ASHEEN CHOWDHURY, an intern with The Telegraph, registered for the 25K run and survived about a quarter of the distance. He recounts his euphoria, anxiety and burnout.

Warm-up

At the crack of dawn on Sunday, I could only marvel at the number of people around me.

It was cold but the place was teeming with men and women who didn't seem to regret leaving the warm comfort of their homes.

All through the long car ride to Red Road, my mind alternated between going back to bed and lingering doubts about the wisdom of attempting the 25K - a distance I had never walked, let alone run.

I had heard of famous marathons and half-marathons. But they were always in faraway cities and seemed to be the preserve of professional athletes till TSK 25K, partnered by The Telegraph, came along.

I was too excited by the idea of the race to not participate in it. Fitness limitations could take the back seat. And I wasn't alone. There were many others who did not fit the description of the archetypal runner.

Middle-aged company executives stood in their spotless tracksuits and spoke in polished accents while groups of students giggled as they discussed their college affairs. There were homemakers who did not want to miss out. And army officers had their unit names proudly embossed on their shirts.

Amateurs, huddled in groups, cracked jokes while the serious runners jogged or stretched on the grass with earphones plugged in.

I asked myself: what am I doing here trying to run beside professionals?

Happy feet

But as the clock ticked towards 6.30 and everyone gathered at the starting line, the dominant emotion was anticipation. People were warming up: jumping and running on the spot. I, too, did the same though I had no knowledge of any pre-run routine. It felt like I was skimming through a textbook before an exam.

The buzz among the runners and the spectators on either sides of the road grew louder until with a final exultation we were off.

Several runners raised their arms in the air and screamed their hearts out. It appeared like a battle cry, a release of every emotion that had coiled up inside them.

I easily jogged the first couple of kilometres but the wheat was already getting separated from the chaff.

Runners formed small groups of four or five depending on their pace.

Rampaging breakaways soon became a speck in the winter haze. Apart from speed, what marked them out from the rest was rhythm, which, I discovered, was impossible to find with weak leg muscles.

The disappointment at being saddled with such physical limitation was compensated by the sights on the route. As I ran past the Maidan, the sun popped up from behind buildings.

I was struck by how lonely running is. The feeling of isolation was overwhelming, especially considering that I was part of probably the largest congregation of people in the city at the time.

The idle banter that I could hear before the start had died down. Seeing people put on their earphones, I cursed myself for not bringing mine, realising what a motivator music could have been in an effort to stretch my physical limits.

Soon, grim determination took over. The energy reserve and the relatively easy pace most were running in gave me confidence that I would do well in the race, or at least finish it.

Crash and burn

My idea that I was a pretty good example of the success of human evolution was shattered around the 4-km mark. I was more or less keeping pace with the same group of people that I had been running with from the start and could see some of them break away and start walking. Soon, I was one of them. After a while, I spotted some volunteers giving out water bottles. Fearing dehydration, I took one.

But even while walking, I kept looking back to make sure there were others behind me. 'Don't crash yet,' a man in his late 20s said as he jogged past me. A few minutes later, a couple of middle-aged women went past me. A horse neighed as the jockey steered it along the racecourse.

I was convinced I couldn't give up. The commitment of these people brought back that initial confidence. I clutched the half empty bottle as vague memories of motivational videos and sports movies told me what to do exactly.

I rejoined the race, jogging steadily. I took a long swig from the bottle and poured the rest on my head. I was going to make it.

But after a couple of kilometres my body just gave up. My heart had crawled up right behind my ear and I could hear it pounding. I coughed as phlegm collected at the base of my throat.

A boy handing out flavoured energy drinks appeared like an oasis in the middle of a desert. For a while, it gave me the fuel to continue. But my thigh and calf muscles began screaming in protest.

People standing by the roadside shouted words of encouragement but it was a struggle. I could see that many runners were resigned to just finishing the race. For me, it was over. I wanted to run and there was still a long way to go. But I realised that if I pushed myself without practice and training, I would cross the finish line only in an ambulance.

P.S.

I may have had to leave early this time but I have promised myself this won't be the last race I run.