The amazing race

I’m loving myself a bit sick this week, following my shit-hot performance in last Sunday’s City2Surf, which I completed in under 100 minutes.

As anyone who’s done this race knows, 100 minutes is the make-or-break point: go under that time and you qualify for access to the fast runners group in next year’s race.

Of course, there’s an even faster group, for those entrants who run all 14 kilometres in under 75 minutes, so although I’m proud of how I went, I’m not loving myself too sick just yet.

But there is an undeniable feeling of accomplishment you get from finishing a race like that, and the nearest thing I can compare it to is the feeling I get after an all-night Mardi Gras dance party.

There’s the same sensation of bodily exhaustion, naturally, but coupled with that, there’s the feeling of satisfaction that you’ve done it; you’ve seen the thing through until the end.

There are other similarities as well. Both events have a scale that makes them feel a bit surreal, and both events feature a preponderance of bodies in prime condition. And after both, nothing goes down better than a cold beer.

Of course, the City2Surf has fewer poofs and dykes in attendance -“ although there were a few gay men in Sunday’s race, running along bare-chested and flaunting their superior musculatures.

And there were about as many exhibitionists as you’d get at a Mardi Gras dance party -“ although most of them were gaggles of straight men and, by the way they were carrying on, most of them clearly thought their musculatures were a lot more superior than I did.

And while I’m on the subject of bodies, I must admit to a qualm I’ve got about this whole distance running caper. And that’s the fear that if I persist with this newfound hobby, I might end up as one of those funny-looking skinny blokes who run marathons.

You know the type. They’re the greyhoundy looking guys with the freckled limbs who pound the footpaths in their scoop-cut shorts and airy mesh singlets, faces twisted in a sweaty red knot of pain.

There’s no doubting they’re a fit bunch. But they’re not, on the whole, a sexy bunch. So my game plan for next year’s City2Surf is to go fast, but not too fast -“ and to sink my bodyweight in beer at the pub afterwards.