when your husband is out running and you're not there.

Well, technically you are - somewhere there. But not quite. Unless of course you're the kind of wife who runs with her husband. 

I couldn't sleep tonight and I realized that I haven't written on this blog in ages. This would be a retrospect on the TNF100 that happened in Baguio City eons ago (aka last April). At the same time, some pondering by an insomniac brain brought about by a friend who let her husband go on his race with that fresh sense of worry.

We were talking about that a couple of days ago. And I found myself becoming that "oh don't worry it's going to be fine" kind of character. The truth is though, you can't escape the worry. Even if it's just a training run early morning. He leaves. You hear rain. You go back to sleep but really, you're hoping that he's on his way back and doesn't catch a cold.  

Then you'd have major ultras that really boggle your mind with the amount of insanity. Like the Bataan Death March (though at least for this, I was part of the support crew following him around). And then the TNF100. The great thing about the it was that we got to bring Hero up to Baguio with us. I mean, look at that little ball of cuteness.

The hard thing about the TNF100 was... err, the TNF100. From the previous time we were up there, I knew it was hard. It was crazy. And crazy as crazy could, my crazy husband is doing the 100k. TRAIL. UP IN THE MOUNTAINS. The un-best part of it is, you're not there. With him.  It's not like a city race. Or an ultra out of town. This was TNF. And it's one hundred effing kilometers. At ear-popping heights above sea level. Like, HELLO.

Okay, so you're kind of used to this whole race thing anyway. You're sharing in the buzz and the excitement. And it's truly a happy moment. Until the gun start and they're off and you're not with him anymore. And you're left with just faith and trust that he listened to you when you repeatedly said things like "don't push yourself too hard" and "listen to your body" and "be safe". Translation in your head: PLEASE COME BACK IN ONE PIECE, GODDAMMIT.

Having been with him in a number of races, knowing his pace, I would calculate how much distance he's probably covered. He has a phone, but I didn't want to bug him too often. He'd call or text to update and I'd think that hey, he's doing well. And then there's this super icky feeling. I'm not sure if you just become wired that way. When something in your gut tells you that something bad (or at least not right) is going to happen.

And then he calls and says, "I don't think I can finish this". And you're half in denial and half relieved. Because for one thing, of course you'd want him to finish! All that work! While the other part of you wants to just scoop him up from wherever he is and give him a big hug - thank God it's over.

That night, Chips made a decision to quit the race at KM70. He took shelter at an aid station, squeezed into a small tent with a couple of marshalls, and waited for daybreak before heading down the mountains. His phone battery went dead and during that time I think parts of my brain short-circuited because of the anxiety. Kind locals at a sari-sari store lent him a battery to use while we were working out his location. We picked him up along Kennon Road and hugging him all stinky, reeking of sweat and soil felt like the best thing ever. 

And I actually found myself saying, "you'll finish it next year". WHAT. YES. I want him to do it again next year. I will send him off again. Into a monster of a thing totally unknown to me. 

And we're going to finish it, yes we will.

(But before that, there's the BDM160 and the BDM102 - yes, crazy as crazy could, my crazy husband would like to do both)


Post a Comment