Be runnin’ up that hill – By Kate Driessen

It’s the soundtrack to Chariots of Fire that rouses me from my sleep. Day of the Athens Marathon. A slow-motion montage of 16 weeks of tempo runs, threshold runs, trail runs and Sunday long runs plays in my head and I AM SO HERE FOR THIS. My roommate’s humorous yet motivational choice of dramatic run-themed tunes continues, and so, possibly foretelling of unexpected sporting glory, I hurriedly get dressed, vaseline my feet, grab my gear and hit the streets.

Walking in the dark to Syntagma Square with Spandau Ballets’ You are gold, gold! echoing in my head, I get an app from Dani; “in line for coffee, want one?” Can this morning get any better?

Coffee in hand, we board one of the procession of busses shuttling runners from Athens to our start point in Marathon. The bus is warm, the chairs plush, the mood quiet but you sense we’re all on a mission. The sun slowly rises, as does my excitement.

We arrive in Marathon at dawn, the sky all pastel pinks and oranges. We gratefully accept plastic bags to fashion ponchos and skirts. It’s a fresh, breezy, clear-skyed start. We have time to kill so pull up a piece of kerb, eat a little and apply some glitter to our faces, à la Alexi Pappas. The crowd of 16,000 odd runners is growing yet we joyously somehow manage to bump into fellow NP’ers, Hugo and Heather. We assume (hope) the others are here somewhere too but knowing them, one can’t be sure.

Gradually we make our way to the corrals, my kids call to wish me luck and inform me that they downloaded the tracker app ON THEIR OWN, and WHY HAVEN’T I STARTED YET? And WHY IS EVERYTHING ORANGE??? (I’m in the portaloo).

The instrumental Zorba’s Dance counts us down. I feel like linking arms with the people either side of me in dance. We cross over the start line and we’re off.

The first 5km fly by. Then the first 10km. I’m running comfortably with Dani, we settle in behind the other runners, we’re in no hurry.

There are a few spectators, scattered along the road. Calmly clapping as we pass by. We pass petrol stations to the left, some hills to the right, some securely fenced in properties both sides. I comment on the Greek-inspired homes back home (Melbourne hosts the largest Greek population outside of Europe) that would feature imposing statues of entwined humans and horses in their front gardens.

I notice Dani is particularly quiet. Anyone who has had the delight of running with her, knows this is unusual. I ask her how she’s going. The heat is bothering her. She also smashed out a spicy 10km the night before. As we roll into the next drinks station she tells me she wants to pull back and take it a bit easy. I’m torn what to do. Since my first marathon a year ago, I’ve never run a 42km+ without her, she’s always had my back, we planned to run together, so should I stick by her? But we also agreed in advance if one wasn’t feeling it, then the other could, and should go on. I’m feeling good, so I decide to keep going. I yell out that I’ll be keeping to the left side of the road, as I expect she’ll reel me in as the KMs go by.

I’m off on my own. I push my worries about my running buddy aside. I’ll need that energy for my legs. I know she has her phone, and we’ve got friends behind us.

There is distraction everywhere. I people watch, I’m in awe of all the runners around me. All ages, all abilities, all pushing their boundaries. I can’t believe I’m amongst them. I smile at the people cheering and I high-five little hands as we pass through the towns. I think of the road ahead, the first 10km were flat, even slightly downhill, but from 12km we start with some climbs, occasionally but pleasantly offset with some flats. I remind myself to keep taking it easy, because from 20km it’s all uphill.

I feel the sun radiating hotly on the left side of my face. I flip my cap’s visor to the side. Immediate relief. Though the Australian in me is also rejoicing. I LOVE the heat. A clear blue sky, fresh air, bright and glaring, sandy yet stark surrounds. I feel like I’m somewhere different. I feel alive.

I come up behind a group of runners sporting singlets that read “Indigenous Marathon Project”. My heart soars. Knowing Indigenous Australians experience some of the worse health outcomes in the world, these change-makers are out here pushing their health and physical boundaries to a new level. I fist pump and holler “Go Aussies” as I pass alongside.

It’s getting hilly but it’s ok. I try to pick the flattest route to the top of each section, I start left, then weave to the right side of the road. But from this angle the left then looks better. So, I settle for middle of the road

I come up to a drink station that has Powerade. Orange or Blue? I have visions of regurgitating the blue later on, so I select orange. It’s delicious.

I play with the numbers in my head. I’m about 21km in. Meaning there’s another 11 kms of climb. After that it’s 10km downhill to the stadium. I think of my quasi-race plan. 1) Run smart (which means mind my pace, and fuel and hydrate well), 2) Enjoy, and 3) Leave nothing in the tank. Timing-wise it would be nice to get in under 4h30, but I have no idea of the time as I’m yet to look at my watch.

I’m in a groove. I sing Kate Bush to myself Be runnin’ up that road, be runnin’ up that hill…. I laugh at the memory of Jane’s well-curated playlist from that morning.

I pass the 25km road sensor. I smile as I think of my family and friends tracking me. Every 5 km elicits the same response and I’m not sure if I look more forward to each 5km because that’s then 5km less to go, or because it’s something that connects me to them, knowing they’re willing me on while I’m out here on my own.

And then I have company as Heather falls in step alongside me. I’m so happy to see her cheery grin. I was lamenting I may have missed everyone as I had expected all the others to have passed me by now. Hugo appears too. Neither are particularly enamoured with the run, so I merrily claim there’s only about 4 or 5km left of the hill. I’m not sure my message was as positively received as it was intended.

They bound off into the distance and I marvel at how effortlessly and fast they run. I liken myself to The Little Engine That Could. I keep plodding away.

Shouts of ‘Bravo!’, ‘Opa!’, come from the spectators congregating at the intersections. Hearing cheering in another language feels so exotic.

To my left a man is stopped and bent over. Another man stops next to him, offers him his gel. My heart swells at the gesture.

I’m approaching 30km, which means the steepest 2km section is just ahead. I decide to whip out my headphones for an extra boost. It’s instantaneous as Sia’s “shoot me down but I won’t fall” pumps in my ears. The Bee Gees’ when the feeling’s gone and you can’t go on, it’s tragedy follows and before I know it I’m at the top!

Now I’m flying down the other side; Ain’t nothin’ gonna break my stride, nobody’s gonna slow me down, oh no, I’ve got to keep on moving. With the realisation that I’m over the hills, I well up and get all teary. My grin is wide, my eyes are blurred and I’m feeling ecstatic. I, me, Kate, am a Marathoner. The realisation has finally – a year later – found a place to settle.

I think of the times I’ve felt really proud of myself. A handful, not as many as you might expect in 47 years.

But I need to rein in the emotions because my tears are interfering with my breathing. And, oh-oh, what’s this? As the road evens out, I find my quads are on fire. This hurts. Like, really hurts. And, suddenly the 7km ahead feels like an eternity.

‘Okay’ I tell myself, 7km, just a regular Tuesday run. You can do this. I instruct myself to keep smiling, mind over matter. Strongest muscle group. Your legs CAN keep going. I smile to the growing crowds. Sometimes it’s a grimace. The thought of another gel turns my stomach so I reach for my trusty dates for the final stretch.

My legs are sore but I’m getting closer with every step. Gravity is helping. A bus passes with non-finishers and I’m so grateful I’m still out here. Remember: Nothing left in the tank. I keep pushing. 5km to go.

I recognise where I am. 3 km to go. That’s the distance from home to the Berlage Bridge. I’ve done it 100 times. I get teary again. I’m going to make it and GOD, I JUST LOVE THIS SPORT.

I take my headphones off as the crowds are getting bigger and the stereos are pumping. I don’t want to miss any of this. About 1.5km out I approach Dromeas, or The Runner, a sculpture made from thousands of pieces of glass, creating the blurred shape of a runner in motion. I intended taking a selfie about now. But I know if I stop, the agony to start again will be so much worse. So, I keep going, really hoping there’s a photographer out here taking snaps (there was😊).

There’s a steep downward hill leading to the finish and my legs are throbbing with each step. But then the Panathenaic Stadium comes into sight. Built entirely of marble and dating back to 144AD (originally built in 330BC), running towards this magnificent, historical structure is a privilege like no other.

I enter the stadium. I try to locate the others in the stands, but I can’t see them through the crowd. So instead, I eye the finish line and arms lifted in victory, I cross over. 4H16m. I’m elated, I’m emotional, I’m so damn proud. I accept my medal, my bag of snacks, and I phone home. My husband, a numbers person, informs me I’ve finished in the top 20% of women and top 30% overall.

That blows my mind. And sooths the burn as I hobble the distance to where our crew are cheering the rest of the runners on. It’s done but man, this run – this unexpected tale of sporting glory – has been everything.

Share via socials: