Don’t we love the underdog stories? Rocky Balboa black eyeing Apollo Creed, the phoenix rising from its ashes, the ogre called Shrek who marries a princess , Croatia toppling some major teams in the 1998 world cup, Bangladesh thumping us on a few occasions and in recent memory Ireland making a mess of England in Bangalore. The lore around them is the belief that each one of us is capable of doing something majestic, something extraordinary and running has been a path to a door that opens up these possibilities. Running reiterated the fact that I was capable to star in my underdog story. Kaveri Trail Marathon and I starred in it handsomely, content with the riveting experience of the training and enormity of a race, the experience brought tremendous belief to trust the process of training and leave out the result. Coming from Santhosh’s tutelage, results didn’t matter, didn’t matter if I came first or last and I managed to achieve the latter and the chief was witness to it and he was one proud mentor that day. But for some reason I needed the validation, the validation of a measure of that effort, it’s a single dimension and however hard I tried to shun that thought and bury it, it seemed to rear its ugly head and come right back. And I literally tried to bury it too. I went out on a motorcycle ride to the ocean for a good 1000 kilometers after Bangalore Ultra. Sitting on the beach, some of the boys built castles while a few of us got busy building elaborate graves and hacking tombstones out of cigarette packets. A few of us threw in cigarette butts and buried it, symbolic to the act of quitting and lit another right away to mourn the passing. While we performed the final rites, I mentally threw in a few numbers into that pit, my KTM timing, my appraisal numbers and the numbers in a bank, all thrown in and buried. As we set the final tombstone, I was convinced I’d put behind these measure units and continue doing the things that brought me joy, but that was not to be. The obsession with the numbers returned. It seemed to have gained some demonic powers and shaking it off seemed tough.
I ran my first full marathon in 2013 on the banks on river Kaveri in the Kaveri Trail Marathon, it was a race of epic proportions and I learnt a hell lot about myself that day and also the unconditional support and love within Runner’s High. The race story;
I squint to look at the bird circling endlessly a mile high in the sky, it looks like a buzzard at first, then slowly as my eyes get used to the light, I see it’s just a crane or a swan and I smile. It’s nice to be lying down in the middle of a race, the concrete slab of the culvert feels nice and mellow, without the buzzard around to pick away at my bones, I’d love to just lay here, just like that, still, without a movement. Without a sound.
“If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”
Just lay there and listen to the gurgling water beneath the culvert, listen to the approaching footsteps of a runner, footsteps close in to you and listen to them move away.I’d love to just stop, not quit, but just stop and catch my breath and try to enjoy the scenery a little bit more, but it is kilometer twenty six and not mile twenty six, I have a long sixteen kilometers to go and it feels longer than what I’ve trained for. I gather my strength and stand up, look at Paroma who is patiently waiting for me and give a nervous smile, I’m just warming up to my antics on this race, I start to move and trudge ahead.
Who am I?
I’d love a Hollywood intro to that. A fast dropping camera, falling through the sky, tearing through cloud banks and pausing over an island in an endless blue expanse. A white crescent beach, with a single shack, a boom box, a cabana,and me on that tan stained cabana with a book in one hand and a beer in another. One foot in a flipper and another in a sneaker. I’d turn to the sky, slow mo, look at the camera, adjust them shades and wink and then realize there wasn’t nothing sexy about the hovering camera but a floating subpoena. I’d scramble, make a dash through the sand to the surf, grab my board and paddle and disappear into the ink. Wilson my shoe, the last image on the lens.
As we are not getting that Hollywood intro, something about me, a little more grounded? Am a Josephite and a Bangalorean. Fitness freak would be too strong a term, I’d go with fitness skew. A lot on this blog would spin around that, “being strong” “eat your greens” “PRs” “running” “bench presses” “hammer curls”.
Who am I again?
Can I get cheesy and use the term “Meet me to know me better” Pleasy please, cut me some slack.
What will I write about?
A lot about running, it’s a new found way of life and it’s nastily addictive. I train and run with Runner’s High, we are a small group of eccentrics, who wake up before sunrise on weekends, to run around in circles, very very large circles. The blog will host my marathon race stories, I will try to avoid the usage of the sentence ” a marathon is a metaphor to life” but will not guarantee it.
What else will I hopefully write about?
Travelogues, bike rides, short stories, poems and lots of vagueness. Ramble ramble. Day dream accounts. Doodle boards. Ways to bring about World Peace.
Why wash linen in public?
I’ve been penning for awhile, my friends say I should share my content in the public domain via a blog, I really don’t know whether it is to encourage me or to embarrass me in front of a larger crowd, they usually cheer me up with a beer when I tend to sulk with jeering, so am still to gain, even if it’s a mug of stale beer.
Your feedback and comments would be great to hear from, I’d love to connect to share more ideas, the crazier the better. No ideas? How about connecting to share that beer.
This is not my first blog, the other one fizzed out within a week. If purpleinkrambles sees daylight after a year, I feel I would have accomplished reaching to a larger group of people, hopefully connecting to peers with similar interests and mending my procrastinating ways with regular posts.
Thanks for reading. Cheers.
PS: A little about the title, purpleinkrambles.
Purple, they say reflects royalty, of course it’s not chosen for that reason, no royal lineage here. It’s just that I did the bulk of college note scribbling , doodles, pen fights, collages, all with an arsenal of purple pens, purple markers, purple sheets, heck, I even had a purple silk shirt in under grad. Hence the word purpleink, purplechart, didn’t have the same ring to it. “Ramble” because of what you’ve read till now, lots of unstructured thoughts put into what looks like an ensemble of words.