So there we were, Sunday morning, before the big race. Met up with my friends at 9 pm, an hour before the start. The sun was shining bright, perhaps the biggest potential source of problems for the day?
Many running friends had given me tips for a good race, such as:
- Eat pasta for breakfast. I did that (wholemeal!).
- Just pick a cute little ass and keep following that. (Hmm, perhaps not the most scientific piece of advice ever…)
- Drink a lot during the race. (Fair enough.) And when you need to pee, don’t be afraid and look up a tree (which I would turn out to do twice).
We lined up in our starting boxes, me and two other friends in the sixth and last one, our green starting numbers pinned to our chest. (I was 30462.) The first cannon shot went off before I was even in the box. But we wouldn’t leave until nearly half an hour later anyway.
The tension was palpable. I felt pretty excited/nervous. Would my knee hold out? Would I finish the race? In a good time? Even before starting, my pulse was already at 118 bpm!
Sixth cannon blast and off we went, just walking out of the park, everybody having to go through the gates, but then km 0 started at the Schuman roundabout. After that you turn into rue de la Loi, which provided an amazing sight of a sea of thousands and thousands of bobbing heads stretching out in front of you. Looked pretty impressive, something like this:
But my start wasn’t good. Even though I had the impression I was running really slowly (another piece of advice: don’t start too fast), I couldn’t control my heart rate. And when we hit the first tunnel, after 3 km, I got really dizzy and was afraid I was going to faint and I’d have to give up. Was it the heat? The stress? Lack of oxygen in the tunnel? I don’t know. But this wasn’t going well. Giving up already at that point would have been a massive bummer.
So I thought about the most important tip one of my friends had given me: never give up! When I was certain I wasn’t going to faint or get a heart failure, I just walked for a bit until I was out of the tunnel, where there seemed to be more oxygen. I kept on jogging extremely slowly for a couple of minutes - the only people not overtaking me were the ones walking. I sort of stumbled through two more tunnels on avenue Louise, until we got to Bois de la Cambre. By then, I was feeling much better again, and I managed to find a reasonable, steady pace.
From then onwards, it was an extremely pleasant experience. All these people, going for the same objective, the people standing next to the road cheering you on, the jazz and drum bands pumping out some beats to keep you motivated. As said, it was a beautiful day, the atmosphere was great, and I tremendously enjoyed the run: the greenery, cracking jokes with other runners, sloshing some refreshing water over my head every few kilometres.
After that first initial spot of bother, I didn’t have any more problems. Nothing was hurting, and as I counted down the kilometres, my confidence just kept on growing. Even the dreaded uphill stretch of avenue de Tervueren, a massive uphill section of 2 kilometres, like a fucking Everest you have to tame before you reach the last kilometer, went super smoothly. After that, there’s the last flat section, and you can see the arches of Parc du Cinquantenaire, the finish line, before you.
I pulled out everything I had left (which apparently was still quite a lot), and just went for it. It was a great feeling, those last few hundred meters, the people cheering (I had three fans by the finish line), it was just bliss. Total euphoria. I almost cried. Seriously.
And so I crossed the finish line after 2 hours, 22 minutes and 37 seconds, which ended me in 23,142nd place. Even so, they gave me a gold medal. And a Mars bar.
(I ate the Mars bar.)
And that was it. I’m so happy I did this. People who have run before may make less big a deal of it, but I’m super stoked I brought this project to a positive end.
Now, perhaps, I will learn how to skateboard.
(New Balance 665 running shoes, which I pimped with a “+1”)
For as long as I can remember, I have always hated running. As a small child, apparently i could barely run. It must have looked really awkward. In primary school, they had these races between schools. I never participated, except for one time, out of curiosity. I ended last but one, way behind the rest, but before this other immigrant kid who didn’t even have proper sports attire or running shoes. (I have a distinct memory of my then childhood sweetheart, standing by the side of the track, shouting “Zet ‘m op Nil!”. And I also remember how, when she ran, with her grey and pink Reebok trainers, her hair would bop up and down but totally straight, as if it were spaghetti - seriously, my exact thoughts at that moment.) In secundary school, i was below average in sports, but running was perhaps what i hated most, after gymnastics (which was just way too dangerous for anybody in his right mind to try).
I liked roller blading, cycling, hiking and trekking, and I also started swimming again a couple of years ago, but running? Nah. That is, until last summer, when on a (admittedly somewhat premeditated) whim, I bought a cheap pair of running shoes and started running, just like that. I got hooked pretty much immediately, I guess also because you notice how you improve so fast. The exhilaration of your first 5 km! And then the first 10 km! Hey you know what!? Running can be fun! If you had told me a year ago that I would one day run 10 km for fun, I would have laughed at you. And yet, there you go. Strange things happen.
The culmination of this process will take place tomorrow, Sunday 27th of May (by coincidence the exact date of my return back to Belgium last year): I will be running a 20 km race. That’s probably the most insane thing I’ve ever done. Or at least the biggest physical challenge ever. I’ll be running with 29,999 other people (minus a few cancellations), but it will be an extremely individualistic undertaking. I’m not competing againts anybody else (well, perhaps technically I am), I just have to deal with myself, and somehow finish that race. And not die in the process.
I’m superstoked. My right knee somewhat less so.
Talk to you tomorrow…
PS - Iron Maiden have a song called “The loneliness of the long distance runner”, but it’s not a very good one. Still, I might have to play it today.
Postcard on Flickr.
America is full of amazing shit. That’s what I discovered with my friend Sarah, as we travelled up along the West Coast of the USA in May last year. From San Francisco up through northern California, Oregon, Washington, and ending with three days in Vancouver, Canada (‘cause I’d been there before, and thought it would be a nice place to end my trip). Because it was the last section of my 6.5 month round-the-world trip. It was a nice ending too, road tripping in our rental with a tremendous big bass sound, lots of delicious food, hipsters, comics and record stores, the Ocean, crazy trees, cool couchsurfers, gorgeous campsites, cheap motels and some fancy hotels. And one black bear.
Click on the picture above to view the set!
Edit: pictures are actually visible now.
A year ago I was in New Zealand (my last but one day already, of a six week stay.)
Oh boy, what a country. Loved every single bit of it. Landscapes were just amazing. Every drive was a five star scenic drive. Mountains, volcanos, the ocean. Pacific Ocean = Best Ocean, in case you had any doubt. People were super friendly and had the coolest accent. And the bulk bins with dried fruits and nut mixes in the supermarkets were plain awesome too.
Sweet as!
Click on the picture above to view the full photo set on Flickr.
I’ve been playing drums since the age of twelve, quite possibly making it the longest permanent activity in my existence. But I’ve also been playing badminton since, what, twelve and half? Although, I have to say, there have been a couple of interruptions of up to a few years. But even so, what a remarkable achievement. Or not?
Despite all these years of practice, I’m still a very average player. I lack speed and strength, endurance is pretty useless in this field. My range of shots is limited to either nicely in the middle of the court, so my opponent doesn’t even have to move, or wide out of bounds. And I move around the court with the grace and elegance of an elephant on valium.
But oh well. It’s fun. After a day at the office, it’s the perfect way to kick your body into gear again, and shake the stiffness out of your limbs. In a good game, you get to pull out all the stops, trying to overcome your physical limits just to get that damn shuttlecock over the net. And also: you get to curse a lot. The therapeutic effect of a few games is beyond doubt.
These days I play out of habit, rather than conviction. But put a good single or double game together, and I can enjoy it tremendously. When you get to hit the shuttle in the perfect spot, with all your strength, your racket going “KAPOW” and sending the shuttle flying high and far, exactly where you want it, that’s a great satisfaction. So as long as my knees and ankles allow me, I’ll keep on playing.
Romanian Easter eggs.
The information board in this picture is not very sharp, but it doesn’t really matter, because it’s not really displaying any useful information anyways.
I can tell you since when exactly it’s been there: late February 2000. Brussels was elected European Capital of Culture for the year 2000, and it was the big opening weekend. This electric sign, in the pedestrian tunnel between Brussels Central train station and the adjoining metro station, was an installation displaying a selection of poetic texts, dreams, ideas and what not. I remember it was a great weekend, you could feel a big vibrant energy all over town. I had just moved to Brussels, had just broken up with my girlfriend in Leuven, and was about to make a move on my first Brussels girlfriend (and also dance the first of many, many Bal Modernes). At the time I felt lots of things were happening in Brussels, a positive flux that would certainly lead to many great things.
But of course after one year Brussels was no longer Cultural Capital of Europe, and since then, has slipped back to being its sloppy self.
The sign is still there, in the tunnel, though right now it’s running in demo mode, God knows since how long. It’s telling that nobody has even bothered unplugging it, but that’s probably because nobody even remembers who’s responsible for it.
And this goes for the whole tunnel. A tunnel between two of the busiest commuter hotspots in town, yet nobody seems to care about it, and it makes you feel like you’ve landed in Tirana in the 80ies or something. (Although, I’ve been told, Albania was a really clean place under communist rule, something which definitely cannot be said of this tunnel.) It’s a total dump, and has been since, pretty much forever - the poetic installation hasn’t changed anything. It’s a typical example of Brussels non-management: the owner of the train station says: not our responsibility. The local public transport company, exploiting the metro, says: not our responsibility. The City of Brussels says: not our responsibility.
So the sign keeps on running in demo-mode, displaying non-information to nobody in particular, the tunnel remains a squalid place and Brussels keeps on missing out on opportunities.
Tarte tatin with goat cheese and chicons - oh boy, finger-licking good!