Run For Tuan Senang Besar -- It's Been 14 Years

Fourteen years ago, I received one of the hardest phone calls of my life. Moments after finishing Malaysia Hari Ini, I was told that my dear friend, Kharis -- known fondly among friends as Tuan Senang Besar -- had passed away. He had collapsed while jogging near the Kelana Jaya Stadium. Just hours earlier, at 5.52am, he had BBM-ed me. We were supposed to run the Putrajaya Night Marathon together that weekend. I remember staring at that last message in disbelief, barely accpeting that he was gone. Al-Fatihah, my friend.

In the days that followed, my emotions were all over the place. The event was still on, but I didn’t know if I had the heart to do it. Some friends encouraged me to run in his honour, and eventually, I decided to go for it: 10km for Allahyarham Kharis. We even began calling it “Run for Tuan Senang Besar.” It wasn’t an official campaign yet, just a spontaneous act of remembrance. That night, I pinned a tribute sign on the back of my running vest and headed to Putrajaya.

It almost didn’t happen. I left home late, got caught in road closures, and only reached the start area 20 minutes before the flag-off. No warm-up, no plan -- just the determination to run for a friend. Somewhere after the first kilometre, I was joined by Adit, one of Kharis’s closest friends, wearing a custom t-shirt made earlier that day. Throughout the run, strangers -- who I later realised were also Kharis’s friends -- came up to give a thumbs-up. Many were wearing their own tribute messages. It was a quiet, moving show of solidarity.

At around the 3km mark, my left leg started to cramp badly. Adit slowed down and we walked together, talking about Kharis and that final morning. He told me he might have been the first to get the news, while I was perhaps the last to receive a message from him. That hit me hard. Still, we pressed on -- jog, walk, talk -- until we reached the 6km point. A kind medic handed me some ice when I asked for Deep Heat. The sting of the cold eased the pain enough to keep going.

Along the way, another runner -- Kharis’s wife’s cousin -- introduced herself and took a photo of my sign. Little moments like that gave me strength. When my iPod finally read 10km but the finish line was still far ahead, I used a runner in bright Hawaiian shorts as my “target” and pushed through. The final stretch felt endless, but eventually, I crossed the line -- drenched, aching, and overwhelmed.

That night wasn’t about timing or personal bests. It was about friendship, grief, and keeping a promise. Kharis would have smiled, patted me on the back, and probably teased me about Liverpool’s form. Fourteen years on, I still think of him whenever I lace up my running shoes. Some runs are measured in kilometres -- others, in memories.