The air is electric. It is cool still, the summer heat yet to rise, and it seems to crackle, electric and alive. Thousands of people press eagerly together, straining to see the road ahead.

Somewhere in the distance the heavy base of a sound system pulses like the drums of war.

You are alone, focused in the crowd, your first time. Part of you would like someone beside you, someone talking too fast, adjusting their hair and their expectations. Making predictions, offering advice. You can hear all this and more going on in the shoals of people, crammed together. All around you people are laughing, limbering, snapping selfies.

The wait continues. The pressure rises.

Then the crowd surges forward. It’s happening. It’s now. Your heart rate spikes but you breathe and pull it back. You see the onlookers ahead, watching, cheering. Cheering for you. Part of you bats away a trace of fear.

The surge speeds up, you speed up with it. You cross the start line in a flurry of electric beeps and you add your own beep to the chorus. The war drums pound in your ears, the crowd is roaring, you are carried along weightless on the drama of the moment.

You scan the onlookers for faces you know but they are just a blank sea. A man shoulders past you then blocks your path, stopping your progress. You try to pass him but the road is too narrow and he is determined. You grit your teeth then use a traffic island to your advantage and slip past. He grimaces, but stays put.

Four girls in purple tutus run abreast each with a different name across her t-shirt. I’m running for Joey. I’m running for Ann.

The road widens, the race spreads to fill it, a vibrant sea of colour. Costumes and slogans and funny hats. Running to beat cancer, to save the rainforest, to help the dogs home. People call out, teasing, complimenting, laughing.

At the first hill people start to turn inwards, to lock in. Some walk, but you push on. You grab water from a frantic volunteer. You can see that the enormity of the task ahead is beginning to dawn on everyone. Someone sinks to the ground near the pavement. The first cramp of the race.

Twelve kilometres in. You are going steady but you are beginning to feel it. The onlookers are enthusiastic, but beginning to wilt. Somewhere ahead you hear a samba band. You don’t look at your watch. You know the hardest bit is still to come. The sun is high. A crust of sweat and sun cream crackles across your cheeks.

Eighteen kilometres behind you. That final hill ahead. Someone is playing Lady Gaga on a thousand saxophones.

Halfway up the hill you fail. It’s no good; you have to walk and your heart sinks. Then - a hand on your shoulder. Come on, it’s not far, just run really slowly.

And somehow you do. Somehow you’re at the top of the hill, a wonky smile plastered across your face. And the saxophones are playing Britney and you are flying down, mind and feet freewheeling, the struggle forgotten.

You sail across the finish. A photographer snaps you, sore and florid and joyful. You collect your well-earned banana. It is done.