I wake up on race day with a head ache. I try to soothe the pain by rubbing my head. It’s useless. So I go back to bed at 2:55am.
A few minutes later, my father tells me to get ready, as the driver arrives earlier than call time. I complain of the headache, but there’s nothing much that anyone of us can do.
So I decide to prepare myself some breakfast. With a scoop of rolled oats and some water, the bowl is shoved into the microwave oven. After a few minutes, I find my breakfast spilled on the microwavable plate. Great, just great. So I take another cup of oats and cook it over the stove.
The driver arrives and we drive our way to pick up one of my running buddies. With my GPS functionality always a failure, we get lost. We make a U-turn and fortunately, this time, we arrive at Nette’s doorstep.
On the way to Taguig, Nette and I catch up with our stories. I couldn’t feel the head ache then.
We jog and do some warm up. We jog some more, and there a dog almost bites into Nette’s legs.
Soon, I join the other 10K runners. My thoughts wander into several things. I can’t concentrate on my pace. I am enjoying the uphills, hating the pollution, reprimanding myself for not running around CBD and doing limited training at the gym and around the village. I keep thinking.
Then another piercing pain on the head. Is this a hangover?
It’s probably a hangover. Even before the race ended, I reach a conclusion: This is my worst run. Having only eight hours of sleep in three days and screwing up my running and crosstraining in the last three weeks, I know that this isn’t the way I should be preparing for a run. On top of that, add all the alcohol I drank from Friday night until Saturday morning.