My First Fun Run
August 8, 2004
“Just get to the blue tennis courts.”
Sydney, Australia’s City2Surf, a 14km course from the city to — you guessed it — the surf of Bondi Beach, is billed as the “World’s largest fun run”. It’s a cold “winter” morning (maybe 10 degrees Celsius) and I’m waiting in my corral with 65,000 others for the starter’s gun to go off. It’s my first fun run — my first organised run of any kind — and although I feel good I also feel like I have no idea what I’m doing or what to expect. Someone is eating what looks like brown toothpaste from a small packet. I’m feeling extremely naive. Everyone around me looks very confident and like they have much better shoes.
I also remember that it wasn’t that long ago that I disliked even the idea of running.
Growing up in Canada I had always been a pretty good athlete. From when I was a kid to my mid-20s I had focused mainly on baseball and basketball, and I’m proud to say that just about anything I tried I was pretty good at too: hockey, soccer, tennis, volleyball — whatever. But there was something about running — just running — that did not appeal at all. No ball, no teammates, just solitude? There was also something smug and condescending that runners gave off. I’m not sure where that came from, but it made sure that even with my athleticism and endurance I never even considered “going for a run”. I mean, why?
Let’s go back a year, to 2003. I’m 32, working completely ridiculous hours in film & TV, and my wife Justine & I are moving into serious adulting and planning for kids. I have now been talking about getting back into basketball for a very long time and doing nothing about it. For the first time in my life, I’m looking and feeling out of shape. It just so happens that also for the first time in my life I have a friend who is an avid runner.
Damian, the husband of my wife’s best friend who naturally became my friend, had run the City2Surf many times. I sniffed — whatever. Damian paused his runs when his son was a toddler and invited me to join him and his boy to watch the start of the 2003 City2Surf. Watching was his way of staying involved.
I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. The sun had just risen as we stood about 500 meters up William Street from the start line in this quiet, anticipatory tension. I heard the starter’s gun in the distance and then watched as tens of thousands of runners headed straight for us. The street was bursting with runners — men, women, kids, people in costumes — it was like every runner on earth was in Sydney, streaming past, at that moment.
It was difficult to rest your gaze on anyone for more than a split second before a new character stole your attention away. Add helicopters, music, cheering — and camaraderie. I had a real moment that morning, a complete reversal on everything I thought I knew about running and it was clear to me how this fun run had become a Sydney icon.
It was then when we left, had breakfast for an hour or so, returned to the same spot and could still see runners crossing the start line that I realised the enormity of it all. It looked like it might even be…fun?
Then, Damian planted the seed.
“Mate — you know, you could do this. You should run next year. You’ll love it.”
There was something about how he said it (Damian’s in marketing) that gave me confidence, and it must have stuck with me. A few months later Justine & I were now expecting our first child (!), and probably in a soon-to-be-new-Dad panic and a general out-of-shape malaise, I thought again to that chilly yet warm morning on William Street, looked down at my growing beer gut and thought, dammit I’m going to do it. I decided I would run the City2Surf, in 2004. 14km or bust.
Now what? My first attempt at a training run was, in a word, pathetic. I decided to take it easy on myself and run to a ferry wharf near my apartment, and back. Looking at a map I guessed it at just under 2km total, so it felt safe. I ran there — but barely. I was winded, had a stitch and was sore. I walked back, feeling very useless. I should mention I hadn’t told my plans to Damian or anyone else, in case this was also my last run, ever.
But, I’m stubborn and don’t like to lose. I also started drawing on our upcoming baby for some inspiration, of making him (or her) proud of their Dad. I liked that idea, so the next evening I ran to the same wharf again, and this time ran the whole way there and back. I didn’t drop dead. A few nights later I ran past the wharf and around my neighbourhood. A few nights later I ran around my neighbourhood — twice — and realised that skate shoes were really awful to run in. I picked up some proper Adidas I found on sale, and a few nights later I ran up and across the Sydney Harbour Bridge and back. After a month or so I was running from my apartment, across the bridge, around the Opera House and back with ease. It was about a 7km round trip and I was hooked. I felt like I’d been let into a secret world, and half the fun was revealing my secret, and reporting my progress. Damian, as always, was a plethora of positive reinforcement.
“Mate — with the distance you’re doing, you’ll nail the City2Surf!”
I was still unsure.
It’s amazing how quickly the time flies when you have momentous goals ahead of you. Five months to go quickly became two weeks left; running in the punishing heat and humidity of summer now seemed many kilometres away. My run around the Opera House and back had become basic — enjoyable — and I even stretched it out a few kilometres or so. I was buoyed by running so many hills (you can’t run anywhere in Sydney without running up a hill), not being in any pain, and oh yes — I was going to be a Dad very, very soon.
By the beginning of August, with Damian’s help I had mapped out my race day morning routine, and — assuming I would finish — my plan to get out of Bondi while almost 70,000 were doing the same. He was almost as excited as I was nervous.
That nervousness was entirely rooted in a fear of humiliating myself. I was desperate to hear more first-person accounts of what I was in for, and like so many of us in times of stress, I Googled it. I found a discussion board with all kinds of tips & tricks, but one, in particular, stood out:
“Just get to the blue tennis courts. If you get to the blue tennis courts at Rose Bay and feel fine — you’ll be fine the rest of the way.”
I lived north of the Harbour Bridge, and in Sydney terms, that’s nowhere near Rose Bay. I didn’t know the blue tennis courts, and couldn’t remember even seeing them. It wasn’t even a tip or a trick, really — but it was something, as a complete newbie, to go for. This was going to be my goal. No time, no pace — just survival. For my unborn child. Get to those damn blue tennis courts or die trying.
Race day, again. It’s now about 7:45 am, but I’m not entirely sure as I don’t have my phone, just a credit card tucked into a sock, as per Damian’s suggestion. People are starting to shed layers and throwing them to the sides of the course, hitting as many fellow runners as not. We must be about to start. The crowd is now moving towards the start line and it’s impossible to not go with the flow. We’re starting — have I missed the gun? Looking down at my feet and I see I’m crossing the start line. How have I missed the gun? Looking up I see the exact reverse view from last year. I’m in the sea, part of the waves, and if we weren’t floating along so well it might be too claustrophobic for comfort.
My plan was to go slow for at least the first few kilometres, but I’m being swept along at a slightly faster pace. At the end of William Street, we enter a tunnel and I’m surprised to hear people yelling and cheering, I guess to hear the echoes? Either way, it sounds like a waste of energy — something I’m carefully hanging on to every ounce of.
Through Rushcutters Bay — 2km in — and up the first big hill at Edgecliff and I’m feeling great. This is nothing like running all alone, at night. I’m feeling the energy of the other runners and the cheering crowds, and I feel like I trained for this. Now a downhill into Double Bay, and there’s a Beatles cover band on the roof of the Sheaf pub. This is a lot of fun. 4km in and I start to run a little faster.
The crowd is still very thick and I’ve noticed a couple of people trip and fall on curbs hidden under so many people. My instinct is to stop and help, but I can’t stop. I pass a marching band and DJ (with decks), and after a big right turn next thing I know I’m entering Rose Bay, which is at the 5km mark, on a long flat next to a seaplane…seaport?
I’m getting close to the blue tennis courts, and after all that build up, it’s very anti-climactic — but in many ways, I’m glad that it is. 6km in, there they are, on my left, and I feel fantastic. I feel like I’m supposed to be here. I know I’m going to be fine the rest of the way, even with the biggest challenge of the course coming up next.
That challenge is one of the most talked about, infamous spots of the City2Surf: Heartbreak Hill. I had Googled it as well but didn’t want to dwell on it and that’s why there’s been no mention here so far. It’s a 2km long rise that spooks most runners with a deceptive flat just in front of the “elite” girl’s school Kambala. Some runners get tricked and are unaware that there’s still plenty of hill (and heartbreak) to go.
I think this is where I discovered how much of running is actually mental. I decided to have a conversation with my unborn child to get me up the hill, and I did just that. How they were, if they were proud of their Dad — maybe one day we could run the City2Surf together?
I liked that best of all. The idea that in a few years my boy or girl could run with me. Or me with them. I started getting tears in my eyes. Heartbreak Hill didn’t stand a chance against those goosebumps.
By the time I reached the top — and the well-placed water stations — I was at 8km, now just over halfway. The word is that most runners take more than 10 minutes to conquer Heartbreak Hill, but I have no idea how I did. I do know that for the last few kilometres — including the Hill — I’ve started passing a lot of people.
Except for a couple of short rises in Dover Heights, the rest of the way is almost all downhill. Between 10 and 11km the runners and bands have thinned out a bit and I feel like I might on pace for a pretty good time. I remember one final piece of advice from Damian: running downhill can be deceptively difficult, and as usual, he’s right. I have a quick chat with my baby about this part too. Dad finished strong.
There’s a rise somewhere around the golf course at North Bondi where you get your first good glimpse of Bondi Beach. The waves, the sun warming up the sand — the finish line — and that was enough for me. I had plenty in the tank and once I took the right-hand turn where Military Road becomes Campbell Parade and passed 13km, I pretty much started sprinting.
There was time for one more rookie mistake though, as runners have to run past the finish line about a half a kilometre and then switch back. Yes, it’s only a half kilometre, but seeing the finish line get closer, then further away was very tough, mentally.
As I got through it, I could hear the cheering and announcements as I entered the final 200 meters. I ran as fast as I possibly could, fuelled by this incredible rush of energy, and couldn’t stop grinning. The sweaty hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I was passing everyone as I crossed the finish line, arms in the air.
14km. I did it.
Through the contributions of Damian, Google, conversations with an unborn child, and my own stubborn refusal to look like a fool — I did it.
The whole process of getting my race medal to finding the buses back to the city and making my way home to my heavily pregnant wife is a blur. I was so happy and had such an incredible sense of accomplishment — and could not wipe a stupid grin off my face. There was no pain, no aches, just joy. I felt like I could do anything — including raising a child. Finishing my first real run was that powerful, and I wanted to do it all again.
I had never run that far in my life. Checking my phone for the race text message I saw my final time was 1 hour, 12 minutes. I felt like I just set a world record.
Five weeks later, we had a baby boy. And you know what? That’s not even the best part.
The best part? Exactly ten years and two days later.
This.
That’s me, in the orange shirt and shoes. In the yellow shirt is Benjamin Fedirchuk, age 9.
Have you ever cried while running?
The author can be reached at davidfedirchuk@gmail.com
