Archives for April 2008
Marathon Peformance
One more piece of post-marathon analysis. A review of split times shows that after, perhaps inevitably, setting off too fast – and note that the time there includes one minute of standing around just after the start – I settled into a reasonable four hour pace for the first 30km until the muscles were sapped in the final stretch. The wall was never hit, for although legs felt very tired I still had the energy to continue, but getting across the line was pretty hard work.
Evidence of this in photos from the last couple of miles, here (thanks Runners World!
No sooner is that out of the way, then I have to re-learn how to swim before a summer of triathlons. At least the marathon was only running…
It’s done
Memories: a blur. The clear blue dawn. Runners boarding the Tube at every stop. Dozens of baggage lorries, outstanding organisation. Watching the women’s start. The quiet before the race, hundreds of clothes being shed on the start line. Pissing, pissing everywhere. A strange personal calm and lack of fear. Having no idea what to expect. The off! Spotting the family standing on the Landie at the start. The constant bleeping of timing mats. The bunch stopping in the first mile. High-fiving kids along the way.
Setting off a little too quick. Keeping the nine minute mile pace group in sight, for a while. Passing Bertie who’s running 35 marathons in 22 days. The boos as the blue and red starts meet. Why do we have to go around the roundabout and they don’t? Trying to keep to my carbo-gel plan. Stopping for a pee. And again. And then wanting to pee desperately through stomach cramps but nothing coming out, time after time. Kodo-esque drummers under the A102. Greenwich, spotting Mat (thanks for all your help my friend!), running past the Cutty Sark, on through Deptford. Pubs with music. People, people everywhere – not an inch of the race was without support. Oranges from spectators. Feeling strong. This is the day.
Nine miles, Surrey Quays, a wall of sound. Shirts proclaiming “running for Mum”: that’s what chokes the throat. Onto the Rotherhithe Peninsula. Run once in training, so dull, knew I wouldn’t be back until today and now it’s packed. Canary Wharf so near and yet ten miles ahead. The drizzle begins. And then rain, torrential rain, it’s like swimming and it’s great, raw, refreshing. Still strong. Jamaica Road behind a mankini. The crowds are still out despite the downpour. Twelve miles, turn right, Tower Bridge. Is this real? It’s a climb but I’m running with a big smile, this isthe London Marathon. Turn right, heading towards Docklands, half way, two hours. That’s good, but it’s starting to hurt. And it’s meant to hurt. Keep going. It’s a mental game. What does that mean?
Along The Highway. A handful of elite runners pass in the opposite direction. Good, I’m not too slow. Trying to take water at every stop but struggling to get it down. Stomach is sore. Stop to try and pee again: nothing (and nor would there be until late that evening). Keep going. Crisis supporters’ point ahead at Westferry, that’s the next target. Into Docklands. The smell of barbecue turns the stomach. Past the Crisis zone, keep focused, can’t stop, hardly spotted them, was the family there? I didn’t see them. Phew, it’s starting to get sore. Wish I hadn’t lost that last month of training.
Seventeen miles. Okay, I’ll walk after the next water stop to get as much down as I can. Where is it, they’re meant to be every mile but only where there’s a long stretch of road. Hell, there isn’t one. But keep going. Mile eighteen, finally, water, get it down, start off again. Come on. Look, Canary Wharf is so near. Tired legs. Through the office buildings, very crowded but oddly quiet, scan the faces for anyone I know but nothing. It’s hard looking at both sides whilst running. Actually it’s hard running. I’ve never run this far before and I’m still going, that’s good. Past Billingsgate Market, a row of toilets, the cramp is making me want to do some business but once again nothing happening. Queuing doesn’t help my mile pace which is dropping below ten minutes.
Finally back in the right direction, towards the city. Is this a housing estate? Sunshine. Past the Limehouse Link and onto The Highway in the reverse direction. Still some runners coming through eight miles behind me. A stilt walker followed by the clean-up team. The crowds are noisier now but I’m walking, running, walking a little, running. My name’s called out several times in a row as I’m walking along. Pip! I pass her my belt with a snarl, sorry Pip, that was a bad moment. Onwards, churning onwards. So many people call my name. “Cris!”; “Crisis, oh, er, Joel”, yes, the charity name on the vest is a lot bigger than mine. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes. Dropping to eleven minute miles
Twenty two miles, onto Upper Thames Street, nearly home. Crowds line the canyon of office blocks. “Come on Joel, start running. Nearly there mate”. Motivating and well intentioned but I’m tempted to tell them to “Feck off and die, I don’t see you running a marathon”. Tired now. Head down. Pushing through; painful; walk, run, walk, run. Into the tunnel. Only runners now, silence. Disheartening to be walking by the side as a sea of jogging backs, head down, flows past. Must keep going. Onto the Embankment. Really near now. Hard. Keep going, come on. You’ll do this in under four and a half hours. You’ve got time. Keep moving. Wince. Move.
Under Blackfriars Bridge. A hill! I didn’t expect this but drift up. Raining hard again. Push, push, towards Embankment Station. Spot M, M, M and M on the far side. At least I’m running. I hope they didn’t see me walking twenty seconds ago. Twenty five miles, the final marker. Turn onto Parliament Square. I cannot walk now, cannot walk now, not now, not on Birdcage Walk. Every step is a challenge. Run/jog. Keep going. Not noticing the crowds, trying to focus. Look out for the family but not there despite their best efforts. The 600 metres sign, really, so far to go?
Under the 26 mile steps. The Palace. 400 metres. One more corner to turn. 200 metres. The finish line in sight. Really? I’ve almost done it! The PA plays something uplifting, I don’t remember what, as the announcer reminds us we’re “finishers of the London Marathon 2008″. Nearly there. Go for the centre gate, the ones the winners use. Follow the blue line. Look around. No fancy dress or old men, just other tired runners. Nearly there. Can’t pick up speed. Keep going. Arms up for the photo, keep them there, over the line, yes, yes, yes. I’ve finished it! Stop the watch. 4h29m22s. That was too close to 4h30.
I’ve done it. I’ve run the marathon.
Chip removed, photo taken, goodie bag received, on with the tin foil, a hobble to the exit. Pass a runner collapsed on the ground. To Admiralty Arch. Family and friends. It’s all gone by so quickly, was that really four and a half hours? I feel fine, but I’m done.
And I’ll do better next time.
It’s time
London awaits.
The Marathon
It’s time to talk about The Marathon.
When first accepted back in late November (on the same day as I applied for an Olympic distance triathlon – a notable planning error) I’d intended to write about my training progress, the highs and lows, the dark nights, the hills of South London, the long lonely miles. And maybe I will yet. But for now those memories are being locked away in the back of my tiny mind as I prepare for running 26.2 miles on Sunday morning.
There’s nothing special about doing it. More than 600,000 competitors have completed the London race in the past twenty years, indeed I can think of two or three friends who are running it this year. I know I’m capable of running it in a vaguely respectable time. For me, however, it wasn’t meant to be like this and that’s what makes it rather exciting, a little frightening and very new. Let me explain.
As my great but distant friend Nic wrote when he heard I’d won a place, “Nice one Joel. If there is something you excel at, it is applying to stuff”. He’s right but, like an Iraqi invasion planner, I rarely consider the consequences. Knowing the London marathon is always grossly over-subscribed I was comfortable knowing that my effort would not be wasted and I’d soon be receiving a consolation marathon-branded raincoat in lieu of a place. So it’s difficult to believe that I’ll be running in the race that I sat watching from my sofa just last year.
Clearly I am not an athlete. I was the unsporty academic kid at school, having the same waist size now that I did when I was 14, and never took part in organised sport. If you saw my hand-eye co-ordination you’d understand why, indeed it’s a mystery how I ever got a pilot’s licence. I meandered through my twenties doing plenty of cycling and bouts of going to the gym, but never more; in my 29th year I completed a very unimpressive run in the Reading Half Marathon, being beaten by a caterpillar of management consultants, and was confident I’d never run again. The scales were heading hovering around 90kg and I was tipping into my early 30s.
It was through a couple of unconnected friends that I head about BMF, a bootcamp-type circuit training class in London parks run by ex-Army PTIs . On the hottest July day ever in 2005 I went for my trial class, enjoyed being outside and being shouted at in a friendly way, and started attending two or three times a week. Gradually my fitness improved, I got stronger and even developed a little bit more muscle. The idea of going out for a class on a dark winter’s evening has been known to be something I’d look forward to rather than fear. How odd. Except for occasional breaks through illness or being dragged away for work, I’m now the fittest I’ve ever been and have met lots of really nice people. The day I took a fitness test and realised that I qualified for the advanced class was a remarkable one. Me! In the top class!
But I am still no athlete. The step up from running around the park for an hour with plenty of waterstops and secret breathers to running a marathon is very significant. Indeed I’m not sure I really appreciate what a difference it will be. Ask me at mile 25 on Sunday morning.
If you’re interested we’ll come back to my training experiences some point soon; it’s the feelings now that are the most surprising to me. Because the most unexpected emotion is… emotion. From the moment I received my confirmed entry the thought of crossing the line can almost bring a tear to my eye. I visualise the race taking place and it puts a smile on my face. When I collected my number yesterday and the woman said ‘have a great race’ I actually choked a little!
This is not the first race I’ve run. I’m not climbing Everest. I’m just going for a long run around South London in the rain. But I think it’s the enormity of the challenge – this has to be harder, physically, than anything I’ve ever tried before – and the size of the event, and the crowds, and the support, and… well, it all adds up to quite an exhilarating feeling. I’m going to be part of something big. For a reasonably laid-back and self-deprecating fella it’s a pretty big deal to have people out to support me. In advance, thank you all.
I have no idea how the day will go, no perspective on what it will be like at the finish, no real sense of what I’ve got myself into. Everyone with whom I’ve spoken about running it has said they enjoyed every moment – okay, one said it was the “worst day of her life” but she’s a little prone to hyperbole and even she admitted she enjoyed it afterwards – and that’s the spirit with which I approach Sunday. To hell with a time, even though I have one or two in mind: I’m going to savour the day.
And if you fancy adding to my fund-raising at www.justgiving.com/getdown, the day might go even better!
It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m having trouble forming coherent sentences of more than four words and without two or more commas but I wanted to share with you a hint of how it feels to be approaching my first marathon – or should I say my first World Major? No caterpillar’s going to beat me this time. Now if I could just shake these damned nerves and visualise myself turning the corner into the Mall…
Fahrenheit 451
I’ve not been in these parts for ages thanks to the often welcome pleasures of real life and work life. There’s plenty to show and tell but you’ll have to bear with me as I work through it.
Meanwhile, as I discussed with Pat recently, there’s no point posting useless self-indulgent stuff on a website for the sake of it. Who cares a jot? On the otherhand I do spend random moments of my day hopping around the internet on aimless errands of discovery which occasionally turn up gems of delight. Rather than dump them here, I’ve been dropping little bits and pieces into a Tumblelog. Although I tend to forget to do it.
Anyhow, if the fancy takes you then pop over to Fahrenheit 451 (don’t ask) and see what I’ve tripped over.
A work of art
Sketching the beauty of Plaza Arenal, Jerez de la Frontera. Sitting in the warm morning sunlight as London drowned was priceless.
Cross the runway, expedite
Gibraltar’s a funny place. By funny I mean odd rather than ho ho ho. Park the car, walk across an international border (the Schengen Treaty has made travel a lot less exciting if a lot more convenient), traverse the airport runway, walk through a hole in the wall and enter Margate c.1974.
An uphill struggle
A lot of Andalucia’s built on a slope, and most residents seem to be at least 65 years old, so the electric wheelchair is the ride of choice. Must be hell across the cobbles.
Arcos de la Frontera
Flying above the land surrounding Jerez airport, we made a number of sorties past Arcos de la Frontera. It’s a pretty town located atop a stunning rock – the ideal defensive location.
Naughty naughty
What do you think you’re looking at?
