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:
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.
