Brighton Marathon 2012

[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.