Taupō Marathon

The Race Pack, The Panic, The Run: What Race Day Really Feels Like

There’s a particular kind of excitement that comes with hitting “register” on a race whether you’ve done it  before or not. It’s part thrill, part “what have I just signed up for” and if you’ve ever entered a 5km, 10km, half, or gone all in on the 42km, you’ll know exactly the feeling we mean.

The race pack

Picking up your race pack is its own kind of exciting. You unzip it standing in the car, or the second you get home, going through everything like a kid checking a lolly bag:  the bib, the pins, the random samples and treats tucked in the bottom, the little bits of gear you didn’t know you needed but now feel very official holding.

Some people plan their outfit for weeks. Proper gear, laid out like they’re heading into battle. Others just… wing it. You’ll spot both at the start line; the fully kitted-out ones who still somehow look lost, and the ones wearing whatever’s clean because today is not the day to try something new.

And there’s always a moment of “wait, do I actually have proper running shoes?” followed by a look at the old pair by the door and a very confident “these will do.” Nobody needs new shoes the morning of a run. Nobody.

The morning of

Morning of, and it’s the eating dilemma all over again. Too much and you’ll regret it by the 3km mark. Too little and you’ll regret that too. You eat anyway, cross your fingers, and then spend the next hour working out exactly how many toilet stops one person actually needs before a race (the answer is always one more than you think).

Then there’s the weather math; layer up so you can layer down, because it’s cold standing around at the start line but you know full well you’ll be sweating ten minutes in. Somehow you still end up either too hot or too cold. Every time.

The countdown

You get to the line, and there’s that one final moment of “wait, I think I need to go again”, right as the countdown starts. Three, two, one, Go.

And just like that, none of the morning’s panic matters anymore. It’s happening, and somehow, you’re fine.

The run

Once you’re past the crowd at the start and properly away, everything settles into its rhythm; Strava tracking, playlist blasting, the views doing exactly what they’re supposed to do. Check, check, check. Whatever distance you signed up for: 5, 10, 21, or the full 42,  there’s a stretch of course where the scenery does more for you than any training plan could.

Music gets you through a lot of it. But there’s a point in every run where music alone isn’t quite enough, and legs start asking questions. That’s when the crowd earns its place. And somewhere in amongst all the strangers cheering, you catch a face you actually know, someone yelling your name, genuinely thrilled to see you out there. It’s a small thing, but it does something to you. Right when you’re closest to walking, that one familiar voice is somehow enough to keep the legs moving.

The finish line

And then, the finish line. Medal around your neck, drink in hand, and that particular feeling that you officially don’t have to do anything else for the rest of the day. It might be the single most satisfying feeling going, earned, guilt-free, done.

In case you didn’t realise, I had total FOMO today. I didn’t run this one myself; my husband and son did, and they smashed it. I was cheering from the sidelines, and I will definitely be there next time.

 

If this makes you want to sign up for next year, that’s exactly the point, I’ve totally hyped myself up and I’m in. Anyone joining me?