An uneducated report

In his latest work, the 2015 Edition of the Bupa London 10000, Daniel, who dares just refer to himself an athlete, tackled his lack of natural athleticism and raw pace in an event which often rewards those very talents in which he is not gifted.  In a culture where physical stature is often advantageous, here he applies his diminutive size as a strength. Daniel’s drugs are not the condemned EPO or ‘blood bags’, but the elusive search for 'satisfaction', 'endorphins' and a sense of self-worth which he can only achieve by pushing himself beyond his limits.

Daniel’s entire existence is an undiluted expression of his individuality, but his true agency is his endurance. The willingness to push on and never give in. Here we experienced first hand his draconian thought process: the single-minded battle of resolve against his Central Governor. Were we witness to a revolution of sorts? Could it be that Daniel is our unlikely hero who rose above his limitations to facilitate inspiration for each and every one of us?

Life is often not fair, a fact which Daniel knows better than many and perhaps his grunt at the seventh marker, his foible audible only to the trained ear was a recognition of this?  To the outward observer there was no change in his demeanor: his cadence still his primary discourse, the three stripes on his black shorts presumably representing his chosen stride per second-rate, covering but a fraction of ground with each power-less step akin to his cartoon heroes.

Nevertheless our hero persevered, eager to inspire in this extempore role.  By the time Daniel was level with the ninth marker, he was at one with his body and his limitations.  To the casual observer, the untrained eye, Daniel correctly selected his route and navigated the turn onto the long road of truth.  The final one-kilometre drag was anything but for Daniel as he grew and grew in confidence.  Relative glory awaited him.  

Without a second thought he seized his moment in history. It was not the raised-arm salute of his heroes of the past, or the Mobotic gestures of the younger generation with which Daniel gifted the crowd at the line of celebration.  The reward to his entourage: an idiomatic grimace and gallant reach for the stop button of his watch, suggesting that perhaps the finish line of this challenge has been mistakenly named by this author.

Behind from the gun, the 32:31 demonstration which he covet on the battlefield today may be a personal triumph, but is merely a drop in the ocean of average performances on the world-class stage. For Daniel’s performance was indeed a metaphor for the struggles which we all endure on a day to day basis in the dichotomy of 21st century Britain: in a post-austerity society in which graft and perseverance provide the biggest individual prizes, but are perceived as insignificant on the grander scale.

In a cruel twist of plot, despite achieving what he set out to do, Daniel must now deal with his own raised standards and shifting expectations. Daniel's greatest prize is also his curse.  Will tonight’s bicycle ride be one of punishment or an identical one of celebration?

But our hero will be back, of that one can be sure.

Not quite as I imagined...

I blogged in January that I wanted a different challenge: I wanted to win some races not worry about times. The opportunity to run Worcester Marathon fitted the bill perfectly...it was local, non-flat and looking at the previous results potentially winnable.

I imagined the ending of this race a hundred times in preparation. Each time I was like a gazelle, accelerating into the final miles, flying along the road so strong and effortlessly, my stride eating up the remaining metres. I imagined bursting on to the final canal section taking the corners so tightly that people would gasp. I imagined turning towards the rugby stadium in full view of the cheering crowd, perhaps a neck and neck race, myself the stronger, able to deal with any challenge and holding my line, not letting anyone come past me. And perhaps even a dramatic sprint, with me a dominant runner, leg speed unhampered by the miles they had eaten up already, crossing the line arms aloft, the course record disintegrated. Worcester was my local race; I'd trained the route in parts dozens of times, hard, easy. I knew every hill inside out. It made my visualisation even more realistic. I might win a marathon. And I would do it in style. Invincible.

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I did win the 2015 Worcester Marathon. But it wasn't a bit like I imagined it would be. That's probably inevitable...a race, especially one of 26.2 miles could play out a thousand different ways.

On the day it was blowing a gale - a wind that somehow was always hampering whichever direction I ran. I decided to stick to the plan - aim for the course record (2:39:58) which was realistic even in unfavourable conditions. With the help of selfless club mates Dan and Kevin I ticked off mile after mile at six minute averages. I felt strong, my breathing unhampered.

Until Mile 21: well within the required pace my legs started to weaken. I turned into yet another headwind which would last until the finish, and finally the hills which had come at me again and again began to win. As I approached the brow of the latest incline my legs went. My hamstrings locked up. I could just barely move them. It was like I stalled, there and then. My splits began to rise. A couple of 6:20's, which was still fine, but before I knew it from low 6's I scored a 6:56 and then something over 7. This was ridiculous. I later found out that I had a six minute lead at 19 miles. At my new pace this was evaporating sharply.

It's one of those experiences where you look back and think 'why didn't I just run a little quicker?' At the time I thought this too. 'Why not go a little quicker, just a little, come on.' I think it now too. But anyone who has been in this scenario, when your legs have failed you, knows that you just can't. It sounds ridiculous, but mid 7 minute miles was the best I could manage. I tried increasing the cadence, I tried ignoring the burn of each step. Nothing worked. I just had to dig in. I tried not to look back. It seemed ridiculous that anyone wouldn't catch me now. Mile 25 albeit uphill into a headwind (not unlike most other miles) clocked in at a comical 7:45.

Mile 26, the reverse of mile 1, was downhill so should have been much easier, but to add to the hilarity, post race garmin analysis recorded It as 7:28. How?! Mile 1 had been jogged in a relaxed 6:26, fresh as a daisy, uphill.

So in contrast to how I imagined I found myself limping along the canal wobbling, barely moving. Moving my arms seemed pointless as my legs weren't going anywhere anyway. The support was pretty decent, but I couldn't imagine why they were mistaking me for the marathon leader though, did they not expect that he would be strong and impressive? I turned towards the stadium and lapped a half marathon runner who generously offered encouragement but I wasn't moving much faster than they. I was almost past caring about whether I won or not; I wanted it more than anything to be over. I was surely just seconds away from being caught, and now it was going to be embarrassing - in front of my friends and girlfriend. But another stolen look disagreed.

Somehow, somehow as I moved into the final 150m there was still no challenge. I mustered a small surge in a desperate attempt to get to the line. I must have been so slow that the commentators confused me for just another half marathon finisher. They hadn't even realised that the marathon had just been won. I didn't blame them.

As a result of a gentleman's 24 minute final 5k, my once-6 minute lead ended up as a 19 second winning margin and presented itself as me draped over the side of a metal hoarding before coiling into a ball on the floor.  On a day when I could have run a more conservative race to a more comfortable win I decided to go for a course record. I didn't get it, not in those conditions, but I hung on and I'll give myself credit for that. As immobile as I was, and as much of that 6 minute lead as I gave away, I got what I wanted:

I am the winner of the Worcester Marathon 2015.

Champion.

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It would be remiss of me not to mention all those who helped and supported. Trusted right-hand man Dan Robinson who selflessly ran with me for 16 miles before hanging on to finish third himself. And Kevin who did the same before separating at 11 miles to complete the half marathon in a strong time given the course and conditions, unlucky not to PB.

Ally and Matt, who cycled around the course offering support, encouragement and strength at half a dozen points. Rebecca who did likewise, only without a bike. And of course the beautiful Ellie who clocked an impressive result in the half marathon herself before being there to see me finish and take my crown.

Incentive Enough?

Despite finding an embarrassing note I've discovered from myself to myself written in 2007 where I claimed that my goal was to win the Sheffield Half Marathon in 65 minutes, I am lucky enough (or maybe luck doesn't come into it) over the last 18 months to have achieved all of my wildest of targets.

I have surpassed my modest athletic, time-based obsessive goals which in my eyes would validate me as a runner, to the point where the last 3 PBs that I collected this summer didn't provide the same sense of invigoration or self-satisfaction as I expected.

Equally, the idea of subjecting myself to further training when I have opportunities to explore other things just to get a handful of seconds quicker doesn't cut it for me. I've questioned whether I'm done in this sport.....have I lost the hunger?

I don't think this is the case. But I do think some lateral thinking is required to motivate me for my next challenge.Like when Mo Farah took his family across the Atlantic to train with Alberto Salazar, or when Ed Banks shocked the free world by announcing that he would be switching from imperial to metric units to record his training, I am proposing a change: At a time when I have entered a new decade of my existence which will rigorously and unkindly age my youthful body, I shall no longer primarily run for times.

So what does that mean?

I have 10 career first places to date, some more valuable to me than others. Racing for position (on the local scene obviously) seems like a very interesting goal for this next year. A form of running where I would no longer be choosing races or deploying tactics to achieve an optimum time, but instead responding to other runners, and trying to best my fellow competitors.This, for me, is the new goal, and as soon as I get over this latest bout of injury, I'll be at it.