There had been some temptation in anticipation of writing this log of driving some suspense - building an atmosphere and painting some picture of a tense, moody start line; a coming together, a congregation, of hardened runners ready to test themselves over 21k on a fresh, fall evening.
Where between deep inhales and slow exhales all to be heard was the reverberation of slapped thighs; a more aggressive wake-up-call to our legs than our warm up jogs had allowed. A runner atop his toes, lightly bouncing left to right, another, eyes closed and hands in prayer.
Tension and trepidation as we waited for the gun to sound and send us along the waterfront course. Where in the patches that the street lights did not illuminate the way, we instead followed a full moon, beckoning us instead towards the turn-around some 5km away, only for us to follow the sound of the waves back again.
In place of deep inhales, slow exhales and reverberating thighs was the sound of my fevered struggles to breathe; my snot-ridden, blocked nose inhales which - were anyone to have taken a glance at me - were often supported by a vicks nasal inhaler firmly planted up my nose.
Rather than prayer, to my right, to my left, behind me and in front of me was a host of neon-clad children; armed to the teeth in glowsticks, flashing lights and neon tutus.
Further ahead, beyond the start line, was a neon-clad adult.
Though instead of being equipped with glowsticks, she had DJ decks at her disposal. And her chariot- a neon-clad bicycle to which the decks were attached to the back of. She and her trusty bicycle steed would be running the 5k and would set off a few minutes earlier than the rest of us.
She was not so much setting the pace as she was setting the vibes. And everyone wanted a piece.
Between me, the start line and our resident neon-runner DJ was a contingent of runners soaking in the party atmosphere. In normal race conditions there would be some suggestion that they were closer to the start line than their ability would suggest. But this was no normal start line.
Fevered and slightly overstimulated, I opted to hold my place in the start line crowd. Avoiding the temptation to hustle and jostle my way through and starting a mosh-pit; recognising my sickly body had the strength for only either a mosh or a race, I picked the latter.
One of my finer executions of will power.
But this party could not be contained. Though 10 minutes later than intended, the party and pandemonium spilled onto the streets of Mount Maunganui and we were off. A mass start, all 1600 of us. Wild dogs, buffaloes, stampeding down the waterfront, feral and energised.
Yet here I was, a deer in the headlights of neon, forced to find my pace amongst the masses or else be trampled and left for dead. Thankfully, I found rhythm amongst some of the 10k runners, before having to charge on without them when they reached their turn-around, some 600 meters before my own, the resident DJ fading into obscurity.
Though that is not to suggest the party ever stopped. Neon remained ever present and boom-boxes substitutes for kilometre markers.
The rhythm remained. My dancing feet rejoining the pack and weaving in and out of the crowds that established themselves over the course of the ensuing laps. The crowd, too, not just limited to those that covered the waterfront, but support and encouragement offered from those on the side lines, the houses and the balconies that ran parallel to our course.
Just as all good nights come to an end, so did my race. My come-down came earlier than expected and despite the pace, my rhythm, being so perfectly on beat for so long, over the course of my final lap the lights started to come on.
It was no rude-awakening, no sudden turning on of the lights. They just got brighter and brighter as my legs started to turn over slower, and slower. What the light revealed was an ocean of smiling faces; faces full of encouragement and joy, to be here, outside on a beautiful, moon soaked evening, moving their body and having a party whilst doing so.
Somehow, amongst my fixation on a result, I’d missed the point. The high energy, bright lights and neon, loud music and high-fiving of children and people in inflatable dinosaur costumes were the point.
Over the course of the last eight weeks of training there has been an underlying seriousness; my personal value being tied into my training and the result of this race - as if it were ever more than a check-point, far less the end goal - being a significant measure of my value.
This unshakeable shadow of my previous fitness, and comparison of such, encouraged a dour approach to training; with my days and mileage predetermined and any deviation a cause for great concern and guilt.
So obsessed with making sure the best version of me turned up to the party, I spent the entire time looking in the mirror and missed it entirely.
The irony being that, at my fittest and fastest, I did not tie myself to a predetermined plan. I allowed myself freedom; I ran how far I wanted, how fast I wanted and when I wanted. Though there was certainly structure - the long run, tempo, intervals - I allowed myself freedom. To wake up each day and let my body decide the approach to training.
This race was to validate the previous 8 weeks of training and my return to fitness. To give some indication - and reassurance- that I could return to previous levels after a substantial time off.
Whilst it did that, it would be difficult to say that I allowed myself to enjoy the process. Instead, I woke the morning after, with the recognition that I’d been far too self obsessed to allow myself a good time and instead, that time has passed me by, and days ticked off the calendar without ever really being present.
It took another week to put on the running shoes again.
My sickness persisted, as did the hang-over that follows most races. But in the weeks that followed, I allowed myself freedom. There was no plan, no predetermined paces, distances or times. I let the watch continue to run at traffic lights, I took the road that I’d never taken before.
I stopped and took photographs of the sunset and the flock of pigeons on the roof.