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Those of you who are avid readers of this blog (No one is, not even my mother) will know of my previous injuries and the fact that only 2 years ago I could only manage 2-3 5k runs per week or my body utterly broke down. However, things had been going better and like most of my wild ideas, it seemed good at the time.
A couple of months later and training was going fantastic. On December the 3rd I ran 20 miles in 2:39 and actually felt good. There were no ill-effects (sore nipples aside) and I had a very minimal amount of soreness the next day. Then disaster.....
I spent 2 months ill, culminating in a really nasty flu that turned my lungs in to bags of cement.
A few weeks ago,when the after effects of the flu had settled and I was finally beginning to train reasonably again, I sat down to work out a schedule and see exactly what I had to do. Reality began to set in when I realised had 6 weeks to the marathon and I was running uncomfortable 10k's at best. Put simply, I needed to extend my long run each week by at least 20% each time. 11 miles.....13 miles....15 miles.....18 miles.....22 miles......marathon. Scary thought. I couldn't afford any more set backs at all.
Even the bubble monkey appeared in my bath and told me I was crazy
It didn't start well, my calves tightened up on every run. The calf problem never did go away and it prevented me from doing any interval or speed training. Anyway, to cut a long story short and to get on to the slightly less boring part, the training ebbed and flowed until my last long run before the marathon itself. I set out for 22 miles. At 16 miles I had vision problems- I could see flashing lights. No seriously. At 18 miles my legs told me they were giving up and we'd have to walk. I remonstrated with them and I managed to eke out some more running over the next 3 miles, but there was more walking than running. That was 9 days before the marathon.
Trying to stay positive I concluded that the terrible run had been caused by a combination of a temperature several degrees higher than I had run in for 6 months, causing me to sweat significantly for the first time this year, having only 3 days to recover from the mad mud run I had done and not having slept all that well or eaten very well for the few days before. Still it left me worried and lacking in confidence coming up to the marathon. The possibility of hitting 18 miles and not being able to run any further seemed a genuine concern.
Maybe Scott Jurek could give me some inspiration whilst I drank out of my Wetherby 10k mug?
The week leading up to the marathon found me distracted and restless. The excitement finally kicked in around Thursday (as opposed to the feeling of impending doom) and I began to count down the time to the run.
On Saturday I picked up my running buddy, Dom, from the train station. Dom always keeps me grounded with regards to my running by thrashing my times despite being 10 years my senior.
We headed out for a gentle jog down the canal and pleasingly, it was the first run that had felt good for a very long time. Burger and chips and a couple of pints of Guinness down the pub and we returned to my house.
We both felt like we needed an early night so I started to put together the gear that I would need for the morning. It was then I discovered I had lost my race pack. Cue an hour of frantic searching. But I knew it would be fruitless because there were only 2 places I would realistically have left it and on checking them first, the pack was nowhere to be found. The truth dawned: I must have thrown it out in a frenzied tidying session. To make it worse, I had paid for parking passes for Old Trafford and being the genius I am, I had put them in to the pack so I wouldn't lose them. Ah well, I knew people lost their numbers all the time, you turned up to the info desk and just get a new one. The parking pass may be more difficult, I had the email confirmation and knew the number of the space, I should be able to charm *cough* my way in.
We left Leeds at ridiculous o'clock knowing that queuing for the toilets before the race was pretty much inevitable and that I might have to queue for a new number too.
The M62 was quiet of course and we arrived in Trafford nice and early.....then we hit the road blocks. We could see old Trafford, but couldn't get to it. Why didn't I write out the instructions they had given to avoid the road blocks? How much more stupid could I be before this was all over? We started to take best guesses but kept being turned away. We were both beginning to get stressed.
Then Dom began to laugh....
"What?" I asked
"Wouldn't it be ironic if we couldn't get to the marathon because of the marathon?
"What, like....we wanted to do your marathon but we couldn't do it because of the marathon"
"Yeah, we couldn't get to the marathon because of the marathon being in the way of the marathon"
Well, maybe you had to be there.
The marshals waved vaguely in the direction of car park N1 and we kept going. There were signposts for every other car park - N2, N3, N4, W1, W2, but we couldn't spot N1. A marshal told us it was only a little further down on the left, so we kept going. Slowly it dawned that we had obviously missed it and if we turned back now we would hit all the traffic heading to the stadium. By now we were both pretty desperate for the loo. The decision was made to ditch the car ASAP, and that turned out to be in a dodgy £10 private car park. We seemingly had no choice. We never did find car park N1 and only actually saw one sign for it which was on the pedestrian walkway at the stadium! The car park remained within the Old Trafford Bermuda Triangle, the same place where Manchester United keep things like fair play and player's maturity.
The route march to the race village did nothing for our bursting, bouncing bladders and neither did the fear that we would be met with the usual huge queues for the portaloos. Luckily, when we got there, we arrived at a small set of portaloos that had a very short queue and got in quickly. If we had found the main bank of loos, we'd probably still be waiting in the queue now contemplating contacting Norris McWirter about the largest bladder in the world record.
There was no queue at the info desk either and I quickly picked up a new number with integrated timing chip. It left us plenty of time to find the start line, which is a good thing as the signposting to it was non-existent and more cheery, vague waving from the friendly and helpful marshals, nor the map, helped. By following the magnets in my head for a while and more waving from the marshals I arrived at the start line just after the 8:30 deadline to line up, to find it almost deserted. Seems like no one was in a huge hurry to get there. Someone who clearly isn't being paid enough, had thought to put more portaloos there and it seemed rude not to line up and use them again, especially as nerves and the cold weren't helping. It was pretty chilly. The temperature was perfect for a marathon though and over-cast too.
The replacement number. The chip is a small strip on the back
Dom was aiming for a sub 3:15 time and my aim was a more modest sub 3:30. There were pacers on the course and we lined up next to the relevant one, Dom in front of me, obv.
This being my first marathon, I had no real idea what was going to happen. My last long run suggested there was a very real possibility that I would blow up some time after 18 miles. We would have to see. I knew I had the fitness for this, but my muscles, well, they were another story.
With much ado, finally we set off, only being able to tell when we started by the timing mats as there seemed to be no official "start" banner. For some reason, I settled in with the 3:15 pacer, instead of the 3:30. I had plenty of time to contemplate on this odd and spontaneous decision, but I felt good, and the pace was comfortably within my range.
I remembering feeling some slight discomfort across the top of my left foot, it didn't last long before it disappeared and was replaced by discomfort under my right foot. Both totally new pains I had never had before. They soon disappeared though. Probably race day nerves.
Over the next few miles I got in to 2 long conversations with other runners in the 3:15 pack. The distraction was very welcome and the miles passed in a flash. The timing car flew past in the opposite direction followed sometime after by the leading runners, which we all gave a cheer to. I always enjoy seeing the leaders pass by on the other side.
Along side me a runner in a club vest was giving a shout out to each of his team members that shot away on the other side of the road "Go on Bob!" "That's it Dave, you can do it!" "Great running Ian!"
After he'd shouted to about 8 runners, I made the observation that all his mates seemed to be much faster than him. He laughed and said everyone was. "Not me" I said, before he started to pull away in to the distance. He was at least 15 years my senior...
Before I knew it we were approaching the half way point at Altrincham. Just before we ran the small loop around the village centre we went over the biggest "hill" on the route, which was, in fact, a small fly over. It was at this point that Dom passed me. Not from behind.....from in front, coming from the opposite direction and he was truly flying. He was so far "In the zone" that it took a second much louder shout before he noticed me. Then he was gone, like a bolt of, well....Usain.
The crowds in Altrincham were absolutely fantastic, seemingly every resident had turned out, and they were really making some noise. They had formed a Tour De France-esque tunnel for the runners to pass through and it was a wonderful boost. Someone was holding up a sign "Keep calm and run a marathon" Made me chuckle anyway.
In the village I spotted 2 women dancing in the street waving their "booties" in to the race route. I lined up pretending that I was going to spank the nearer one and her friend behind spotted me and began to laugh Then I realised that the 2 women were actually school teachers conducting a choir of small children singing. I quickly decided my joke was inappropriate and dropped my hand sharpish! The choir was a fantastic touch and I am sure that every runner appreciated it just as much as I did.
Here's a video of the kids and the booty:
I passed the half marathon point in 1:35 and in great shape. I felt good. The pace still felt easy. I had no aches or pains. It would be sometime before the wheels started to wobble.
We ran down a long leafy avenue where people had come down to the end of their drives to cheer us along, some had even dragged stereos down to play us along. It all helped immensely. At times I was running with a huge grin on my face.
The funniest event of the day happened at this point. A woman had been running along in the 3:15 group, she was short and stocky and amazingly determined. She had already had to run off the course once to use the loos and had done very well to catch us again. Just after Altrincham, she announced she needed to go again.
Suddenly she peeled off the road and began sprinting up the path of a private house. The door to the house was open and 2 spectators were standing in the garden. "I need the loo!!" She shouted. "Oh yes, up there!!" they replied and split apart to let her run in to their house! Full marks to the runner for the chutzpah to sprint in to a private house and full marks for the spectators to defer so reverentially to a manic looking woman charging down their path demanding a toilet. After her loo stop she managed to catch us up again, but I think chasing the pack down twice took its toll and she faded badly before the end. I imagine she probably finished inside 3:30 though.
The kilometres started to tick off more slowly on my watch, where the first 20 or so had flown by, sometimes 2 or 3 at a time. At some point there was a bit of comic relief when a runner casually answered his phone whilst not breaking stride, "Yeah, it's going ok. I'll be back in about an hour and a half"
Everyone around chuckled at the blasé attitude of the runner. I decided to impersonate Dom Jolly....
"HELLO! HELLO! I'M DOING A MARATHON......NO, A MARATHON...... MANCHESTER....... NO, MANCHESTER..........NAH, IT'S RUBBISH"
It earned me a big laugh and helped to distracted from the gathering aches.
From somewhere around 10 miles I had been slowly pulling away from the 3:15 pacer and at one point I had looked around and couldn't see him. I started to fantasise about running the 3:10 "Good for age" London qualifying time (Which has since been changed to 3:05, but I didn't know that at the time) It would remain firmly in fantasy land.
At some point I started to slow and I am not sure how long it had been going on for before I realised it. It was around the 18 mile mark. I looked back and not only had the 3:15 pacer caught me, he was practically on my shoulder. It wasn't long before the pack caught me up and I dropped in to step. It felt good to run in the group and helped keep me going for a while.
"10k to go!! Just 10k" The pacer announced.
It's a fatal thought because 10k seems easy. How often have I run 10k? Dozens and dozens of times. The thought plays with your mind; and I was beginning to struggle. The group started to gee each other along. A spectator shouted out "Looking good 3:15 group!"
"I'm not f***ing feeling it!" I mumbled. The pacer turned to me and said, "Dig in for a mile and it'll come back, you're doing great." His words really helped and I dug in like a Seamus Heaney poem. (Apologies for the obscure joke, it made me laugh)
"Just a 5 mile recovery run to go!" The pacer joked.
My legs had begun to feel like Beyonce's arse, heavy and wobbly. The pacer kept turning around to see if I was keeping up, but around the third time, I wasn't. There were 4 miles still to go. The wall loomed large, high and impenetrable in front of me. The next mile went down with the pacer still in view, but pulling away. My pace had slowed and I tried to do the mental arithmetic in my head. The pacer would probably finish in 3:13 or 3:14, if I could just keep him in sight for a little while longer, I could still go under 3:15.
But now it was becoming harder and harder. Never having eaten anything during a run, ever, I was reluctant to take any jelly babies or the energy gels they were handing out and decided before the race that I would only eat them if I was really struggling. Dom had told me the night before what a boost they had given him in the past and by this time I was willing to try anything. I grabbed a couple of jelly babies. Nothing. A gel. Nothing. An energy jelly bar thingy. Nothing. But at least they didn't upset my stomach.
All of a sudden the wall was 2 inches from my nose and impossible to avoid and I smashed head-long in to it. I had exhausted every distraction and relaxation technique I had ever read about that my addled brain could still recall. I had sung Kings of Leon's "The face" over and over again in my head including chanting the line "Riiiiide out the wave" as a mantra.
But all to no avail now. I had passed 22 miles and the whole way my pace had remained steady at 4:34 min/k, now I had dropped down to over 5 min/k. My mind announced to me that I could walk from here and still go under 3:30 and I would have achieved my target. But if I walked, then I wouldn't have run a marathon. I've walked the distance many times, none of those counted as a marathon.
Then my legs stopped. Involuntarily. I was walking. I began beating myself up. Then again, almost involuntarily, they started running again. I had walked less than 50m. I just needed to keep moving, it didn't matter if I was slow. Here's my last 15 kilometres:
Kilometre 39 came down to 5:34, my slowest yet. Then a bright, shining beacon appeared in my head. A thought that would save me, that would keep me moving until the end. It was simple, and it was beautiful.
This is only pain.
I know that sounds ridiculous, but that was it. I hadn't taxed my heart and lungs at all during the race. My breathing had stayed steady and slow and even. I mentally prodded down my body and found only a bad, aching pain in my legs. And that was all. The sports massages I have are ten times more painful. Granted, it's just one muscles at a time during those, but they went on half an hour, I only had 15 minutes to go.
A chubby guy stepped out of the crowd. He could obviously tell that I was struggling badly. I was moving very slowly considering where I was in the race. He stared me down with fists clenched, red in the face and gave me a rousing passionate speech that I can't remember at all. "Come on! dig in, you've got it" or words to that effect. In equal measures I wanted to hug him and punch him. Either way I appreciated the effort he was going to and the fierceness with which he delivered his pep-talk.
I managed to pick the pace back up a little for Ks 40 and 41, and at some point, Old Trafford came in to view. I could see the giant exo-skeleton attached to the back of the stand. I told myself not to get excited, that it was a huge stand and still some distance away, and just as I was thinking that, the crowd suddenly thickened. It actually was the end. The crowd had come in close again forming a tunnel. The noise they were making seemed huge. I heard a runner give a shout in front of me and the crowd responded with a cheer.
I saw the finish line in the distance and I thought I could do with a cheer like that to get me through.
"Come on!!" I implored the crowd and they gave a huge cheer in response. "Come on!!" I shouted again, the crowd cheered again and suddenly I was sprinting. "Come on!!" the crowd responded yet again (Yes, I was that idiot)
Imagine my annoyance when someone stole my guitar, right out of my hands, mid-song.
I crossed the line in 3 hours 17 minutes and 45 seconds running faster than I had at any other point. It just goes to show the power of the mind and a decent crowd. I was awash with exhaustion and my legs barely wanted to carry on walking, but I could see the medals hanging off the arm of a marshal. They were huge, comically so (It turns out they are based on the London 2012 Olympic medals) One wag posted a picture of it being used as a coaster for his pint glass after the race
The medal as compared to the 2012 Great North Run medal. Told you it was huge!
I dislike it when you have earned a medal and it isn't placed around your neck and you have to pick it out of the goody bag, so I was pleased to bow and have the dinner plate ceremoniously hung on me. The medal, though a little larger than I would have personally chosen, is a fantastic design and looks great. The t shirt in the finisher's pack is the best race t shirt I've ever received too.
My result.
The t shirt and medal. But you'd already guessed that, right?
I sculled down the post-race water bottle and grabbed a banana and a tasty clif bar. Dom was waiting for me at the finish and he congratulated me. "You went under 3 hours didn't you, you bitch?" I said. And he had. 2:55 in fact. We had both smashed our expectations and what's more, Dom had gone way under the automatic qualifying time for all the marathon majors.
I made my way gingerly to the baggage pick up, sore, but happy. Dom was practically crippled. I may have more desire than the average person, but Dom's desire is so huge he cripples himself for his times.
He told me about a "bitch" called Sarah he had been determined to beat. Sarah isn't a bitch at all of course, and we don't know her, but that's one of the ways Dom spurs himself on during a race, by targeting runners in front of him and chasing them down, as he did with Sarah.
The nearest bar we could find was in a premier inn where we met the world's worst bar maid who was rude, distracted and incredibly slow, but all these things just served to amuse us in our post race euphoria. We told each other the stories of our races and deconstructed them. Half an hour later, my legs came back to life and we made our way back to the car.
It was definitely flat
Post race analysis:
If you'd offered me a sub 3:30 time before the race I would have torn your arm off, but ridiculously, my expectations had changed during the race. I had kept with the 3:15 pace for 22 miles, so to not finish with them was disappointing. Although it's silly to be disappointed, it's also one of the things about me that inspires my training and urges me to faster times, so I am not going to work to change that trait any time soon. All in all I am very happy for my first marathon. Although I did blow up before the end, it wasn't totally disastrous and I did keep moving. I now have a marathon time I can be proud of and the elusive medal I have wanted and have chased for the last few years, only recently believing I could actually do it.
Post race damage report:
Very pleasingly, pretty much none. No blisters or hot spots on my feet at all. My legs were mildly sore for a couple of days and on Wednesday I completed a 6k recovery run comfortably. Yesterday (8 days after the marathon) I broke my 5k PB, so all in all, things are currently going great. *Pats head to ensure wood is touched*
Karl Pilkington looked pretty good finishing in front of me*
PS. Expensive nip guards at £10+ per pack?........ Corn plasters for £1.69 (The ones that are a small ring of foam) work just as well!
*That's not really Karl Pilkington, but that really is me gurning like a good-un
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