was running too fast. I was having a wonderful time, feeling free and running for the moment. As I passed an Aussie I heard him say 'It's goin' to be a long day mate!' More words of wisdom ignored.
One of the great aspects of the Bombay marathon was meeting and running with men (there were few Indian women) who were clearly undertrained and under-equipped but had turned up to run with all that really mattered: the spirit to run and finish. I ran with Rajah up the hills of Marine Lines. Rajah was only a kid who explained to me that he didn't care for running shoes but preferred the free feeling that sandals gave him. Ganesh, like most young Indians, had alean and muscular physique, but a strange way of running, almost on his tiptoes. Then I noticed he was running in old football boots with the plastic studs not fully worn down. And there were of course bare-footed runners.
There was much waving, smiles and merriment as we ran through the streets. I'd chosen to wear a Khadi (hand-spun) Bundi - a t-shirt mainly worn by bullock-cart drivers. It's the perfect material for hot weather and has a couple of strategic pockets for string dried fruit etc. Khadi is a symbol of India's independence and (along with my whiteness and baldness) seemed to make me a pretty popular runner with the crowds. There were Bhangra (Punjabi music) bands playing along the way and I slowed down and did the standard Punjabi dance of rythmic shrugging of shoulders whilst pointing index fingers in the air. This went down extremely well.
By 30k we were well on our way back and I began to feel jaded for the first time. I also realised that I didn't know how long a marathon was. It was 26.2 miles of course, but kilomteres? My very crude method of conversion took me to a figure of 44+ It seemed a daft question to ask another runner, but 44 seemed right. I'd read it somewhere.
