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 24th 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 13th 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.
99th overall. (81st 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. |
