On the evening of August 26, four Indian athletes scripted history in Budapest, Hungary. Running in the qualifying heats of the 4x400 metre relay race event, Muhammed Anas, Amoj Jacob, Muhammed Ajmal Variyathodi and Rajesh Ramesh, became the first Indian team to secure a place in the World Athletics Championship finals. And, lest we forget, there was the little matter of them claiming the Asian record with their staggering time of 2 minutes and 59.05 seconds. The next day, the sprinters would overcome exhaustion and cramps to once again break the 3-minute barrier in the finals and secure fifth place; but the result did not matter. For a country starved of track-and-field accolades in major international tournaments, the heroics of this foursome had already become the stuff of legends.
Thousands of words (these present included) have been written about the momentous race and, at the time of writing, a broadcast video of the heats featuring the Indian team has raked up over a million views. A large proportion of that number can, perhaps, be attributed to patriotic fervour; to the belief, as George Orwell put it, that sporting contests with their “running, jumping and kicking” are “tests of national virtue”. If this is indeed the case, the relay event could have hardly been timed any better, coming as it did on the heels of the Indian Space Research Organisation’s successful lunar mission, Chandrayaan – 3. India’s ‘soft landing’ on the moon triggered spirited celebrations across the country, and the multitudes sporting the tricolour in their social media handles were likely overjoyed to be handed more reason to fete the motherland.
But nationalistic pride is not the only thing that makes the video clip of the record-setting relay race a compelling watch. There is something captivating in watching an athlete run; their arms pumping, legs awhirl, as they strain every sinew, every muscle to outpace their opponents and shave milliseconds of their timing. On the final leg of the heats race, Ramesh catches up to the American runner, Justin Robinson, and, for the space of a few heartbeats, nudges ahead to take the lead. In that moment – as the two competitors perform at the limits of their physical capabilities – even the sedate spectator is bound to feel a surge of adrenaline, a quickening of the pulse. The race ends with Robinson powering to victory and the spectator is left exhilarated, exhausted, as if they too left it all out on the track.
In sporting pursuits, most of us – amateurs and aficionados – can never hope to attain the skill and prowess of professional athletes. We will never achieve the fluid grace of a Roger Federer forehand, never pirouette with the dexterity of Lionel Messi pinned to the touchline, and never throw a javelin anywhere close to the distances clocked by Neeraj Chopra. Running, too, is much the same. We can do little more than be awe-struck by the explosive speed Usain Bolt and Florence Griffith-Joyner possessed, and the metronomic efficiency of Eluid Kipchoge will forever be out of our reach. But there is one aspect in which running is different. It is only running – with its primal and visceral simplicity – that can bring us closest to experiencing elite sports.
In his best-selling book, Born To Run: The Hidden Tribe, the Ultra-Runners, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen, Christopher McDougall describes running as “mankind’s first fine art, our original act of inspired creation.” Running requires no equipment, no accoutrements – not even shoes, if you follow McDougall’s bare-feet running philosophy. You do not need to toil for hours to gain basic proficiency at it. There is none of the drudgery of fixing your batting stance in the nets, dribbling a football around training cones, or swinging a racquet in an empty court. You can just step outside and run. Of course, this does not mean running is easy.
On most days, you are resigned to the fact that at some point during your run, your body will rebel and your mind will scream at you to stop. You will wince with every jarring step you place on the asphalt and the ache will reach your bones. You will catch a glimpse of your reflection and recoil at the hunched, ungainly form of your body – a far cry from the upright, imperious bearing of elite runners who inspire you. You know you will never run as far or as fast as them, or look anywhere close to as magnificent. Yet, you will persevere.
The novelist Haruki Murakami once wrote that people run because they want to feel “fully alive”. In his book, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, he says, “exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that’s the essence of running, and a metaphor for life.”
We run – our shoulders stooped with fatigue and feet shuffling in weariness – to experience those moments of lucidity, the sensation of being ‘fully alive’. We run because it is a primordial instinct; the same instinct that is triggered when we watch elite athletes fly down the racing track. We run so that when we watch professional runners cross the finish line and fall to their knees or embrace their compatriots and competitors, we have an inkling of how they feel. We run, because though we will never reach their stratospheric heights, we can, in our own little way, know the taste of pain and glory.
Note: A gif-less version of this essay was published in the Indian Express, earlier this week.
Enjoyed reading this lovely piece, Rohan. Made me think about why i love the stride of David Rudisha and Tirunesh Dibaba. Feels like I can just watch them run everyday. Watching them, I think of Robert Lowell's line 'pray for the grace of accuracy'