Thoughts on a marathon

a very self indulgent post from a very average runner

Allow me to preface this with the following acknowledgements, that: a) none of the following really needed to be written; b) why yes, I do love a bit of hyperbole, what makes you ask? And c) there’s a hefty swear in the first paragraph and I’m not sorry.

Sixteen weeks of training? Check. An accidental order of 17 portions of patatas bravas? Check. New highly transmissible variant of that respiratory virus currently plaguing the earth? Check?! Oh fuck.

It’s 9am. The first weekend in December 2021, and most members of Hyde Park Harriers are wolfing their porridge down in anticipation of the Temple Newsam round of Peco. I’ve already eaten mine an hour before, using the end of a toothbrush in spoonless hotel room. Now I’m standing on a bridge, on the outskirts of Valencia, Spain.

Someone is talking excitedly over the sound system, I’ve no idea what they’re saying. Other runners are cheering along and jittery with adrenaline all around me. It’s the closest I’ve been to so many humans in such a long time. I feel like I’ve been pulled into a weird alternate reality.

My head is trying to concentrate on “the plan”, but my senses are overwhelmed with the inescapable smell of deep heat, and the dystopian sight of so many masks. I’ve spotted a bloke with no shoes on. Did he intentionally arrive without an essential piece of kit?! I look down to check that I have my own shoes on. I do. Phew. There’s a countdown, a starting gun. The crowd lurches forward. We begin.

Half a mile in and I’ve got little voices from Lizzie and Kay reminding me about the plan. The plan I have yet to stick to. My own nagging voice from 2017 chirps in “you know what happened last time…!” So I try to slow my pace. Breathe through my nose, instead of my mouth. Follow the blue line and be grateful I remembered my sunglasses.

As I reach 5k I can hear someone cheering for Katie and James – they must be nearby! I look behind, and see them approaching fast, Katie’s husband Carl keeping pace at the sidelines in support. They pass me and I’m pleased to see my pals have started strong.

“Which Hyde Park is that then? Manchester?” a Geordie chap asks at 8 miles. “Leeds!” I clarify – and we chat for a while about the current inconvenience and admin of global travel, and I give him kudos for having completed the Yorkshire marathon a few weeks prior. It’s clear he’s pacing the race a bit swifter than me, and he pulls ahead after a few minutes. Hearing occasional snippets of conversation in English from people around me takes my mind off the fact the wind is picking up every time I turn a corner.

Mile 10. I check my watch again, guiltily. The plan is abandoned. Dust in the distance. I knew this by the time I hit the third mile of averaging 20 secs ahead of pace, of course, but it’s beginning to sink in that I still have a long way to go. My brain ticks through the ‘running maths’ of how much longer I need to keep pace for X finishing time, or how much my average can drop and still hold onto my original hopes.

As I reach half way, I hear our cheer team again – I estimate that Toby’s probably just about finished his race and yell “IS TOBY DONE?!” – “YES!” comes the response. Quickly, before I’m out of earshot “What time?!” – “Two-fourty!” they shout back. I grin and push on. I’m not sure whether I believe it. Have they told me this to spur me on? Has Toby actually bailed out at mile 12? The thoughts keep me occupied for a while, I hope he’s pleased, however it went. I’ve got to focus. The plan is abandoned. I need to concentrate.

The crowd of other runners has thinned a little by the time I hit 15 miles, but the support is still strong from those specating, and from some of the more casual runners too. A topless Spaniard, who can’t have been shy of 70, leapfrogs me (not literally, thank goodness) at water stations for a couple of miles, with frequent whoops of what I can only presume is encouragement for his fellow runners. Lacking any comprehension of what he’s actually saying, I make my own translations of the sounds into English. Turns out he’s “eaten crayons for breakfast!” and he’s “full of lovely leaves”. Am I… Hallucinating?! Unsure. I look down to check I still have my shoes on, just in case. The plan is abandoned. I’ve got to keep pushing.

Around a corner into mile 18, and the wind hits me. Like a train. Like a ton of bricks. Like the breath of a thousand angry dragons (I told you I like hyperbole, right?). Somewhere in between scraping windswept hair of my eyes and wiping rhubarb flavoured gel from my chin, I’m able to acknowledge that this is actually going pretty well. I’ve reached mile 18, the point at which the plan said “wing it”. Nevermind the fact I’d done that until this point too, I just needed to hang on from this point out. The plan is abandoned. That is the plan. It’s one mile at a time from here.

A mile left for each person that trained with me. That’s the focus now. I tick off names in my head, along with the miles, feeling grateful and tired. Concentrating on getting to the next corner in what seems like a perpetual headwind. The voice in my head is back again. “You just keep going.”

Because what else can you do? If I’ve learnt something these past two years, it’s that I can carry on. It can feel brutal and relentless to do so, like you’re constantly being pulled underwater when you didn’t even choose to go swimming in the first place. But despite that, I’ve proved to myself that I can keep on going. I’m a stronger runner at mile 22 of this marathon than I’ve ever been in my life, and I can keep going. I’ve earned this. I owe it to myself. And I don’t even need a poo!

I consider the vulgarities of running long distances, treats with which we are all familiar: the salty face, the blistered feet. The “what the hell?!” chafe it took 8 years of running for me to figure out can be easily solved by wearing your pants inside out. I’ve escaped them all so far this day, but as I get to mile 24, I know I run the risk of spewing my guts up if I even have to sniff another gel. Two miles. And change. I can finish this with a caffeine bullet. If I swallow it whole.

My cadence is now locked in, changed only slightly by the empty water bottles every half a mile. Until someone stops right in front of me. I bounce off their shoulder. I can’t stop moving, my legs won’t work again if I do. Left right flip flop tick tock. I can see the turn into the finish up ahead.

1km to go, the sign says. Sarah is cheering on my left, and I tell myself I’m grinning at her, pleased to be almost finished, and grateful for the support. But apparently by this point all communication has been lost between my brain and my face, and I run past with a blank stare.

800m to go. Half a mile. I have two minutes left if I want to cross the finish line in the time I set out for back in 2017. It takes me one of these two minutes to realise that is not even remotely possible, by which point I’ve stopped caring anyway. I want to stop. I’ve made it. I can walk if I want to and I’d still be proud. 200m. I’ve got all day.

I can hear Toby cheering, and look up to see him cheering from a bridge above – so he really IS finished! My heart is full, my legs are empty. I cross the finish line with what feels like an olympic sprint, but almost certainly looks more like “baby flamingo learns to walk”.

I’m glad of the mask that I’m handed as I finish, it’s hiding the facial expressions I pull as it takes me 40 minutes to wince, hobble and sob the 500m out of the race village.

In a masochistic kind of way, I’m glad of the pain. I’ve earned it all: my time; my medal; the inability to walk more than 3 steps at a time. It’s all mine. And I’m never, ever, doing that again.