I don't remember the start of the 2013 Manchester marathon being anywhere near as crowded as this year's edition, but of course I've not researched the difference in runner numbers to know if it's a fair comparison either. But one thing I do know is that my opening paragraph sums up at least the first 3 miles on Sunday gone, if not a few more.
10k done. I feel comfortable, maintaining a coasting speed that I feel could go on forever, but even though I don't want to admit it, I know in the back of my mind that I'll slow before the end.
I think it was around this point that I started needing a wee. Even though I went to the toilet literally 10 minutes before the gun went off, looking back I think I over-hydrated. I always find hydration the most difficult thing to get right, either not enough and you get dehydrated or too much and you need to stop for the toilet.
"Well done, Sale!" I glance over and give a small wave and smile. I realise I'm crossing the Mersey and the next couple of miles will be uplifting. In a moment of madness, I've already decided to put a little time between me and the 3:30 pacer so I can make the pit stop I need, and have gone from 8 minute miles to about 7:45.
Running through Sale was as great as I expected, lots of familiar faces cheering me on, lots of unfamiliar faces likewise for that matter. I saw another Harrier who should have been running, but due to illness made the sensible decision not to. I can't say I know how it feels to put so much effort in to training and not see it come to fruition, but my heart went out to him. Cheers from club mates and family echoing in my ears, a fresh bottle of Lucozade in my hand thanks to my partner at the unofficial aid station outside our flat, and I was on to a winner. Or so I thought...
I can hear people talking about the 3:30 pacer. At least 2 miles have gone by at a faster pace than I can maintain and it turns out I've put about 20 meters between us. Disappointment.
I spend at least another 10 miles looking out for a convenient place to answer nature's call, but all the portaloos have queues, and it's too busy most places to just stop at the side of the race.
Halfway. Watch says 1:43 and some change. I allow myself a metaphorical pat on the back. I'm still feeling good apart from the need to wee, which the opportunity to do so will come at any moment. Still, the 3:30 pacer is hanging around like a bad smell. He's beginning to annoy me now. Why hasn't he dropped back yet?
The road leading in to and out of Altrincham is perhaps the most distressing and elating part of the course. For around 3 miles either way, you see first of all the really fast marathoners and think "lucky gits, they'll be done an hour (or more) before me", which is so demoralising it makes you want to hang your Mizunos up right there. But then, on the way back, you have a sense of what the 4:30+ hour marathoners are thinking and you're suddenly struck by an overwhelming sympathy along the lines of "I'd hate to be in your shoes right now, but keep going!". I'll be in the pub with a celebratory beer soon.
"Steve!" My brother-in-law is getting snap-happy by Brooklands tram stop. I give him a smile and a high five, I'm still feeling good knowing I'll see Lyzzi and Pumpkin round the corner, and then it's down to single digit miles remaining.
Round said corner, a series of events was about to happen that I'm sure now was to decide the outcome of my race. Had I already stopped for the wee I so desperately needed, it might have been a different story.
First, I clock Lyzzi on the right. Wait, on the right? I was expecting left. I hadn't thought about how difficult it would be to get through the runners to the other side. I try to get over and shout her attention. I can't get close enough, it's too busy and I can't slow down. I resign myself to the fate of no Lucozade and the possibility of having a brilliant get out clause. I've already had a couple of "can't keep this up" thoughts.
Second, I hear a shout from behind. I turn, and see her running after me, bottle in hand trying to get to me. I decide I have to take it so her effort doesn't go to waste, jumping across the path of other runners to do so, but still tell her off for "running in [her] condition". A few seconds later and I'm running the correct way again, and somewhat belatedly shout "Love you" to her. I don't think she hears.
Third and perhaps crucially, the 3:30 pacer has passed me. My morale sinks, my legs are beginning to feel the strain and I think about dropping out and heading back for a hug.
No. Not this day. Not this time. Lyzzi's made the effort to run her own personal marathon to keep me in mine, I'm not going to let her down. I can't. I must keep going.
It was at that point that I knew I was going to finish. I've been through much worse, and I'm sure I'll go through worse again. There was no way I was going to drop out, and what's more, I didn't even mind knowing I wouldn't get the 3:30 I so desperately wanted which was snatched away from me 2 years earlier. I decided that I didn't need the extra pressure that time put on me. I would just try and hold on and keep sight of the pacer, then I'd be reasonably close.
"Sod it man, just go" 3 miles later. Still not had my wee. I've just clocked this reasonably sheltered bush by the side of the road. I pull up and nip in and take what seems to be the world's longest pit stop, longer than I'd take to refill my water bladder and have a bite to eat at an aid station during an ultra. I get out and the pacer has disappeared from sight.
"Sod it man, just go" 3 miles later. Still not had my wee. I've just clocked this reasonably sheltered bush by the side of the road. I pull up and nip in and take what seems to be the world's longest pit stop, longer than I'd take to refill my water bladder and have a bite to eat at an aid station during an ultra. I get out and the pacer has disappeared from sight.
It was then I knew full well that literally nothing would get me 3:30 that day. And I was happy. I can't explain it, but I felt more comfortable, was running lighter and easier (probably something to do with the liquid disposal) and I was just happy thinking I will probably still be on for a PB as long as I had no injury.
20 miles. Maths time. 2:40 on the watch. 50 minutes for a 10k? On any given day I'd consider that a nice, warming run. Admittedly I'd probably not have already ran 20 miles. Let's try.
20 miles. Maths time. 2:40 on the watch. 50 minutes for a 10k? On any given day I'd consider that a nice, warming run. Admittedly I'd probably not have already ran 20 miles. Let's try.
So that's what I did. I tried to pick up the pace again, only to hit resistance. I kept churning effort into my legs, but they weren't responding. It wasn't right. "Don't be a wuss" was what I thought to myself, although I may have used a stronger word. In any previous long distance race I've always believed in mind over matter, when I tell myself to do something, my body can, and will do it. Not this time though. This time I think I've actually done it. I've actually hit the wall. This was confirmed within another mile or so, when I found myself walking, with great difficulty, and not for the last time.
They're judging me for walking. All these hypocritical people who are stood watching, not having the guts to try, are judging me.
Of course, they were not, they were merely satisfying their natural curiosity, trying to get a glimpse of what such a challenge takes. Where this journey takes people. I knew they won't find it there by the side of the road, but I could appreciate why they were there. Supporting friends, family, taking the dog for a walk, are runners themselves. I wanted to be there, comfortable in warm, dry clothes cheering on the gutsy ones. Handing out jelly babies to the masses and hearing a muttered thank you from under a wheezy breath.
I can runners coming towards me. Strange. I check to see I'm still going in the right direction. Ah that makes sense, they're supporters. It's fellow Harriers Paul and Sarah. I give them a wave and a grin, or maybe it was a grimace. I don't know. They cheer me on, and it makes the difference. Suddenly I remember, Harriers don't walk, they fly.
They're judging me for walking. All these hypocritical people who are stood watching, not having the guts to try, are judging me.
Of course, they were not, they were merely satisfying their natural curiosity, trying to get a glimpse of what such a challenge takes. Where this journey takes people. I knew they won't find it there by the side of the road, but I could appreciate why they were there. Supporting friends, family, taking the dog for a walk, are runners themselves. I wanted to be there, comfortable in warm, dry clothes cheering on the gutsy ones. Handing out jelly babies to the masses and hearing a muttered thank you from under a wheezy breath.
I can runners coming towards me. Strange. I check to see I'm still going in the right direction. Ah that makes sense, they're supporters. It's fellow Harriers Paul and Sarah. I give them a wave and a grin, or maybe it was a grimace. I don't know. They cheer me on, and it makes the difference. Suddenly I remember, Harriers don't walk, they fly.
I honestly don't have a clue how much further there was to run at that point, but I made a conscious effort to not walk anymore, which I stuck to. I found myself on the last long stretch of the course, Chester Road, chasing down a 3:35, which, all considered, would be a pretty good time. I had found a new source of energy since the dark patch a couple of miles back, and managed to pass quite a few people from mile 25.
Chin up. Shoulders relaxed. Breathe. Better pick it up here, you can get 3:35, but you've got to want it. Where's that inner speed demon finish you used to have?
Turning the last corner on to Sir Matt Busby Way, I don't remember much. I just focused on the finish line and ran as fast as my legs would carry me. Everything was a blur, cheers and commentary had melded into one monotonous hum and all I could think was "don't throw up". I did remember to stop my Garmin. 3:35:06 is what it said, but I knew there was a little bit of allowance. I wouldn't know until quite a bit later on that my official time was 3:35... and 2 seconds.
Not this time, Steveland. But there's always next time.
Chin up. Shoulders relaxed. Breathe. Better pick it up here, you can get 3:35, but you've got to want it. Where's that inner speed demon finish you used to have?
Turning the last corner on to Sir Matt Busby Way, I don't remember much. I just focused on the finish line and ran as fast as my legs would carry me. Everything was a blur, cheers and commentary had melded into one monotonous hum and all I could think was "don't throw up". I did remember to stop my Garmin. 3:35:06 is what it said, but I knew there was a little bit of allowance. I wouldn't know until quite a bit later on that my official time was 3:35... and 2 seconds.
Not this time, Steveland. But there's always next time.
