How the Gold Coast Marathon reignited my addiction for the long run

It’s easy to feel excited about race day the moment you land in the Gold Coast. As our uber car took us to our accommodation, we could see event volunteers already busy setting up tents and temporary steel barricades lining the endless coastline.

“Coming for the big race?” our driver whipped out the pick-up line of the weekend.

For he too would be at the finishing line, participating as one of the many security guards on official duty for this large-scale event. No wonder the marathon claimed to have pumped $25m into the economy last year.

It was obvious how international the event was going to be. A casual walk around Surfers’ Paradise the day before saw many fellow runners of different races (pun intended) – unmistakably so from their conspicuous outfits of past 42.195km finisher tees and ironman-branded caps. Back in our airbnb, we had Samantha taking the next room, flying in from Singapore to gun for a HM PB. And when we finally made our way to the start point, I was pleasantly surprised to hear for the first time emcees speaking animatedly in different languages to psych everyone up.

This colourful diversity was uniform throughout the race. After the horn sounded, we were greeted by rapturous cheers from massive crowds waving at the sides as we ran past.

“Keep going! Welcome to Gold Coast!”

“加油！加油！”

“Gambatte!”

“MOOOOM! That’s mom! Goooo mom!”

Entire families were out rooting for mom or dad (and shrieking hysterically when successfully spotted). Little toddlers shyly reached their tiny hands out to give high fives while smiling without their two front teeth. Brass instruments, joyful singing and jaunty drumbeats filled the air. Supporters – some on wheelchairs even – waved signboards of encouragements. It was impossible not to get an adrenaline rush and feel invincible at this stage. Each time I glimpsed at my GPS watch, I had to remind myself to slow down. When you have 38km more to go, it’s not good to tire out so early.

Soon enough, a grass patch emerged on the right and 3-4 male runners were spotted standing closely in front of a tree each (about equidistant from each other) – legs apart. Somehow the makeshift portaloo always happens around the 5km mark in races.

“SO UNFAIR.” a female runner exclaimed out loud to a collective chuckle.

She had a point. For the 27,000 participating runners on race day, it was never a level playing field. People from all walks of life – speaking all kinds of languages – come here to cross the finishing line. Parents. Grandparents. First-timers. PB or BQ chasers. Each running their own race.

Yet when the first group of elite runners came our way from the opposite direction (after the turnaround), every one started clapping and yelling words of encouragement while our legs continued their steady cadence. Shortly after, a whistle’s shrill pierced the air as a marshal cleared the way for the incoming lead wheelchair runner. Again, we erupted in cheers as his arms powered himself swiftly forward.

It’s not long before the main group arrives on the other side. I spotted KT and waved frantically. We extended our hands for a high five before continuing in opposite directions. The 4.00hr pacers run past my group too, cheerfully shouting “Go 4.30!”

We were all running our own race, yet doing it together.

For me, I was running with both eagerness and apprehension. My last full marathon had been over three years ago. I hadn’t been sure what to expect. After being sidelined from an ACL reconstruction surgery in 2016, it’s been a long journey getting back up on both feet so this was as good as coming back from ground zero.

I had braced myself for the infamous ‘invisible wall’ – and finally slammed into it around 28km. The dull ache in my left knee suddenly awoke to a sharp tingle while the rest of my muscles took the opportunity to join the protest in unison. Oh gosh – I think I can’t do this anymore.

“Keep going, you can do it. Just enjoy!” a fellow runner’s reassuring voice dissipated my despairing thoughts.

At that moment I lifted my head towards the soothing waves at the shoreline and picked up speed again. The runner’s advice had been potent and I found myself repeating out loud – c‘mon you can do it, just enjoy! – whenever I felt like I couldn’t anymore.

Another passing runner randomly chimed in, “Yeah it helps. I talk to myself too,” and we both laughed sadistically.

Miraculously, I coaxed myself all the way to 37km, where my left hamstring started cramping up. Oh no, I need an electrolyte now. But there was no water station in sight. Desperate, I approached a random group of Taiwanese supporters and without hesitation was offered one of their personal water bottles to gulp down a mouthful.

Oh gosh. I had seriously forgotten how painful a full marathon is.

But the 41km sign soon appeared ahead – like light at the end of the tunnel. Supporters crowding along the final kilometre cheered wildly at every passing runner. “Go… Zooon!” a girl yelled enthusiastically. That was the third time during the race someone had mispronounced ‘Xun’ printed on my bib.

It made me smile nonetheless. The adrenaline rush helped to summon every muscle to life and I pounded towards the finishing line, fuelled by deafening cheers. In the end, I completed the race in slightly under 5 hours. Not a personal best, but still a milestone – my first post-surgery full marathon! And boy did it feel… painful.

Yet incredibly gratifying and empowering.

The Gold Coast Marathon was my first FM outside of Singapore and sure lived up to its reputation as a flat (mostly), beautiful and well-organised race event. The weather was a (supposedly) cool 23 degrees, although it was thrice too hot compared to the 7-8 degrees we’ve been acclimatising to back in Auckland. What struck me most though, was the immense camaraderie of both supporters and runners. I’ve never felt this level of positivity and support in any of my previous races before. It’s like we all did it together – where we run our own race but with the support of each other. All for the good times.

True to my personal tradition, I had told myself during the race – never again – as I struggled to put one foot in front of another. But as we limped to the airport to catch our flight home, I couldn’t help but feel that I could have done better, should have trained harder. This is why marathons are dangerously addictive. Because the truth is, our biggest competitor is our current self and a better, faster, stronger self is always just within reach. And I can’t help but find myself gravitating back again for the long run.

P.S. Should I sign up for Auckland Marathon??

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