Day 319 - Determination

 DETERMINATION

Prompt - Determination : Write about not giving up

Gypsy Brae ahead now.  They heard the assemblage before they saw it, a childish babble of excitement.  That meant the masses hadn't left yet, there was still time to get a clear path ahead.  And that maybe, just maybe, they were still on schedule.  Five miles to go.  Watches checked.  They needed to do it in a bit over eighty minutes.  It was still possible.

The route took them left, up past the refreshment tents and the shouted encouragements of the volunteers.

"Banana please" shouted James when he was about six metres from the first table.  A woman promptly grabbed his choice, held it out in his path and he grabbed it without breaking stride.  "Thanks."  And he was past.

"Water please."  George was a bit slower with his request, had to pause, grabbed the bottle, and tried to move his legs as fast they would go.  It took almost thirty seconds to catch James, who wasn't about to let up.  He'd spotted that the shambolic group to his right was being called to order, sensed the countdown was about to commence.  And then he heard it.  Looked at George, a pace behind.  The returning look mirrored his own, fear of being caught behind the five milers mixed with exhilaration that they might not.  

No words needed, both raised their speed, kilts billowing, heads shoved forward, to get ahead.  And did it, with seconds to spare.  There would be a few of the quickies from that group would come with them, some, so much fresher, might head off into the distance, but the dreaded pack had been avoided, well before the paths would narrow and hold them up.  They grinned at one another and settled back into their natural pace, taking in yellow fruit and clear liquid.  

"I always hate this bit."

"Hmmm."  George more economical with his oxygen supply.  They'd got to the path that would take them off the coast pathway, heading inland towards their final destination, and, for the next mile or so, on the most uphill section of the fourteen and a half miles.  Why now, when they'd already been pushing for ten?  It felt so cruel, and their calf muscles concurred.  But they grunted their way up, trying to grin some appreciation for the enthusiastic cheerleaders at the top, and rolled their eyes once past.  The next mile would be the worst.

Up past Silverknowes Golf Course, the sun getting ever hotter as midday loomed, the cool of the harbour long since forgotten.  On up past the white harled semis, the cars in the drives, the tidy wee row of shops, the stewards shouting at them to go on the right hand pavement.  As if that mattered.

And finally back on to the walkway cum cycle path that would see them through to the final section.  Not too many kilties before or behind now, they were on their own.  They walked on, feet sore, backs aching, legs complaining, minds numbing, bodies sweating as if they'd sprung multiple leaks.  On and on.  A board on a lamppost made them smile again.  Three miles to go.  Maybe a bit over fifty minutes, exhausted old bodies permitting.  

Over that intersection and down.  Over the bridge that offered false promise, it wasn't the one they wanted to see.  Then the real thing.  The parting of the trees revealed their first glimpse of their cantilevered end point, Murrayfield Stadium.  It was enough to return some life to limbs now finding it harder to respond to the brain's demands.

And then they were at the end, down, turn, down turn, down, turn, and on to the path by the railway line, more turns, more straights.  End in sight across the parched parkland.  Watches checked again.

"Shit."

"Shit."

They had three minutes.  Could they?  Would their sixty-something frames and muscles allow?  Stride out, ignore the pains, the reluctance, the sense of doom.  Push on, push more.  And they were coming in now, under the trees, the buzz of the crowd ahead, the greeting party assembled before them.   As they crossed the line they punched the air, and the wee guy with the mike laughed.

"Well done guys, high fives", and he held up a hand for slapping.  The effort barely registered now.  Elation took over.  They came close to hugging the women handing out their finishers' medals, but resisted, moved on, into the open space.  And, finally, stopped.  Three hours twenty nine minutes.  Target achieved.  They would suffer tomorrow.  Maybe Tuesday as well.  But they'd done it, what they'd set out to do.  Determination overcoming the ageing process.  Maybe it was for the last time.  But they'd done it once, and that's what mattered.