Blood, Pocari Sweat & Tears

There’s nothing quite like a leisurely Sunday.

I decided to give 21 km another go last weekend, this time in Saigon. The handsomely-sponsored Pocari Sweat Run Vietnam left the gate at 5:30 am sharp, and I was due at work at 10am. No sweat! Well, actually, a lot of sweat. Anyway, I knew what I was getting myself into when I signed up, much like booking a 6 am flight to save a few bucks only to curse oneself when the alarm rings a third time. I’m young yet, and figured the chance to test my legs again a mere 10-minute xe ôm ride from home was worth it.

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I arrived to an overgrown, fast-developing suburban district of Saigon called Thủ Thiêm at 4:40 am, did some light stretching, ate two bananas, and found the take off point with a friend. Again, I’m thankful for an early start to avoid the sun, but trying to fall asleep at 9pm didn’t really work. Half a cup of coffee, a little adrenaline, and several bottles of a certain Japanese sports drink would have to do.

The first time I did a half marathon, a mid-summer run in scorching-hot central Vietnam, I was happy to clock in at an hour and 49 minutes, but this time I tried to approach things more strategically. Rather than marveling at the crowds and taking in the spectacle, I spent the first kilometer weaving around people dawning costumes (superman, banana print grandma pajamas, a tuxedo?) and oversized novelty hats. Once I got to a comfortable pace, I pushed a few bouts of stomach cramps out of mind and kept going at a solid clip. Unfortunately, the setting for this race left a little to be desired; there were some nice views of the Saigon cityscape, but mostly I was trotting down winding roads of ever-expanding suburban sprawl. The turnaround point came just before a busy highway just as morning rush hour began to solidify, and the air was pretty gnarly.

I kept running. The crowd thinned out, and with about 6 km left I was hitting it more or less solo. At one point, the number 1 and 2 runners passed me in the opposite direction; I thought this meant the bridge I was crossing would end soon, but these guys were just really fast and I realized I had, perhaps, an inflated sense of what my own time might be. Nevertheless, I pushed on and came out on the other side with a time I’m happy with (1:36:50). No beach views or post-run seafood this time around, just a few more Pocari Sweats and the grim realization that I needed to be at the office in an hour and a half.

So I made it home, ate a few slices of bread, and went on with a full day of work. Then I scraped the bottom of the tank to work up the last of my energy in order to meet two confidants for Indian food, washed it down with exactly one beer, and slept for 13 hours. All in a day’s work.

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