The final 4.3 miles.

There weren’t going to be any more miles starting with a ‘5’ now.  This was a survival exercise.  I emerged from the long underpass in the 24^th mile a different runner from the one that entered.  Going in, I was hurting, each step more painful than the last, but maintaining a respectable pace.  Now, I had slowed significantly.

I glanced at my watch.  Under 6:30/mile pace, but only just.  There was just too long to go.  My left calf - the one that I didn’t injure back in December and had been subject to less TLC over the last few months - cramped, before easing off, a pattern it enjoyed repeating.

I knew why all this was happening. It was my own fault.  I had broken just about every major marathon rule in my own way today, just like a rookie.  Don’t try anything in new in the days leading up to the race they say: but I had panicked when someone suggested eating more on the race morning, when after a huge bowl of pasta the night before I didn’t need to.  I knew in mile 1 that all of my food hadn’t digested, and the faint stitch stayed with me for the best part of 10k.  Don’t start too fast: well I didn’t. 18:04 at 5k, then 36:14 at 10k were within my goal, but when I stopped feeling like I had had an all-you-can-eat breakfast on the start line, I inadvertently sped up, led astray by runners around me.  The next two blocks of 5k were both sub-18 minutes, and lead me to a novice halfway split of 76:01.  I knew at that moment I had been an idiot.  I knew that despite immediately backing off and settling down, I was in for a long second half.

But it disintegrated much quicker than I expected, and by 15 miles I was worried.  At 16 I knew something was wrong.  My legs were heavy. So heavy.  I’d not experienced this before.  Was it the taper?  Was it the stupid early pace? It didn’t matter.  I had learnt at Ashby 20 that just because I feel bad one minute, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s permanent.  But by 18 miles I was desperately searching for a familiar face in the crowd, anxious for a cheap psychological lift.  25-30k was low 18 minutes again, as was 30-35k; miraculous since I was now running effectively on my own, into a headwind and with legs which felt like they had barely a mile left in them.  I wasn’t out of breath and seemed in no danger of bonking, which was my primary concern before the race, but these were mere consolations.  I was genuinely worried that I was going to struggle to finish.

So here I was at 22 miles. There were runners running the other way at around 14 miles into their experience.  I envied them.  I was hurting, and knew that anyone who looked at my face would know my game was up.  I stuffed my last gel down, threw away the packet and dug in.  I knew that Ellie and my sister would be just after mile 23, on the right hand side of the road.  That was what I needed right now.  It was survival: one mile at a time.  I added five minutes fifty to my 22-mile time, anxious to not drop pace too soon, and looked towards the next mile clock.

There it was.  As the road bent around, the sanctity of the mile 23 banner approached.   The clock came into focus and I starred at it unable for the life of me to remember the number I had calculated less than six minutes before.  Sod it.  It didn’t matter, there was still 20 minutes left, more if let it slip.  I locked my eyes on the roadside, and scanned the crowd for the faces of my loved ones, one by one. 

Mile 23 has a slight downhill, which maintained the illusion of keeping pace, although n reality I lost a minute over this next 5k alone.  But in reflection I know that I could easily have handed back chunks more, had I not been so mentally strong and convinced of my physical strength through months of hard training.  The truth is, a marathon hurts just the same whether you do it in 3:07 or in 2:37, it’s just over quicker. 

The wall of noise was phenomenal along the Embankment.  You could pick out all the voices encouraging you.  And at this pace and point of the race, there is no one else around: they are all cheering for you.    But what I wouldn’t have given for my friend and training partner Dan’s companionship right now.  I hadn’t seen him since mile 14 as he sped off, clearly having a blinder.  I thought about all the mental techniques I knew for getting through.  Paula Radcliffe’s ‘count to 100 steps’ came to mind.  So I started: ‘One…two….three…ah sod it that’s too much effort.’

Two miles to go.  My calf cramped again. Then again. Then spasmed.  ‘Shit,’ I thought.  ‘I need my leg to finish.’  I didn’t know what to do.  As I threw my left leg forward I tried to stretch my foot up.  Stretching on the move: it doesn’t work, ever.  My gait was all over the place.  ‘Keep going.’  It was agony.  Why was I doing this?  ‘You can do it,’ came one voice from the crowd. ‘I don’t wanna!’ I still don’t know if I screamed this out loud, or just in my head.  Possibly the former.  This was agony.

As I came into mile 25 I heard a familiar voice from the crowd on the left.  I wasn’t expecting anyone, but my uni friend and fellow athlete Nick ‘Nandos’ Howard was there with his camera.  For some reason it seemed absolutely essential to convey to him just how I was feeling.  I pulled my best grimace and shook my head.  I was embarrassed to be running at 6:27 a mile right now knowing that it was my pace just before halfway that had caused this. 

What seemed like only seconds later, a marshal calmly told me it was only 1k to go.  ‘Really?’ I thought. I know looking back that Nick and his girlfriend Nic had saved me.  They had distracted me long enough to get the final chunk of nasty distance done.  1k to go meant one thing: roughly 4 minutes left.  I looked at my watch and tried to add these numbers together.  I couldn’t work it out accurately enough.  At 800m I knew the maths would be simpler, and very exact.  I calculated it with surprising ease: there was 2:31:49 on the clock.  I needed to run 3:10, and glancing at my pace I knew I wasn’t currently fast enough.  I would fail.

I rallied, motivation renewed.  I still wasn’t out of breath, just running with dead legs.  Completely dead.  No lactate, just leaden.  600m. 400m.  I turned into the final straight passing a runner who had passed me not too long before.  He was barely moving, but I was.  200 metres to go.  According to the official stats, from 35k to the finish I passed 13 runners.  I don’t remember a single other one of them apart from the guy who I piped on the line to get the last available double digit finishing place.  I covered the last 800m in 2:57. 

The challenge of the marathon was over for today.  Dan and I had both achieved what we set out to do months ago, despite almost being derailed by a troublesome Achilles tendon before it had even started.  I ran sub 2:35 and finished in the top 100 at the greatest marathon in the world.  The dream day I was secretly hoping for may not have not materialised, but I am so proud of myself for the way I dug in, not just in the last 4.3 miles but in the last 8.3 when the day could have turned horrifically bad.  In the end Dan only finished 16 seconds ahead of me, despite being 45 seconds clear at one point.  My other training partner and friend Mark ran 2:43, a big PB, after an interrupted build up.

The challenge of the marathon was over for today, but I was about to embark on a new challenge.  I tried to stay upright and keep the contents of my stomach in.  I looked over at Dan being supported and walked by two marshals.  Then I glanced up the monstrous walk to the friends and family collection zone, lined with endless baggage lorries.  Another marathon was about to begin…

Sunday 13^th April 2014 wouldn’t have happened without many people.  Everyone single person who gave me a shout out on that course, many of whom I didn’t see but did hear their voices which made so much difference.  My gorgeous girlfriend Ellie who has put up with my anti-social running, injury worries, came down to support me, and found time to make Dan and I an amazing banner, despite a week of horrific on-call shifts.  My sister for putting me up, my housemates Rebecca, Sarah and Cat who came to London especially to support and made me feel like a celebrity.

I want to thank Bud Baldaro for his training over the last year, which has redefined me as a runner and helped me achieve the things I always set out to do and more.  And my training partners, who have made those horrible runs so much more fun. 

Dan gets his own special mention, for his endless motivation which came in so many forms. 

Finally I thank an old Yorkshire rival, Ben Beattie who I ran much of the second half with, before he pulled away from me and went onto clock an amazing PB for himself.

This has been such an experience, such an amazing experience.  And I’ve received such support and congratulations from so many people.  Thank you so much everyone. 

Stats:

2:34:47.

99^th overall.  (81^st in club and open race (excluding elites).)

5:54/mile average.

16 minute PB.

Mile 25, by Nick 'Nandos' Howard.

Sister Jo and Ellie, holding up her amazing banner.

Myself and beautiful Ellie, after I finally made it to the
friends and family 'claim your corpse area'.

Mark Ince, Ed Barlow, myself and Dan Robinson.
PBs all around.

News was clearly a little slow on
Monday morning.

Official result, excluding elites.

Goals as achievable targets: Act II

10,000m PB : 33:36 (May 2012)

I'm a big fan of setting medium term goals. Challenging but achievable targets that are far enough away that they allow for a few hiccups on the way, but near enough that you stay motivated.   A discussion with a housemate this week made me realise that these are what motivate me most, and that my current goals, with the exception of making it through an entire chocolate moose last night, are a bit loose. 

London Marathon 2010, BUCS 5k 2012. Those are just a couple of running goals that I have set myself previously. And in doing those I have achieved more in a short time than when I 'float' with an aim of 'to be able to run faster'. 

So in true November style, it seems fitting that I now find a new goal. One that I've had in mind for a while, but that I've decided to put a time scale on.  One that I've been motivated towards by the recent valiant efforts of my training partner.  My goal is to run 32:30 for 10k by September 2013. An improvement of 3.3%, 6.6 seconds per km, or to run 10k at my current 5k pace.  This should be highly dooable.  Why ever not?

This is a goal that if I achieve, I will feel like I've realised my potential as a runner. An achievement that will validate myself as a semi-decent runner and a coach in my own eyes. 

That is what I'm going to work towards these next 10 months.  This is what I'm going to achieve.

BUCS Outdoors Preview

Six months ago - and these winter months have not flown - I set myself a wee target: 15:50 for 5000m at BUCS Outdoors, a race that is now but six days away. 

I didn’t know at the time if it was achievable: I was working off no fitness whatsoever, and didn’t even know if I would get a place at the event, or if BCU had an athletics team.  For the record, they don’t, but the controversial selection process has let me with entry in both distance events.

For someone once described by their physio as having the running technique of a stroke victim, I have changed almost everything in the last six months.  I’ve addressed unsymmetrical biomechanics, an aversion to morning training, and even started incorporating extra fruit and veg in my diet.  I’ve even instigated a move away from the mighty Structure Triax shoe - the brick of shoes as my training companions call it - and purchased a rather colourful ‘Fastwitch’ shoe, the irony of which will become apparent on the start line.

Recent events, namely the selfishness of the Usain Bolt and his mates on the Jamaican National Team coming to Birmingham this summer means the local facilities are being resurfaced, depriving me of the reassurance of pacing in my sessions.  As such, I have literally no idea what shape I’m in, no idea how fast I can run this weekend.  The result will be as much of a surprise to me as everyone else, but it will truly be an Olympic occasion.

Halfway Horse

5000m goal : 15:50

5000m PB : 16:29.9

5k SB (post-Sept 2011) : 16:55 (xc split)

Far be it from good sense to, in typical BBC sport style, write a report on the outcome of a sporting event at the effective half time point, this is exactly what I’m going to do.  It’s three months since I set myself a six month 5k goal, so as the maths checks out, let’s proceed.

I am sitting wrapped up in bed keeping warm.  Yesterday was an immense day, based around the BUCS XC champs, featured a long trip to Cardiff and back with former teammate and superseded chief rival Sarah ‘The Snack’ McCormack.  Also included was a reunion with long-term nemesis Steven Bayton, (recently defected to France,) which has left me unable to walk properly (tight calves,) a curry and rooftop snowball fight with two fellow hat owners and a 40-point fantasy football point haul by Mister Robin Van Persie.

These champs were run in freezing temperatures, with snow falling all around, not too much of a problem, save for the ‘man off’ to see who would wear more than just the basic vest and shorts.  I confess to wearing gloves, and a wrist-based sweat band to increase my street cred/coolness.  The course was hard, literally.  It was frozen, rather than featuring the draconian hills that I like to see in a good XC.  No mud means no spikes to clean, and also means that I dropped my 5k SB once again to a time now beginning with 16.

In another moment of personal satisfaction, my 35 place improvement on my best ever BUCS put me between the 3^rd and 4^th Sheffield Uni runners, banishing the demons that haunted me following the event two years ago.

John Rocke, a man against boys, doesn't need gloves or eyes!

In reflection, the last three months have gone well.  I’m ahead of where I realistically expected to be, I’ve managed to complete almost every planned run, (except for the ones I forgot about), and I’ve managed to keep Chief Movement Coach Nick ‘Nando’s’ Howard somewhat motivated enough to use as a training partner as well.  Even Coach ‘Hannah’ Mitchell told me that she didn’t spot me in the race because I no longer wobble my head about.  The absence of post-race cream eggs this year was also keenly noted.

The six month plan itself, rumoured only to exist on parchment, 

written by quill. (Green = completed, orange = partially completed).

Next on the hit list, in five weeks time, is Trafford 10k, the mightiest of road races.  My 10k PB was set on this course 2 years ago, and I haven’t been able to break it since, despite obvious improvements.  However with yesterday’s XC time for the 10k (garmin measured course) coming home inside of (well, exactly) 34:20, it’s already an improvement on last year’s best time, set at this very road race.  Complacency is not an option, simple maths will tell you that a big chunk of time needs to fall for me to stand a realistic chance of hitting this summer’s target.

For now, 2012 is defined by: Bayton 1 – 0 Carter.

Goals as achievable targets

5000m PB : 16:29.9

5k SB (post-Sept 2011) : 18:30 (training split)

Just under 6 months to go until BUCS 5000m.  Plenty of time?  Seeing me sit here in my birthday Onesie you might be forgiven for thinking so.  In all my time as a pseudo-athlete you’d think I’d have learnt to manage my expectations.  Goals are just numbers, but it’s too easy to pick one and think it so many times it no longer sounds good.  You then keep increasing the goal, and then end up with disappointment.  All of a sudden a 28 minute 10k doesn’t seem fast enough, and your latest 34 minute effort just makes you miserable enough to eat a whole pack of hob nobs.  Now you’re not race weight, and the cycle of doom continues.  So how do I pick what I want to achieve?

In 6 months time, I can announce, my target is to be in a position to run 15:50 for 5000m.  It might not happen on the day for a dozen different reasons, but I want to be in a position to achieve it.  3:10 a km, 76 second a lap, for 12 and a half gruelling laps.  Hell I’ve even run 3 of those back to back.  3 kilometres that is.  So surely this is achievable?  Picking a goal so slow that if achieved will still be 3 minutes slower than the world record, so slow in fact that Keninisa Bekele would have lapped me 3 times (I think) might sound unambitious.  But for me this would represent a 40 second, or 4.5% improvement over my current best time.  But as proved by others, namely Steven Bayton (2010), magical things can happen that cause targets to be re-evaluated, or illness, injury, demotivation, or just plain bad luck can de rail even the prettiest and most efficient excel spreadsheet.

So where am I at the moment?  And how do I get to where I want to be?  Having just recovered from a summer out with injury, leaving me with the ability to only run for 10 lung-wrenching minutes, I’ve now completed 8 weeks of transitionary training.  This is my honest assessment of where I am now, compared to where I need to be:

VO2 max :                   worse than a sedentary horse.

Endurance :                 modest.

Lactate threshold :      physically to shy to try.

Muscular strength :    laughable.

Technique :                 lets just say there lots of room for improvement.

Weight :                      not race weight.

Potential :                    … meh.

Cold winter mornings, long dark runs, grass hill after grass hill, hour after hour thinking about technique, weights, cross country races that hopefully don’t involve me falling on my face in the mud (again), continuous hunger, mind numbing drills to improve my form, ice baths, and Ally constantly ordering to improve my posture at the dinner table.  Those who know me know that I must have a constantly evolving yet structured training programme, planned out for month after month.  Am I going to make it?  Watch this space…