April 2012

[marathondan]

I went into this race with three big questions over me:

1. Would my left foot hold up?
2. Would I survive the weather?
3. Had I set myself an achievable time target?

As you will see, the great philosopher Mr M. Loaf had it right when he concluded that two out of three ain’t bad.

Two weeks before the race I’d been unable to run at all, due to sharp pains in the sole and heel of my left foot, which I suspected was the beginnings of plantar fasciitis. So that was the end of my training; instead I had a fortnight of rest, dunking the foot in iced water, and ibuprofen. Half way through the fortnight I ran a mile on road – I could still sense an issue, but not enough to stop me running. Definite progress, but 26 miles would be touch and go.

I’d been watching the weather forecast all week, expecting rain on race day. In my rest period I couldn’t help noticing that every time I was caught in a rain shower – and there have been plenty recently – how damn cold it got once the precipitation took hold. I got the strong sense that trying to grind out the last hour of a marathon wearing a flimsy vest in such temperatures would be horrible.

And the time target. From day one of this campaign I’d set myself a goal of 3:45, five minutes faster than my PB set in my first marathon, 7 years ago. The simple question: would race experience, and long-term toughening of the legs, outweigh the loss of general fitness over those years? The other motivation for this challenge was that, despite the plaudits from runners and supporters alike, I was convinced that running a fast marathon was more difficult than a slow effort in extreme fancy dress.

The weather, as it turned out, fell into the "glorious" category. Bright and breezy at the start, direct sunshine for most of the race, some welcome cloud towards the end, and not a drop of rain. That was a bonus for the supporters as much as the runners. (We’d have liked a few showers, to be honest.) I’d packed a long sleeved top as well as vest, but once I got to Blackheath and could count the clouds on one hand, it was clear that it was definitely vest weather. Some runners disagreed, wearing two or even three layers on top; I expect they struggled later.

Despite my training times coming in a good deal slower than in recent years, and recent niggles with my right ankle, and the new panic over the left foot, the plan was to go out hard and try and hang on. The splits tell the tale of the race pretty well:

1. 09:11; 2. 09:06; 3. 08:17; 4. 08:51; 5. 08:27; 6. 08:50; 7. 08:49; 8. 08:19; 9. 08:38; 10. 08:45; 11. 08:30; 12. 08:48; 13. 08:41; 14. 08:35; 15. 08:49; 16. 09:13; 17. 09:13; 18. 09:07; 19. 09:23; 20. 09:27; 21. 09:47; 22. 09:51; 23. 09:59; 24. 10:53; 25. 10:29; 26.2. 12:03.

My target pace for the first half was 8:27, gradually slowing to 8:53 at the end. After heavy traffic in the first two miles, I was able to get pretty close to this pace up until around mile 14. The trick then would be to hold the initial pace for longer to try and claw back the lost time, which at that point was only 3 minutes.

However, as you can see, I just wasn’t able to hold that pace any further, and high 8s soon gave way to 9s and it became clear that the “A” goal of 3:45 was definitely out of the window. At the same time I realized I would have to start digging in if there was any chance of a PB (3:50), but I soon grasped that this too was unlikely. My realistic goal was now to go sub 4.

It was a long, drawn-out finish, with the unpleasantness in the legs starting as early as about mile 17. I was plodding on, just wishing the thing would finish, for a hell of a long time. I went through 20 with 1:03 still to go before the 4 hour mark, and felt that sub 4 was pretty achieveable. I don’t quite know how I managed to slog on for so long; not content with ticking off the miles I was ticking off every minute of every mile, all the time just wanting to walk.

Well, be careful what you wish for… fast forward to Blackfriars underpass, with around 2 miles to go, and I was walking, as my left hamstring had pinged spectacularly. Remarkably, I was able to stretch it out and carry on after a couple of minutes’ walking. At the time I wondered if that had cost me my sub 4, but then I realised that the walk break had done me good. But I did afford myself the luxury of walking up the underpass exit, to avoid putting strain back on the hamstring. That may have been a significant mistake.

A mile later and I had another ping, this time the left calf. I didn’t bother stretching, just slowed to a walk, hobbled a bit, and it cleared enough for me to continue.

I saw the family at 25.5, which was fabulous – my goodness, the girls look so small against the crowds – but so amazingly smiley. And that signaled the beginning of the end, less than a mile to go now. I was still desperately wanting to walk, and it was only when the 800m sign appeared – bloody hell, still 5 minutes – that I was motivated to really give it some welly. 385 yards to go and I had 3:58:03 on the watch, meaning I needed to get back under 10 minute miling for the final 0.2 of a mile. I daren’t attempt an all-out gurning sprint because the hamstring and calf were still giving out warning signs, and I didn’t want to stop dead and ruin everything. So I ran in as steadily as I could… would I make it… wouldn’t I… would I… head down… stop the watch… 4:00:02. That’s a hell of a lot of zeroes. There was always a chance that my timing was slightly out, but it seemed likely that I’d missed out by (not literally) the smallest of margins.

Post race I was pretty shattered, several times adopting a prayer-like posture over my kit bag after spots appeared before my eyes while scanning the distance for my supporters. Once we were on the move I wasn’t so bad, although a day on and the quads are as stiff as rusty steel hawsers.

Oh, and the fasciitist foot? Not a peep. Seems two weeks’ rest was enough to suppress the problem. Whether it’ll come back or not remains to be seen, but this season I’ve learned the benefits of varied terrain and I intend to keep on that track in the future.

So what have we learned? I wasn’t disappointed to miss sub 4 by such a small margin – it’s only a time after all, and actually it’s a pretty cool time (not as cool as 4:00:00 would have been though). Did I make the classic mistake of going off too fast? Well, yes, in that if I’d paced for sub 4 I probably could have achieved it, but that wasn’t the goal. The goal was 3:45, and it turns out I’m not in the shape to run that, and probably never will be. So, no regrets there.

Yes, running a fast marathon is harder than running a silly marathon. But I don’t think it’s as much fun. I’d say this was my least enjoyable marathon to date – it was just hard slog most of the way through, and while it’s a huge privilege to be part of this amazing festival of sport and humanity, the novelty of the London marathon has worn off a little for me. But I can see that from the perspective of a giant chicken, things would be different.

The race was sufficiently unenjoyable for me to consider that it might well be my last. But a day on, already the mental pain is beginning to fade (if not the physical) and another marathon start line is gently calling to me. I’ll put in my London ballot application – you have to, don’t you? If your number comes up then it’s fate – and maybe then leave my options open for a little while. My intention was to attempt a short triathlon this summer, but I think maybe my swimming isn’t up to covering even 750m yet. Even so, it would be good to focus on the pool and bike for a while, maybe getting the runners out in time for my local half marathon in September.

So there we have it – all targets missed, a pretty unpleasant day’s running on the whole, but still happy at the end of it. Either I’m easily pleased, or this running lark really is good.