Brighton Marathon 2012

[Sweder]

Reflections on my Brighton Marathon experience will appear here just as soon as I've got them in some kind of understandable order.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Have a great day cheering and clapping and please do write that race report!

All the best...

[Sweder]

Apologies for the delay, various technical issues with laptops and the mojo wire. Should have something up here this week. For now here's something for the stat monkeys. Before you all start the 10k splits are from my watch and as we know are likely to be a guide at best.

10K 51:05
20K 1:43:48 (52:43)
Half 1:50:32 (chip) (1:49:32 watch)
30K 2:36:29 (52:81)
40K 3:36:15 (59:86)
FIN 3:52:81 (chip)

The watch anomoly at the end suggests a lost signal at the power station. That or I turned the watch off and on again. I don't remember doing so and there's no way to see that on the data, but who knows? It was an extremely dark place in all senses. Maybe Satan slipped out of the shadows to guide my hand.

But hold, let's not spoil the fun. I'm investing in a new watch this year, waiting to see what folks thing about the best model.
I'll need it, as I've just entered BM2013. Should a better offer come along I can always defer ...

[glaconman]

ppp

[marathondan]

I'm investing in a new watch this year, waiting to see what folks thing about the best model.
I'll need it, as I've just entered BM2013.

Strictly speaking, that's actually the one place you won't need it. In a race with mile posts, you can time manually. I have a £25 Casio with a split button, and it did me proud.

But good news that you've already entered Brighton again (good luck with the second mortgage) - I sense there may be some unfinished business...

[El Gordo]

Apologies for the delay, various technical issues with laptops and the mojo wire. Should have something up here this week. For now here's something for the stat monkeys. Before you all start the 10k splits are from my watch and as we know are likely to be a guide at best.

10K 51:05
20K 1:43:48 (52:43)
Half 1:50:32 (chip) (1:49:32 watch)
30K 2:36:29 (52:81)
40K 3:36:15 (59:86)
FIN 3:52:81 (chip)

The watch anomoly at the end suggests a lost signal at the power station. That or I turned the watch off and on again. I don't remember doing so and there's no way to see that on the data, but who knows? It was an extremely dark place in all senses. Maybe Satan slipped out of the shadows to guide my hand.

But hold, let's not spoil the fun. I'm investing in a new watch this year, waiting to see what folks thing about the best model.
I'll need it, as I've just entered BM2013. Should a better offer come along I can always defer ...

Well, I don't know about a better offer but I've been compiling a list of Swiss races, mainly for my own fantasy purposes, but with half an eye on possibilities for visiting athletes. So far, I can't quite find the perfect April race. The big spring marathon is Zurich, but while it's scenic enough -- around the lake -- it's all on tarmac and much of it is out and back.

There are a few I have my eye on, and in particular, the Swissalpine series -- http://www.swissalpine.ch/cms/index.php?aid=1008 around Davos / Klosters looks like a good target, with distances from 10K - 78K (!) covering a number of routes and terrains, including a marathon -- http://www.swissalpine.ch/cms/k42-competition.phtml -- but it's in late July this year, and presumably next, so am not sure about the weather. It's hot down 'ere then, but perhaps up there it might be cooler. It's a big deal for Swiss runners, combining a mass event with a load of options e.g. downhill 30K v an uphill half marathon, and running / walking events.

But anyway, stand by -- I'll post some info soon. TBH, this is more for my own purposes, but I may as well share. I can also reveal the shocking news that I've started a proper new post summing up the highs and lows of the year so far, and what's in the pipedream, er sorry, pipeline.

[Seafront Plodder]

I can also reveal the shocking news that I've started a proper new post summing up the highs and lows of the year so far, and what's in the pipedream, er sorry, pipeline.

Hurrah.

[The Beast of Bevendean]

Can't wait for the race report. Watch wisdom: newer is not necessarily better. I have never liked my Garmin 405 and much prefer its predecessor, which was easier to operate and see. I was suckered in by neophilia.

[El Gordo]

Can't wait for the race report. Watch wisdom: newer is not necessarily better. I have never liked my Garmin 405 and much prefer it's predecessor, which was easier to operate and see. I was suckered in by neophilia.

I'll avoid any reference to calendars, which created too much turmoil last time. I have the Garmin 305, and have had it for a few years now, whch I suspect is the predecessor in question? Agree, it does a decent job though like most gadgetry I'm sure I don't get the best value from it, using only a small portion of its feature set. Prior to that I had the formidable 201 which I liked too, though its enormity drove me to upgrade. The 305 is still pretty big, but manages to remain on just the right side of ungainliness.

At some point I will probably change but I would like to see a leap in functionality. In particular (and possibly this innovation has already arrived with the later Garmins - I haven't checked), the ability to use as a normal watch. The brief battery life makes this impossible with the 305.

[The Beast of Bevendean]

And the old one was more robust. This may not be a consideration for you, Sweder, as sure-footed as the herds of Steinbock that graze in El Gordo's garden, but if anyone falls over a lot while running, it's a point to bear in mind. Remember Bewl 15 in 2009....

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I have a 405 as well, and while it is far superior to the old 201 in terms of size and performance (finds the sats very quickly and doesn't lose them even in difficult terrain), its touch sensitivity is ridiculous and tends to behave erratically when wet (even with sweat, so like, every run) which is annoying. If only they'd kept it simple.

[Sweder]

I rather like Dan's idea on raceday (which for me is when it really matters). I like the elevation charts offered by my current watch. In most respects it behaves quite well so I'll stick with it for now and take race timing from t'chip. Not that I'm planning to race again any time soon. My next outing is on Sunday when I'm due to referee a charity tournament at the Dripping Pan. 4 x 30 minute 'halves'. I may spend quite a lot of time in the centre circle ...

[marathondan]

Ah, refereeing. Best take along your birth certificate and eye test results, just to clear up any disputes.

I see the Rooks have a crunch game on Saturday, and could still make the playoffs. Looks like the club is really stabilising after all the problems.

Maidenhead need a win - and other results - to stay up. Last season they escaped the drop on the last day.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Here's one for you Sweder, with a rather special guest star:

[Sweder]

Good old Dave Grohl. He and Motorhead have a deep and meaningful relationship.
Nice to see them pooling their, ah, talents ...

[Sweder]

No man is so foolish but he may sometimes give another good counsel, and no man so wise that he may not easily err if he takes no other counsel than his own.
He that is taught only by himself has a fool for a master.
– Hunter S. Thompson

Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.
– Roy Keane

To enter such a demanding event knowingly under-cooked might be considered foolish; nay, reckless. To do so in the firm belief that you might run your best time is arrogance bordering on insanity. And yet ... in all honesty, how many of us, however secretly, harbour those crazy, unrealistic dreams as we join the shuffling, travelling throng in the early half-light, clutching our branded clothes bags as the vox humana swells. ‘Perhaps today’s the day, when it all falls into place, like rain out of a clear blue sky. My training’s not been the best, but you know ...’

I’d decided to take Southern Rail’s finest to the start. I worked this out when, on Saturday, I got around to finding out where the race start was. Preston Park is a short stroll from London Road on the Brighton line, so that was easy. Come Sunday morning I was still unsure of the start time. This laid back approach was in part deliberate. I wanted to casually sidle up to the event, as if by doing so I could somehow lessen the impact on my ill-prepared body. By the time I’d negotiated the woefully understaffed ticket office at Lewes and wedged myself in between two lycra-clad lovelies, that pretence had evaporated in the heady hubbub of excited pre-race chatter.

A seasoned runner who tells you he’s not looking for a time is akin to the squint-eyed golf hustler telling you he’s not played for months. I had not one, but two goals in mind. First I wanted to bag a sub-four hour run, thereafter a PB. I’d had such plans when I started this campaign. I was going to run the Road to Hell, the dispiriting, seemingly endless slog out to and around the monolithic Shoreham Power Station. I was going to add hours of hard-top pounding to the end of my Sunday hill runs. This time, more than any other time this time, I’m gonna find a way, find a way to …

Sorry. Invoking the spirit of England’s doomed 1982 World Cup effort might seem a little melodramatic, even for me, not to mention painful for football fans of a certain age. The facts are there for all to see, a stark condemnation of another ill-fated campaign launched in a fanfare of optimism. The seeds of failure were sewn long before the happy hopefuls boarded that BA flight to Spain, Glenn Hoddle's flowing locks a precursor to David Hasslehoff in his Baywatch super slo-mo pomp. Bryan Robson's shoulder was still a functioning part of his body. The World was their lobster ...

One out of four planned long runs in March, albeit a successful nineteen miler, is a pitiful return. Zero trips out to Shoreham or any other long, flat, soul/ knee destroying floggings completed, just the one solitary hard-paved add-on to weighed against all those good intentions.

And yet despite all this evidence to the contrary, I had this feeling that things would be OK. This mood was enhanced when I reached the park. Despite an icy chill in the air, the sun beamed through the treetops to keep us warm. I ran into the JDRF crew, then Lycra Tony and Jog Shop Sam, all buzzing and tripped out, high on ambient adrenaline, flowing like Ralgex-tinted incense across the battlefield. Around us runners gathered, stretching, chatting, queuing for toilets in lines that stretched for hundreds of yards. I took a call from Cam. She, Heather, and Mandy were by the baggage trucks. I set out through an ocean of knights preparing to battle their own personal demons, an array of fluorescent tops, shorts, and hats, branded tents, fluttering flags, enjoying the feel of what’s becoming a pretty big event. 18,000 were set to start under the somewhat bleary eye of Brighton & Hove Albion manager Gus Poyet. Gus knows a thing or two about taking a beating, having just returned from Upton Park with the ugly vibrations of a six-nil drubbing ringing in his ears.

I found Cam, exchanged hugs and set off for the start pen. A year ago I’d boldly put down my target time of 3:45. In exchange for such brass, the organisers afforded me a place in the red pen, just behind the elite runners. There were plenty expecting a good run as the pen was rammed. The girls were all ‘reds’ too. We managed to stay together until we’d crossed the start line (several minutes after the gun). We ran around the outside of the park, drawing level with the start after several (seven?) minutes, where, unbelievably, runners were still trudging towards the launch mats.

The first few miles were spent chatting with Cam. Heather and Mandy took off, we two happy enough to bobble along with the masses. I barely glanced at my watch, but it felt like we were moving at a decent clip. My game-plan, such as it was, was to go out as hard as I could manage ‘without pushing’. When the inevitable arrived, I’d see how long I’d got left and try to hang on to the finish. It’s not a technique I’d recommend. Far better to have a solid strategy built on mile markers, to pace oneself through the stages of the race. My disjointed approach had shot that all to hell. Like when James T. Kirk faced the unfair trial of the Kobayashi Maru, I elected to stick two fingers up to perceived wisdom and deploy the El Gordo defence circa Zurich 2006. Hanging on in quiet desperation is, after all, the English way. The big question was when would the bell toll? I would know for whom but just when would the benefit from the small amount of training I had done run out? When would those under-cooked legs start to coil up like severed tension wires? I had no idea.

[Sweder]

Our route took us through Brighton central, past the pavilion and east along the coast road. This involved some hill work, first the climb from sea level to meet the road above the Marina, then the all-too-familiar cliff-top road to Ovingdean and Rottingdean. I checked the watch and saw we were hitting between 8:15 and 8:30 miling. I felt great, chewing on carefully prepared Soreen segments, ibuprofen washed down by drinks proffered from the well-appointed water stations. At one point we were offered shot blocks, nasty lumps of semi-solid jelly, dished out from bowls by smiling marshals. The water system was a welcome reminder of Cape Town, sealed bags with peel-back tabs to allow drinking on the run. I failed this particular test, not realising the way to handle these was to get your tongue along the edge of the tab and squeeze. I squeezed like a man trying to crush a beer can, eventually rewarded with a cool jet straight up both nostrils. This caused an almighty coughing fit (much to Cam’s consternation), but I soldiered on, laughing it off as I fought for breath.

We turned at Rottingdean, a tight horse-shoe affair that spun us around to face west. I loved being near the front of the race. All those faces glancing at us as we set off downhill towards the ocean, on-coming eyes flashing green as they worked uphill, wishing they were where we were now. We ran back into Brighton, plunged into a frothing sea of spectators, their cheers and claps becoming a great roar as we reached the pier. We passed the Brighton Centre, and there before us was halfway. The overhead clock showed 1:54. My Garmin showed 1:51 as we crossed the chip mats. Blimey, that’s quick. Oh, well. On, on, making the right turn off the seafront to start the inexorable haul out through Hove. This is the start of the soul-sucking section, where step by weary step the beast drains your resolve, batters your legs and crushes your spirit. The first of two horribly straight, mercilessly long out-and-back flogs. I could see the heads bobbing a good mile ahead and all the way back to us. It was my turn for envy. The leaders were already heading back to us, several miles in front, racing balls-out back towards the seafront. Bastards.

By the time we reached the turning point at Portslade, my resolve was badly dented. My legs were heavy, our pace had dropped into the high eights, nudging the nines. Inevitable, I know, yet I strove to keep us in the eights, digging a little deeper, pushing a little harder. I knew right then that when I went, when the energy left me and the legs started to turn to stone, I’d not be able to shake it off. Whilst I still had warm blood in my veins I needed to keep the pace up. We reeled Heather in, spying her limp-shuffle from a few hundred yards back. She had calf issues, smiling wanly as we drew alongside. We wished her well and pressed on. Not for the first time Cam questioned our pace. ‘We’re going a bit quick,’ she breathed.
‘Gotta keep pushing, we’re going well,’ I rasped.

I knew Cam was in much better shape. She’d expressed concerns about finishing in less than four hours, but she’d completed all her long runs, including a monstrous 22-miler that took in all the usual Jog Shop sites. The only question was how long would I be able to stay with her. As the endless procession along Church Road took us back towards the seafront — at the very point we’d left it some 35 minutes and 7 kilometres earlier — I felt the first nagging tug. My calves, until now pain free, felt solid. There was no doubting things were on the slide. Turning right onto the main road at thirty kilometres, the fishhooks of doom started snagging my weary muscles. I pushed on, keeping that number in the eights as long as I could. Once you let that slip, nine becomes ten, ten, eleven and thereafter you’re walking. The Walking Dead ...

Not for nothing is the long haul out to Shoreham Power Station known locally as the Road to Hell. The lack of skulls, tortured souls nailed up along the roadside, this is where the fun stops and the real pain begins. Just when your body starts to fail, the crowds dissipate to leave you alone with your thoughts and the relentless slap, slap, slap of feet on tarmac. That feeling of spinning a large ball under your feet as your target seems to gently float away from you is gut-wrenching. I’d chugged a caffeine infusion, one of those vile energy boosts in a bright green bottle, without notable effect. Water, sports drinks, another Soreen chunk, ibuprofen ... it’s a wonder I didn’t barf up a lung right there. Inevitably I slowed, and Cam, having held back to keep Heather and Mandy company, cruised alongside. I glanced at her and waved for her to go on. ‘Lot of pain,’ I gasped. 'Push on, see you at the finish.’

At a certain point in a marathon, darkness falls. Demons dance, pain-sprites pull and poke at weary limbs and hug your chest as if to squeeze the last ounce of resistance from your flagging frame. Had Dante been wise to these moments, he would surely have chucked in a marathon between Hell and Purgatory, with the final cruel and twisted miles repeated until such time as the poor wretch should fall into despair. It never got that bad for me but it came too close for comfort.

The 21-mile marker drifted past as we approached the deserted timber yard that surrounds the power station. A handful of marshals clapped and cheered but they couldn’t mask the desolation of the place. As I rounded the long turn, desperate to be facing east, knowing that would mean a long, straight run for home, my left hamstring went tight. I gasped. Pain was one thing, but a mechanical failure would spell the end. I eased down to a lazy jog, taking stock and another swig of water. Slowing seemed to help. Both calves were now stone, quads tenderized mincemeat, but nothing was yet unbearable. I pushed a little and managed to get back up to nine minute thirty pace for a while. At last I was eastbound, heading back to the point where the west/east runners converged. The sight of red, straining faces struggling towards me in their hundreds lifting me a little, but after another minute or so I felt my shoulders sag as the pain took hold.

Into mile 22 I took a walk break, relishing the relief in my legs. My lungs felt good, I had plenty of energy; it was simply my legs, betrayed by their soft-skinned downland mistress, unable to cope with the brutal hammering on mile after mile of unforgiving concrete. The pain was second only to the looming fear that I might hear something snap.

It wasn’t a case of seeking inspiration, of summoning up the forces of good to help fight the evils of fatigue. My legs just would not bloody work. They were solid, wretched, useless stilts on which I teetered towards the end. I was convinced something had to give, sending me nose-first into a colourful line of trainers. I had to push on, keep changing stride, walk a bit, curse a bit, jog on. You chose this path I told myself. You could have bobbled round in 4:20 and felt fine and dandy. But no, you had to try.

I was running to raise money for Diabetes Scholars Foundation, but whilst that’s a noble cause and one close to my heart, it’s not the reason I lined up. I wanted to push myself, see what I could do in spite of everything telling me I wouldn’t do terribly well. My goal at the start of any race is to learn something about myself, to dip my toes into the wellspring of potential and see just how cold that water really is. Connemara was exhilarating — a challenge — but I never felt as in danger of not making it as I did on the mean streets of Hove. I sailed close to the wind then into it face first. Feel the burn! Feel that sting! That’s hubris, Bubba.

The walk/jog/run/jog/walk shuffle was in full effect. Through the next mile in around eleven minutes or so. A steady stream of runners passed me. I could see the Peace Statue up ahead – the irony! Peace? Ha! - the crowds now several deep, unwilling to let me walk for long, demanding I give everything. Give us your all! Spill your heart out on the stage! I did. I left it all out there on that sun-stroked tarmac; I’d saved nothing for the finish. A familiar cry went up at the Peace Statue, and I looked up to see Jeannette waving and smiling from the steps. I smiled back, a grin-cum-grimace, and tried to respond with a lively jog. I made it halfway up the slope before slowing once more. Decrepit, alone save for the occasional wheeling, screeching gull the West Pier sat in the calm ocean, watching this procession of madness roll past. I knew the JDRF crew would be here, Mile 25, and mustered some unused bravado; a straight back, a ‘Shearer’, a smile. Just as I approached, I sensed another runner slow to my pace. I looked up to see Jon Metcalf, co ordinator-in-chief for JDRF and a solid 3:30 man. He looking worried.

‘You OK? What are you doing up here?’ He meant well, but it felt like an admonishment.
I assured Jon I’d be fine, that it was simply pain, I’d hobble to the finish. Hobble was right. Both hamstrings were tight fit to bust, calves leaden, dead slabs hanging off the back of my knees. Nothing I tried — stride patterns, body stance, pointing my toes in — had any effect. It was all I could do to walk fast or jog slow, suck up the pain (thanks Chris) and keep my eyes on the horizon. Another shout, this one from across the road. Two figures frantically waving, smiles beaming out across the promenade; Mrs S and S Minor, bouncing on their toes, roaring me on. I waved, grinning, and jogged once more but before I got close to the still-functioning pier I pulled up again, pain coursing through both thighs.

At last, Madeira Drive, the begining of the end, a gauntlet of a few hundred yards that lasted a lifetime. Crowds ten deep waved and cheered, baying for sport, a heroic endeavour, a mighty scream and a head-thrown-back Liddel-esque dash for the line. Sod that. I hobble-jogged as best I could, teeth clamped together, grateful the hoards couldn’t see my eyes screwed tight behind my sunglasses. I looked up one last time — the finish line. The clock started with a three. I said a silent ‘thank you’ to who or whatever had kept me going long enough to get here and crossed the line, utterly spent.

‘Please keep moving,’ a gentle hand on my shoulder guided me towards a line of what looked like dinner ladies proffering medals. I stooped to take mine and kissed the provider on the cheek. I felt no elation, false though it would have been, at the time on the watch. I stood tall, trying to stretch, but it was all I could do not to fall over, so I staggered on, picking up my goodie bag, drinking in the sights and sounds of, jabbering runners, eyes wide, smiles broadl in the sunshine. When finally confirmed, first here by Dan then later with a peek at the official results website, my chip time of 3:52 and change still felt incongruous. It didn't feel like a sub-four run. Whereas in Paris I'd run across the line, arms outstretched, eyes wide in unabated elation, here I'd stumbled home, drained, crippled, a drunken, shambling wreck of a man..

Days later, I’m feeling good about things.
I’ve convinced myself I can go back and do it better, faster, stronger. I can rebuild it, the Six Million Dollar Marathon. Of course I’ve been here before — we all have. Delusional visions of perfect training sessions, uninterrupted by work, events, life in general. I’ve entered the 2013 race, and as I told MLCMan the other day, I’m going to shatter 3:45.

[Sweder]

I received this link to my own virtual race from the Race Organisers today. It's quite cool. It shows an overhead race map. Click on start to see my race progress against that of the eventual male and female winners and the last placed runner. For a few sovs more I can add other runners (by number). Nice app.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

What strange power drives the Sweder-machine? Will the push to sub-3:45 break his will? Can his legs take the enormous strain?

Tune in next week Sweder-fans, same Sweder-time, same Sweder-channel...

[Bierzo Baggie]

At a certain point in a marathon darkness falls. Demons dance, pain-sprites pull and poke at weary limbs and hug your chest as if to squeeze the very last ounce of resistance from your flagging frame. Had Dante been wise to these moments, he would surely have chucked in a marathon between Hell and Purgatory, with the final cruel and twisted miles repeated until such time as the poor wretch should fall into despair. It never got that bad for me on my own Road to Hell, but it came far too close for comfort.

Oh yes, I remember that bit...

Mammoth race.
Mammoth race report.