Without knowing the real meaning of a marathon, I once participated in one. Later, when I consulted Google maatha, I realized what I ran was only a run. A true marathon, it turns out, is 42.195 km. For decades, the word “marathon” has been loosely used to mean any long run—but the real definition is far more exacting.
In India, for the past 30 years, marathons have become popular more as charity events—for cancer patients, anti-tobacco drives, and other causes. I kept “marathon” on my bucket list, thinking I’d soon accomplish it. But delaying things on your bucket list until late in life is not ideal. So, youngsters—whatever you want to do, fill your list early. Mine still has bungee jumping and skydiving! When people ask if I’m scared, I reply: “Not scared, just careful.” Don’t forget that famous Sholay dialogue: jo dara, woh mara!
Better late than never, I registered for the 10 km marathon sponsored by TCS, while my son-in-law signed up for the full 42 km. Driving 100 km from Brisbane to Gold Coast Airport, flying to Sydney, and reaching the venue a day earlier to collect the kit—called the “Bib”—itself felt like a marathon. The Bib contains the runner’s allotted number, a chip for identification, and doubles as a memento.
At the ICC Sydney, thousands were flowing in and out. The crowd was as dense as a Mumbai rush-hour, yet seamless and orderly, with no inconvenience whatsoever.
The next morning, after changing a couple of metro trains, I saw off my son-in-law, whose batch was flagged off an hour earlier. By then, we had already walked 5 km just to reach the venue. The weather was a chilly 6–7°C, but bearable. Since I reached early, I stood among the front-runners. The diversity of people from across the world was inspiring.
At 8:45, the run began. For the first 5 km, I myself couldn’t believe I could keep up a brisk walk (with a pretence of a run). The chill gave way to heat, compelling runners to shed jackets and warmers, throwing them away without a backward glance. Volunteers quickly collected them in trolleys for charity. That gesture—people parting with expensive jackets knowing they would go to the needy—was noble and heartwarming.
Soon, 70% of runners disappeared far ahead. I stuck to my pace, loyal to what my body dictated. To my delight, there were participants in their 70s, 80s, even 90s. At nearly 69, and with a total hip replacement, I patted myself just for participating.
At the 7th km, a cyclist volunteer encouraged me, saying I was only 2 minutes 30 seconds behind and could make it. But I was feeling cramps in my left calf, and firmly decided not to risk it. I couldn’t afford to become a burden on my family.
Some runners behind me overtook, and I joked to myself that at least I could be the topper from the bottom—but no, I lost even that race! By the 8th km, around 20 of us were told we wouldn’t finish within time. We were picked up in two ten-seaters—our run ended as a “run and ride.” Still, the organizers cheered us at the finish line, making us feel accomplished. What pained me most was seeing youngsters in their 20s and 30s finishing behind me.
My biggest takeaway was the joy of soaking in Sydney’s skyline, Opera House, Harbour Bridge, subways, and trains from the closest quarters—sights impossible to enjoy from a car.
TCS spent millions sponsoring the event, which in turn generated an estimated $2.5 billion in business for Australia. Ironically, the event coincided with anti-immigration rallies in Sydney and other cities, sparking fears that runners might be targeted. Thankfully, nothing untoward happened.
Watching Australians’ commitment to health and fitness convinced me why Oz is called the “muscle nation” of the world. And yes, my son-in-law finished his 42 km within the allotted time, cramps and all—45 minutes to spare, with thousands still behind him. His medal is as good as mine—that’s my consolation.
