It’s been 16 weeks. My bleeding knees story got so old I lost steam. But after last week’s historic London Marathon, I found the energy to write about my traumatic
Cebu Marathon.
Just a few minutes after gun start, someone knocked me to the ground. It was a strapping, young man bursting with energy and eager to go the distance.
I wanted to say, chill, bro, the race is 21 kilometers. You have all the time to get to the finish line, ahead of thousands of runners, myself included.
I wasn’t running erratically. I wasn’t changing lanes. I was running the race in an orderly fashion. This was my 32nd race. But it was my first knockdown.
He was behaving like a careless motorist overtaking a vehicle on the road and hitting the vehicle in the process.
But I must argue that when you’re not even 200 meters into a 21K race, there’s no justification for overtaking. After all, if you’re a competitive runner, you’d be at the front rows of the start line.
The shock of the shove rendered me speechless and immobile. Down on the ground, I feared being stomped over by the thousands of runners who still had so much adrenaline pumping through their veins from the start line.
It took a few seconds, but he turned around and to my utter amazement, lifted me up to my feet like I weighed nothing. I felt like a doll in his hands. And then he whispered, “Sorry.” I nodded and mouthed, “it’s okay.” And off he went.
In that moment, I never felt so vulnerable. I realized how old and defenseless I was in the sea of young, strong and energetic runners. I realized how easily I could be shoved to the ground, injured and even killed in case of
a stampede.
I never felt so small and frail in my life. But my spirit was strong. I raced ahead. Soon, I felt the sting. I glanced at my right palm and blood was oozing. But I kept going. After a while, the blood on my palms dried up.
My knees were hurting like hell, too, but as I couldn’t see them because I was wearing leggings, I just put mind over matter.
I passed medics along the race route and for the first five kilometers, I entertained the idea of stopping until I decided against it for three reasons.
First, stopping would take away from my time. Second, the thought of alcohol possibly being poured over my cuts seemed unpleasant. Third, the idea of having my not-so-cheap technical leggings cut seemed even more unpalatable.
And so, I ran 21 kilometers with bleeding knees. They stung terribly in the first few kilometers but as I ran further, fatigue took over and the instinct to survive prevailed. By the time I crossed the finish line, I could no longer feel any pain, only exhaustion.
It was only when I came home when I realized that things were worse than I thought.
Some skin came off my right knee when I took off my leggings. Sweat and friction is the perfect recipe for a blister. What I saw, however, was a big, gaping wound that took a month to heal.
For some time, it looked quite angry, I was terrified. I got a tetanus shot and took some antibiotics as a precaution because of how deep and close to the bone the wound was. But the angry look turned out to be trauma rather than allergy.
I’ve only run two other races since. My anxiety at the start line now stems from the possibility of someone knocking me to the ground again.
I’ve recovered from the wounds but not from the trauma. But I’ll be back. Just taking a brief hiatus.
In the meantime, I’m on the lookout for a singlet with backprinting that says: Senior citizen. Please keep your distance.
Please run safely. I don’t wish bleeding knees on anyone.