rich_jacko (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rich_jacko) wrote2019-10-26 06:24 pm
rich_jacko) wrote2019-10-26 06:24 pm
Entry tags:
The Big Run
BEFORE THE RACE:
It's 5am on Sunday 20th October 2019. I'm in a Travelodge in York. I can't sleep.
Today I will be running an actual marathon. 26.2 miles. 42.2 kilometres. What's more, I'm being sponsored £673.60 by family, friends and colleagues to do this, money that will all go to Cancer Research. I've been training for months. I've set myself a 4-hour target, and told everyone about it. There will be crowds. There will be media. And Neil, Krissy and the kids are coming all the way to York to watch me cross the finish line around 1:30pm.
So, no pressure then.
In my head, I know I'm as ready as I can be. I've stuck to my training schedule, tapered over the last 3 weeks. I travelled up yesterday, found where I need to be in the morning (just 15 minutes walk away) and got an early night. But still, it's further than I've ever run before. I've had tendon pain in my right knee and hip towards the end of my most recent longer runs (The iliotibial band, apparently - the most common running injury). What if it comes back when I'm part-way round? There are so many ways this can go wrong. Have I bitten off more than I can chew?
Don't think like that. Just think of it like another long Sunday run. You've done loads of those recently. Or another half-marathon event. You've done 3 of those before. Try to go back to sleep.
This has mixed success. I wake again just after 7 am, dress and go to reception for my "breakfast box". There's another marathon runner there, so I say hi. I return to my room with my breakfast, augment it with extra cherry flapjack and eat. I post on Facebook. Lots of people wish me luck - yay! I get changed into my running gear. Plasters on to prevent chafing: check. Race number secure: check. Sports watch fully charged and comfortable: check. Sugar gels (Ew!) pocketed: check.
I hand my key in at reception and head out. I should be cold but I'm not. Halfway down the road I meet a couple of spectators and their dog, looking for the start line. They ask if I'm going to the marathon. "What gives it away?" I joke. We find the start. There are a whole bunch of runners looking confused, as the barriers are across the road and there's no obvious way around. A marshal takes pity on us and opens the barrier.
I spy the Viking ship and a few of the crew setting up, though I don't see Mr Staley. I'm nervous with anticipation. Do I need the loo? The queues are massive and I went before leaving the hotel. I head to my starting zone (Zone 2) for the warm-up. Despite the enthusiastic commentary, there is mixed enthusiasm among the runners for this, as at previous events. The 1-minute applause, for people sadly no longer with us, is better received. Then more waiting.
Ahh, come on. I just want to get going now. I can see the start line. A marshal asks us all to move forward. Okay, now we're really close to the start line. The wheelchair runners are off and then it's our turn. There's a countdown from ten. As usual, zero is anti-climactic, as there are loads of runners in front. But after a few seconds we get moving, walking at first, then starting to run as I start my watch and cross over the line.
STAGE 1: 0K - 10K:
The crowds are cheering, still lining the streets as we move out of the race village. I'm surrounded by other runners to spur me on, I've positioned myself with a good amount of space, and I'm pulling slightly ahead of a few. There's a slight drizzle, but that's fine and it seems to be stopping already. The temperature is perfect for running and there's very little wind. Yeah, this feels good :o)
A marathon is way too far to try to envisage all at once. Mentally, I've broken it down and I'm thinking of it as a series of four 10Ks, one after another, with a bit more at the end. I can do 10Ks, no problem.
I mustn't go too quickly. I mustn't go too quickly.
I'm rubbish at forcing myself to pace slowly, but at least I know that, and that's what the watch is for. 42.2 km in 4 hours is 5:41 per km. I want to bank some faster running in, as I know I'll be slower towards the end, no matter how well I pace early on. It's a balancing act. Keep it between 5:00 and 5:30 per km; that's the goal for the early stages.
Whoops, that first one was a little too fast. Pull it back a bit. The second one is better. I'm still overtaking a few people but that's fine.
We turn the corner onto Duncombe Place, and there's York Minster, surrounded by crowds. What a view! I turn to glance up at the tower as we run directly past it and almost collide with a guy in a pink tutu, as he turns to catch his headband, which has gone flying. Disaster avoided though.
I was overtaking people, now I'm being overtaken. Have they sped up or have I slowed down? Check my watch. Nope, I'm maintaining the same sort of speed. That's good, keep it up. Don't worry about what other runners are doing.
Before long, we're leaving the city walls and the crowds behind. I still have other runners for company, of course. We compare watch beeps. Some have miles set, others like me have km (I need more frequent beeps!). Some loons have what another runner dubs "demotivational beeps", which go off when you're running too slowly.
I'm going too quickly again, but it feels too comfortable a pace. I moderate it a bit. I grab a bottle of water at the 3-mile station. The next km ends up being a slower one as I need a loo stop just at the end (Should have gone at the start!). Still, it only costs me a minute, and that's a minute's relief for my legs as well as my bladder. I feel like I'm just starting out again.
Hang on, there's a hill. I'm indignant; there weren't supposed to be any hills! Oh wait, we're just going over a bridge over the dual carriageway, just a quick up and down. That's fine.
There are marshals up ahead, and full-on traffic signs indicating lanes for the marathon / 10-mile race split. The 10-milers set off later, so there aren't any of them yet. "Nothing to see here!" the marshals call cheerily. "Definitely no short-cuts. No right-hand turn. Just keep going straight on!"
The crowds return as we get to the village of Stockton on the Forest. There are kids offering high-fives, so I duly oblige, as well as grabbing jelly babies and Haribo from those handing them out. Then I see the famous (well, mentioned in the course guide as a regular fixture of the Yorkshire marathon, anyway) high-fiving vicar in his dazzling white gown, on the corner by the church. Obviously I have to get a high-five from him too.
On the way out the village, I grab an energy drink at the 6-mile station. Beyond the station, I spy the digital clock of the first timing line. It reads just over 50 minutes as I cross it (Yes, I know now my official split time was 49 minutes, but that's based on when my chip crossed the start line, not when the clock started). Not bad. An 11-12K first hour will give me a good margin of time in hand.
STAGE 2: 10K - 20K:
We're properly out into the countryside now. There are marathon signs up, declaring, "Get thi smile on! Yer in God's own!" And it is beautifully green. A bit on the flat side, but that's what we want for this.
This stretch is mostly empty countryside, so there's little in the way of spectators. I find myself with different runners for company every few minutes, as either they pull ahead or I do. But there's very little competitiveness. We have the camaraderie of all taking on the same massive challenge, and everyone is very supportive of each other. We are all trying to beat our own personal goals more than one another. This is so much better than all those training runs on my own. One guy (in a matching Sheffield Half Marathon t-shirt) recognises me from Hillsborough Parkrun.
In-between groups, I stay as focussed as I need to on my running, but my mind also wanders. Imagining music in my head helps me keep pace. Hey, the Maid Marian theme tune works pretty well. "Maa-raa-thon" is a perfect replacement for "Maa-rii-an" at the start. I idly compose lyrics...
Shortly before the 9-mile flag I check my watch and declare us one-third done! This sparks a conversation about goal times. They tell me I'm well ahead of mine, but I know I'll be slower later. For a split second, my knee gives a twinge to remind me I can't take it for granted. Then it's fine again, but I adjust my stride slightly to try to put a bit less strain on it. It doesn't bother me again... at this point.
I grab a drink every 6 miles (every other station) and sweets wherever they're being handed out by spectators. So far, I'm managing without the disgusting energy gels, which is pleasant. We're briefly surrounded by crowds again as we run through Sand Hutton. There's even a brass band. Hurrah for Yorkshire!
Then we're back out in the sticks for a few miles. There's a 20K line up ahead in an otherwise empty road. I hear it beep as it records my crossing the line. That was another 50 minutes. I've settled into a very consistent 5:00 per km pace and I'm still feeling pretty good.
STAGE 3: 20K - 30K:
It seems weird that there are two timing points so close together, but the half marathon one is a very welcome marker. Psychologically, this is a huge boost. Less to go than I've done so far! The clock shows 1 hour 47 minutes (my official half marathon split time was 01:46:12). Not a half marathon PB, but it shouldn't be. Still a good amount of time in hand.
That's weird: runners on both sides of the road up ahead, running in the lanes as if they were cars. Okay, I can picture where we are on the map now. I knew there were two sections like this. It's still weird though.
There are crowds lining both sides of the road as we run in and out of Stamford Bridge. It's a fairly short stretch, with more sweets and more high-fives. One teen lifts his hand away at the last second, leaving me hanging. I slow down for the tight hairpin, spread my arms in mock outrage and ask, "What was that?" as I pass him on the other side.
I pass the 3h45m pacing duo on the other side of the road. I estimate they're about half a mile behind me. That's good. I expect they'll pass me before the end, but try to stay ahead of them for as long as I can.
It's a long and boring straight stretch of road now. No more crowds. I'm starting to feel the first signs of tiredness and slow down to a 5:48 km. That's okay, only to be expected by this stage. I can see others tiring too, and for the first time I notice a few people slowing to walk.
Try to keep it below 5:40 per km if you can. Oh look, the road's turning downhill. Well, that makes it easier. Go easy on the knees though, just in case. Still ten miles to go.
I can see runners coming the other way. There's the next doubling-up stretch. Urgh, it's still the same straight road, only it's all downhill on the way and all uphill on the way back. 17-mile and 19-mile flags are practically adjacent, which means it's a mile out an a mile back. I don't like the look of the return journey.
There are crowds again. Cate from work said she'd be at this point, as she's coming along to watch another friend run. I look for her but I don't see her (I found out later she had exciting bus cock-ups and arrived about 30 minutes after I passed through). Then they are gone and it's back to the road of dullness.
I'm getting tired and out of breath. My knee is beginning to hurt again. I promise myself I'll walk for a bit on the uphill. Just get to the turning point.
How much further is this flippin' turning point?!
Check the 18-mile flag on the other side of the road. Check the distance on my watch. Okay, just a few hundred metres. There's the turn. Keep running until 18 miles, then let myself walk for a bit. A much-needed energy drink at the 18-mile station.
Matching mile flags and my watch GPS isn't an exact science, of course. A marathon is 42.195 km, but I do the maths and figure this one is going to be more like 42.5 km by my watch. Well, that's less than three parkruns to go. I can do three parkruns!
The hill starts to flatten. I start to pick up the pace again. I stamp my foot down on the line as I cross the 30K marker and hear what is, by far, the most satisfying beep yet as the clock records my time. Still on track, despite just walking for a couple of minutes back then. I'm properly tiring now though, and I can feel myself slowing down.
Stage 4: 30K - 40K:
Yeah, those times tell a story, don't they?
This has stopped being fun. Ow. Ow. Ow. My right knee is definitely giving me grief now, and my legs are aching generally. I also feel the beginnings of stomach cramps. I've been grabbing too many sweets. I make sure to watch my intake from now on.
On the plus side, my left knee is still good, and my hips and ankles are fine. I need to stay positive or I'm not going to finish. I remember how wiped out I was towards the end of my 21-mile training run, and remind myself I'm doing better than that. Head up, manage the pain and the pace. I've got this.
I settle into a pattern - run until it starts to feel worse, then walk for a bit. Deep breaths, count as I breathe out. On 30, pick up the pace again, walking briskly before starting to run. Try to finish the km before walking again. Repeat.
This seems to be working. I'm slower, but that's what the lead I built up earlier was for. the 3h45m pacers overtake me, but I calculate that I'm still good for under 4 hours. My brain makes up a third Maid Marian verse, about getting tired and achy. Stupid brain.
Other runners shout encouragement, but there are lots of us stopping to walk for sections now. I take heart from crossing the 21-mile marker. This is now officially the furthest I have ever run in one go, and I can still keep going.
Lanes merge as we re-join the 10-mile course, but most of the 10-mile runners have already passed through. There are bagpipers as we pass through Murton, one of the last villages. That's awesome.
"Come on mate, only a parkrun to go!" says one runner as I slow to walk again. Actually, it's more like 6K to go, but I don't say so. I appreciate the sentiment, and pay it forward to other struggling runners after I get going again. I hear other runners talking about how much they're dreading the university hill, right before the finish line. I find this to be less encouraging.
The 23-mile flag is a very welcome sight; the "Welcome to York" road signs even more so. Final stretch, just keep it going.
It's hard though. Really, really hard. I'm walking more often now, and struggling to keep below 7 minutes per km. I see one guy at the side of the road, getting his legs treated by a first-aider. It's not clear whether he'll be finishing.
The last couple of miles to the 40K clock feel like they go on forever. I'm still glad I signed up for this madness, but enough already! I feel only an exhausted sense of relief at this line's beep, and the thought that it will soon be over.
STAGE 5: 40K - 42.5K
Nearly there. At 25 miles I recognise Hull Road, and know this is the last road before the university. My pace isn't getting any better, but it isn't getting any worse either. I can manage this. I figure, at a push, I can almost walk the remaining mile and just about scrape in under 4 hours. I don't need to, but it's good to know.
As we get nearer, the crowds along the roadside start to build again, and cheer everyone on. "Come on, you've got this!" is the most common shout heard. Some runners still seem fresh, but most of us are doing a steady jog at best. I pass John Burkhill, coming to the end of the 10-mile with his trademark green wig and his pram - that guy is incredible, to still be doing these events at age 80. I keep going, turn on to Green Dykes Lane. Nearly there.
Oh, for f###'s sake...!
There's that hill I'd been warned about. It probably isn't actually that steep. I'll have run up hills just like it all the time. Right now, it feels like a mountain though.
"Come on, keep running! You're nearly there!" shouts an onlooker. I wave my hand flat and shake my head. No. I've got no more uphill running in me.
But then it starts to level out. I pass the 26-mile marker and feel the beginnings of a surge of triumph. Must be nearly there! I reach for one last burst of effort and start to run for one last time. I have no breath, my legs are screaming, but I am bloody well going to finish this damn thing properly.
Everything changes as I crest the hill.
The ground sweeps before me in a smooth, easy downhill to the finish line, 400 metres or so ahead of me.
I CAN SEE THE FINISH LINE.
I can also see Neil, snapping photos. A second later, I see Krissy and the kids. I wave to them all, thrilled that they made it and can see me finish.
I am physically a wreck. I am chemically a mess of sugar, adrenaline and lactic acid. None of this matters any more.
I am caught up in the moment. Forget about the pain and anguish of the last 10K. My friends are waving, the roar of the crowd is deafening and I am hurtling towards the finish line of a fricking marathon!
This is the single most triumphant running moment of my life!
I feel myself picking up speed, almost back up to my full sprint. I pass several runners in the final straight. I can feel my face spreading into a big, goofy grin. I look up at the clock as I cross the finish line - 03:51:35, well inside my 4-hour target in the end. I punch both fists in the air in elation, then immediately burst into tears.
In a good way!
AFTER THE RACE:
I'm still on my feet, starting to regain control. My watch tells me this is both my "longest run" and "fastest marathon". No kidding it is. The weight of the medal around my neck feels so good as the volunteer places it there and hands me my goody bag. The Erdinger Alkoholfrei tastes pretty good too.
I check my t-shirt, check I can still walk, and try to find the others. The race village is spread out across the university campus and surrounds a small lake. It is not well signposted and the meeting point isn't where it's supposed to be. I check both bridges and can't find them. But I really don't want to walk any further. I figure they'll find me in the main post-race hall in the Exhibition Centre and go there.
I queue for a massage. I give up because there's only three masseurs and the queue isn't moving. I queue to get my medal engraved with my name and finish time. That's when Neil and Krissy find me. Amusingly, Krissy also finds another friend, who she hasn't seen for two years. Neil takes a photo of me with my medal.
We relax. It's raining heavily outside now. I'm extra glad I finished when I did. We spare a thought for the Vikings and all the other runners and volunteers still out there. We brave the rain to go to the event office, where I pick up my "Yorkshire Treble" t-shirt (Bonus, two t-shirts in one day! Again!) and a survival blanket to keep warm. Krissy buys me tea and flapjack.
Once the rain eases, and I feel capable of walking back to the hotel, we split company. Neil stays around to watch the Vikings come in, Krissy and the kids go back to the station for food, and I go and have a long, hot shower to get clean and ease my aching muscles. I ring my parents to let them know how it's gone and post my finish time on that Facebook. I find out the Vikings smashed their world record attempt by nearly 2 hours. Woo! I pack up, check out, and ask for a taxi to the station.
There are no taxis running to the station.
There are no buses either.
The marathon is still going and roads are still closed. I have to walk, no limp, the two-and-a-half miles back to the station with my bags. This is the very last thing I need right now. I text Krissy to let her know I'm going to be late.
I make it in about an hour, though not in time for the train we had planned to catch. I get Neil to take some more photos of me with my t-shirts and medals (I'd planned ahead and brought the half marathon medals along especially). I grab a Burger King meal to eat on the train (Enough sugar; I need protein!). We natter about the day and this and that on the journey back.
We get the tram back from Meadowhell, say our goodbyes, and I get home about 9pm. I go straight to bed.
That was one hell of an epic day :o)
P.S. - In case you were wondering what those lyrics were from earlier:
"Maa-raa-thon!"
"You've got to - carry on
Put yourself - to the test
'Cause you're - striving
For that - Personal Best
You've got to - find your pace
To get you - through the race!"
"Oh, marathon!"
"You've got to - carry on
With all that - running
Then that - finish line
Will soon be - coming
You hold your - head up high
And watch the - miles fly by!"
"Oh, marathon!" ("Oh, marathon...")
[2 1/2 hours later]
"How do you - carry on
When your legs - weigh a ton?
Want this - whole thing
To be - over and done
Got to do - what it takes
No matter how - much it aches!"
"Oh, marathon!" ("Oh, marathon...")
;o)
It's 5am on Sunday 20th October 2019. I'm in a Travelodge in York. I can't sleep.
Today I will be running an actual marathon. 26.2 miles. 42.2 kilometres. What's more, I'm being sponsored £673.60 by family, friends and colleagues to do this, money that will all go to Cancer Research. I've been training for months. I've set myself a 4-hour target, and told everyone about it. There will be crowds. There will be media. And Neil, Krissy and the kids are coming all the way to York to watch me cross the finish line around 1:30pm.
So, no pressure then.
In my head, I know I'm as ready as I can be. I've stuck to my training schedule, tapered over the last 3 weeks. I travelled up yesterday, found where I need to be in the morning (just 15 minutes walk away) and got an early night. But still, it's further than I've ever run before. I've had tendon pain in my right knee and hip towards the end of my most recent longer runs (The iliotibial band, apparently - the most common running injury). What if it comes back when I'm part-way round? There are so many ways this can go wrong. Have I bitten off more than I can chew?
Don't think like that. Just think of it like another long Sunday run. You've done loads of those recently. Or another half-marathon event. You've done 3 of those before. Try to go back to sleep.
This has mixed success. I wake again just after 7 am, dress and go to reception for my "breakfast box". There's another marathon runner there, so I say hi. I return to my room with my breakfast, augment it with extra cherry flapjack and eat. I post on Facebook. Lots of people wish me luck - yay! I get changed into my running gear. Plasters on to prevent chafing: check. Race number secure: check. Sports watch fully charged and comfortable: check. Sugar gels (Ew!) pocketed: check.
I hand my key in at reception and head out. I should be cold but I'm not. Halfway down the road I meet a couple of spectators and their dog, looking for the start line. They ask if I'm going to the marathon. "What gives it away?" I joke. We find the start. There are a whole bunch of runners looking confused, as the barriers are across the road and there's no obvious way around. A marshal takes pity on us and opens the barrier.
I spy the Viking ship and a few of the crew setting up, though I don't see Mr Staley. I'm nervous with anticipation. Do I need the loo? The queues are massive and I went before leaving the hotel. I head to my starting zone (Zone 2) for the warm-up. Despite the enthusiastic commentary, there is mixed enthusiasm among the runners for this, as at previous events. The 1-minute applause, for people sadly no longer with us, is better received. Then more waiting.
Ahh, come on. I just want to get going now. I can see the start line. A marshal asks us all to move forward. Okay, now we're really close to the start line. The wheelchair runners are off and then it's our turn. There's a countdown from ten. As usual, zero is anti-climactic, as there are loads of runners in front. But after a few seconds we get moving, walking at first, then starting to run as I start my watch and cross over the line.
STAGE 1: 0K - 10K:
| Official split time 00:49:34 KM splits (watch times) 1) 4:45 2) 5:02 3) 5:17 4) 4:18 5) 4:38 6) 5:50 7) 5:00 8) 4:58 9) 5:00 10) 5:01 |  |
The crowds are cheering, still lining the streets as we move out of the race village. I'm surrounded by other runners to spur me on, I've positioned myself with a good amount of space, and I'm pulling slightly ahead of a few. There's a slight drizzle, but that's fine and it seems to be stopping already. The temperature is perfect for running and there's very little wind. Yeah, this feels good :o)
A marathon is way too far to try to envisage all at once. Mentally, I've broken it down and I'm thinking of it as a series of four 10Ks, one after another, with a bit more at the end. I can do 10Ks, no problem.
I mustn't go too quickly. I mustn't go too quickly.
I'm rubbish at forcing myself to pace slowly, but at least I know that, and that's what the watch is for. 42.2 km in 4 hours is 5:41 per km. I want to bank some faster running in, as I know I'll be slower towards the end, no matter how well I pace early on. It's a balancing act. Keep it between 5:00 and 5:30 per km; that's the goal for the early stages.
Whoops, that first one was a little too fast. Pull it back a bit. The second one is better. I'm still overtaking a few people but that's fine.
We turn the corner onto Duncombe Place, and there's York Minster, surrounded by crowds. What a view! I turn to glance up at the tower as we run directly past it and almost collide with a guy in a pink tutu, as he turns to catch his headband, which has gone flying. Disaster avoided though.
I was overtaking people, now I'm being overtaken. Have they sped up or have I slowed down? Check my watch. Nope, I'm maintaining the same sort of speed. That's good, keep it up. Don't worry about what other runners are doing.
Before long, we're leaving the city walls and the crowds behind. I still have other runners for company, of course. We compare watch beeps. Some have miles set, others like me have km (I need more frequent beeps!). Some loons have what another runner dubs "demotivational beeps", which go off when you're running too slowly.
I'm going too quickly again, but it feels too comfortable a pace. I moderate it a bit. I grab a bottle of water at the 3-mile station. The next km ends up being a slower one as I need a loo stop just at the end (Should have gone at the start!). Still, it only costs me a minute, and that's a minute's relief for my legs as well as my bladder. I feel like I'm just starting out again.
Hang on, there's a hill. I'm indignant; there weren't supposed to be any hills! Oh wait, we're just going over a bridge over the dual carriageway, just a quick up and down. That's fine.
There are marshals up ahead, and full-on traffic signs indicating lanes for the marathon / 10-mile race split. The 10-milers set off later, so there aren't any of them yet. "Nothing to see here!" the marshals call cheerily. "Definitely no short-cuts. No right-hand turn. Just keep going straight on!"
The crowds return as we get to the village of Stockton on the Forest. There are kids offering high-fives, so I duly oblige, as well as grabbing jelly babies and Haribo from those handing them out. Then I see the famous (well, mentioned in the course guide as a regular fixture of the Yorkshire marathon, anyway) high-fiving vicar in his dazzling white gown, on the corner by the church. Obviously I have to get a high-five from him too.
On the way out the village, I grab an energy drink at the 6-mile station. Beyond the station, I spy the digital clock of the first timing line. It reads just over 50 minutes as I cross it (Yes, I know now my official split time was 49 minutes, but that's based on when my chip crossed the start line, not when the clock started). Not bad. An 11-12K first hour will give me a good margin of time in hand.
STAGE 2: 10K - 20K:
| Official split time 01:39:56 (+00:50:22) KM splits (watch times) 11) 5:08 12) 4:59 13) 4:59 14) 5:10 15) 4:52 16) 4:54 17) 5:01 18) 5:01 19) 5:01 20) 4:56 |  |
We're properly out into the countryside now. There are marathon signs up, declaring, "Get thi smile on! Yer in God's own!" And it is beautifully green. A bit on the flat side, but that's what we want for this.
This stretch is mostly empty countryside, so there's little in the way of spectators. I find myself with different runners for company every few minutes, as either they pull ahead or I do. But there's very little competitiveness. We have the camaraderie of all taking on the same massive challenge, and everyone is very supportive of each other. We are all trying to beat our own personal goals more than one another. This is so much better than all those training runs on my own. One guy (in a matching Sheffield Half Marathon t-shirt) recognises me from Hillsborough Parkrun.
In-between groups, I stay as focussed as I need to on my running, but my mind also wanders. Imagining music in my head helps me keep pace. Hey, the Maid Marian theme tune works pretty well. "Maa-raa-thon" is a perfect replacement for "Maa-rii-an" at the start. I idly compose lyrics...
Shortly before the 9-mile flag I check my watch and declare us one-third done! This sparks a conversation about goal times. They tell me I'm well ahead of mine, but I know I'll be slower later. For a split second, my knee gives a twinge to remind me I can't take it for granted. Then it's fine again, but I adjust my stride slightly to try to put a bit less strain on it. It doesn't bother me again... at this point.
I grab a drink every 6 miles (every other station) and sweets wherever they're being handed out by spectators. So far, I'm managing without the disgusting energy gels, which is pleasant. We're briefly surrounded by crowds again as we run through Sand Hutton. There's even a brass band. Hurrah for Yorkshire!
Then we're back out in the sticks for a few miles. There's a 20K line up ahead in an otherwise empty road. I hear it beep as it records my crossing the line. That was another 50 minutes. I've settled into a very consistent 5:00 per km pace and I'm still feeling pretty good.
STAGE 3: 20K - 30K:
| Official split time 02:29:17 (+00:49:21) KM splits (watch times) 21) 5:06 22) 5:03 23) 5:09 24) 5:14 25) 5:48 26) 5:22 27) 5:34 28) 5:23 29) 5:16 30) 6:20 |  |
It seems weird that there are two timing points so close together, but the half marathon one is a very welcome marker. Psychologically, this is a huge boost. Less to go than I've done so far! The clock shows 1 hour 47 minutes (my official half marathon split time was 01:46:12). Not a half marathon PB, but it shouldn't be. Still a good amount of time in hand.
That's weird: runners on both sides of the road up ahead, running in the lanes as if they were cars. Okay, I can picture where we are on the map now. I knew there were two sections like this. It's still weird though.
There are crowds lining both sides of the road as we run in and out of Stamford Bridge. It's a fairly short stretch, with more sweets and more high-fives. One teen lifts his hand away at the last second, leaving me hanging. I slow down for the tight hairpin, spread my arms in mock outrage and ask, "What was that?" as I pass him on the other side.
I pass the 3h45m pacing duo on the other side of the road. I estimate they're about half a mile behind me. That's good. I expect they'll pass me before the end, but try to stay ahead of them for as long as I can.
It's a long and boring straight stretch of road now. No more crowds. I'm starting to feel the first signs of tiredness and slow down to a 5:48 km. That's okay, only to be expected by this stage. I can see others tiring too, and for the first time I notice a few people slowing to walk.
Try to keep it below 5:40 per km if you can. Oh look, the road's turning downhill. Well, that makes it easier. Go easy on the knees though, just in case. Still ten miles to go.
I can see runners coming the other way. There's the next doubling-up stretch. Urgh, it's still the same straight road, only it's all downhill on the way and all uphill on the way back. 17-mile and 19-mile flags are practically adjacent, which means it's a mile out an a mile back. I don't like the look of the return journey.
There are crowds again. Cate from work said she'd be at this point, as she's coming along to watch another friend run. I look for her but I don't see her (I found out later she had exciting bus cock-ups and arrived about 30 minutes after I passed through). Then they are gone and it's back to the road of dullness.
I'm getting tired and out of breath. My knee is beginning to hurt again. I promise myself I'll walk for a bit on the uphill. Just get to the turning point.
How much further is this flippin' turning point?!
Check the 18-mile flag on the other side of the road. Check the distance on my watch. Okay, just a few hundred metres. There's the turn. Keep running until 18 miles, then let myself walk for a bit. A much-needed energy drink at the 18-mile station.
Matching mile flags and my watch GPS isn't an exact science, of course. A marathon is 42.195 km, but I do the maths and figure this one is going to be more like 42.5 km by my watch. Well, that's less than three parkruns to go. I can do three parkruns!
The hill starts to flatten. I start to pick up the pace again. I stamp my foot down on the line as I cross the 30K marker and hear what is, by far, the most satisfying beep yet as the clock records my time. Still on track, despite just walking for a couple of minutes back then. I'm properly tiring now though, and I can feel myself slowing down.
Stage 4: 30K - 40K:
| Official split time 03:36:30 (+01:07:13) KM splits (watch times) 31) 5:44 32) 5:47 33) 5:15 34) 6:32 35) 5:38 36) 6:51 37) 5:39 38) 6:50 39) 6:48 40) 6:19 |  |
Yeah, those times tell a story, don't they?
This has stopped being fun. Ow. Ow. Ow. My right knee is definitely giving me grief now, and my legs are aching generally. I also feel the beginnings of stomach cramps. I've been grabbing too many sweets. I make sure to watch my intake from now on.
On the plus side, my left knee is still good, and my hips and ankles are fine. I need to stay positive or I'm not going to finish. I remember how wiped out I was towards the end of my 21-mile training run, and remind myself I'm doing better than that. Head up, manage the pain and the pace. I've got this.
I settle into a pattern - run until it starts to feel worse, then walk for a bit. Deep breaths, count as I breathe out. On 30, pick up the pace again, walking briskly before starting to run. Try to finish the km before walking again. Repeat.
This seems to be working. I'm slower, but that's what the lead I built up earlier was for. the 3h45m pacers overtake me, but I calculate that I'm still good for under 4 hours. My brain makes up a third Maid Marian verse, about getting tired and achy. Stupid brain.
Other runners shout encouragement, but there are lots of us stopping to walk for sections now. I take heart from crossing the 21-mile marker. This is now officially the furthest I have ever run in one go, and I can still keep going.
Lanes merge as we re-join the 10-mile course, but most of the 10-mile runners have already passed through. There are bagpipers as we pass through Murton, one of the last villages. That's awesome.
"Come on mate, only a parkrun to go!" says one runner as I slow to walk again. Actually, it's more like 6K to go, but I don't say so. I appreciate the sentiment, and pay it forward to other struggling runners after I get going again. I hear other runners talking about how much they're dreading the university hill, right before the finish line. I find this to be less encouraging.
The 23-mile flag is a very welcome sight; the "Welcome to York" road signs even more so. Final stretch, just keep it going.
It's hard though. Really, really hard. I'm walking more often now, and struggling to keep below 7 minutes per km. I see one guy at the side of the road, getting his legs treated by a first-aider. It's not clear whether he'll be finishing.
The last couple of miles to the 40K clock feel like they go on forever. I'm still glad I signed up for this madness, but enough already! I feel only an exhausted sense of relief at this line's beep, and the thought that it will soon be over.
STAGE 5: 40K - 42.5K
| Official split time 03:50:24 (+00:13:54) KM splits (watch times) 41) 6:29 42) 6:35 42.5) 2:44 |  |
Nearly there. At 25 miles I recognise Hull Road, and know this is the last road before the university. My pace isn't getting any better, but it isn't getting any worse either. I can manage this. I figure, at a push, I can almost walk the remaining mile and just about scrape in under 4 hours. I don't need to, but it's good to know.
As we get nearer, the crowds along the roadside start to build again, and cheer everyone on. "Come on, you've got this!" is the most common shout heard. Some runners still seem fresh, but most of us are doing a steady jog at best. I pass John Burkhill, coming to the end of the 10-mile with his trademark green wig and his pram - that guy is incredible, to still be doing these events at age 80. I keep going, turn on to Green Dykes Lane. Nearly there.
Oh, for f###'s sake...!
There's that hill I'd been warned about. It probably isn't actually that steep. I'll have run up hills just like it all the time. Right now, it feels like a mountain though.
"Come on, keep running! You're nearly there!" shouts an onlooker. I wave my hand flat and shake my head. No. I've got no more uphill running in me.
But then it starts to level out. I pass the 26-mile marker and feel the beginnings of a surge of triumph. Must be nearly there! I reach for one last burst of effort and start to run for one last time. I have no breath, my legs are screaming, but I am bloody well going to finish this damn thing properly.
Everything changes as I crest the hill.
The ground sweeps before me in a smooth, easy downhill to the finish line, 400 metres or so ahead of me.
I CAN SEE THE FINISH LINE.
I can also see Neil, snapping photos. A second later, I see Krissy and the kids. I wave to them all, thrilled that they made it and can see me finish.
I am physically a wreck. I am chemically a mess of sugar, adrenaline and lactic acid. None of this matters any more.
I am caught up in the moment. Forget about the pain and anguish of the last 10K. My friends are waving, the roar of the crowd is deafening and I am hurtling towards the finish line of a fricking marathon!
This is the single most triumphant running moment of my life!
I feel myself picking up speed, almost back up to my full sprint. I pass several runners in the final straight. I can feel my face spreading into a big, goofy grin. I look up at the clock as I cross the finish line - 03:51:35, well inside my 4-hour target in the end. I punch both fists in the air in elation, then immediately burst into tears.
In a good way!
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AFTER THE RACE:
I'm still on my feet, starting to regain control. My watch tells me this is both my "longest run" and "fastest marathon". No kidding it is. The weight of the medal around my neck feels so good as the volunteer places it there and hands me my goody bag. The Erdinger Alkoholfrei tastes pretty good too.
I check my t-shirt, check I can still walk, and try to find the others. The race village is spread out across the university campus and surrounds a small lake. It is not well signposted and the meeting point isn't where it's supposed to be. I check both bridges and can't find them. But I really don't want to walk any further. I figure they'll find me in the main post-race hall in the Exhibition Centre and go there.
I queue for a massage. I give up because there's only three masseurs and the queue isn't moving. I queue to get my medal engraved with my name and finish time. That's when Neil and Krissy find me. Amusingly, Krissy also finds another friend, who she hasn't seen for two years. Neil takes a photo of me with my medal.
We relax. It's raining heavily outside now. I'm extra glad I finished when I did. We spare a thought for the Vikings and all the other runners and volunteers still out there. We brave the rain to go to the event office, where I pick up my "Yorkshire Treble" t-shirt (Bonus, two t-shirts in one day! Again!) and a survival blanket to keep warm. Krissy buys me tea and flapjack.
Once the rain eases, and I feel capable of walking back to the hotel, we split company. Neil stays around to watch the Vikings come in, Krissy and the kids go back to the station for food, and I go and have a long, hot shower to get clean and ease my aching muscles. I ring my parents to let them know how it's gone and post my finish time on that Facebook. I find out the Vikings smashed their world record attempt by nearly 2 hours. Woo! I pack up, check out, and ask for a taxi to the station.
There are no taxis running to the station.
There are no buses either.
The marathon is still going and roads are still closed. I have to walk, no limp, the two-and-a-half miles back to the station with my bags. This is the very last thing I need right now. I text Krissy to let her know I'm going to be late.
I make it in about an hour, though not in time for the train we had planned to catch. I get Neil to take some more photos of me with my t-shirts and medals (I'd planned ahead and brought the half marathon medals along especially). I grab a Burger King meal to eat on the train (Enough sugar; I need protein!). We natter about the day and this and that on the journey back.
We get the tram back from Meadowhell, say our goodbyes, and I get home about 9pm. I go straight to bed.
That was one hell of an epic day :o)
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P.S. - In case you were wondering what those lyrics were from earlier:
"Maa-raa-thon!"
"You've got to - carry on
Put yourself - to the test
'Cause you're - striving
For that - Personal Best
You've got to - find your pace
To get you - through the race!"
"Oh, marathon!"
"You've got to - carry on
With all that - running
Then that - finish line
Will soon be - coming
You hold your - head up high
And watch the - miles fly by!"
"Oh, marathon!" ("Oh, marathon...")
[2 1/2 hours later]
"How do you - carry on
When your legs - weigh a ton?
Want this - whole thing
To be - over and done
Got to do - what it takes
No matter how - much it aches!"
"Oh, marathon!" ("Oh, marathon...")
;o)