Brighton Marathon 2011

[marathondan]

A bit of a monster race report follows. I was initially a little reluctant to write this, but I think it’s a tale worth telling, and I’ve recently found past diaries to be a useful resource during training. So it is hereby committed to posterity. Sincere apologies for the length; it was enough work getting it down on paper, without going back and editing the damn thing.

[marathondan]

After weeks of tweaking, the infamous costume was finally ready. Two children’s play tunnels, two 6ft garden canes, string, gaffer tape, lashings of pink and white emulsion paint, magic marker and numerous laminated logos stuck on with carpet tape. As well as the usual gear, into the race day bag went two types of spare tape, scissors and rope. Sheathed in bin liners, the construction was squeezed into my old Astra for the night and I took to bed. My overwhelming feeling was that months and months of preparation was all boiling down to one day.

After finally getting to sleep around 1.00 am, the alarm went off at five. “Here we go!” said my brain, and the excitement began. The forty mile drive down to Redhill was uneventful, as expected at that time of day. The latest Marathon Talk podcast on the stereo kept my enthusiasm simmering, and breakfast was taken at the wheel – a box of cereal bars and a sport bottle of apple juice.

Redhill station was quiet, the air was crisp and clear, and as I saw my first few racing colours of the day, my excitement built further. The strange black-clad tube nestled largely unnoticed at the back of the platform as I chatted to fellow runners.

Once aboard the specially-extended 06:53, I carefully lashed the costume to the handrail of the standing area and found a seat. I was determined not to over-hydrate before the race – the last thing I needed today was toilet stops – but sipping water is an easy way to calm nerves, and a pint was easily consumed during the journey. By the time we reached Preston Park the train was pretty full – though not at London standards – and, having waited till last to get off the train with my awkward package, it took a good five minutes for the throng to get off the platform.

As we made our way to Preston Park on foot, the interested glances and comments began, mostly of the “sorry, but I have to ask…” variety. Once through the park gate, the early morning vista opened out to reveal the usual sea of lycra-clad bodies, stretching, stripping, pinning, drinking and queuing for the loos. I located the baggage trucks and set down my burden for its final inspection.

Removing the protective covering, I saw that a few of the logos were already a bit crumpled from the journey, notably my “Running in memory of…” on the back, and one of the Cancer Research “arrow” logos next to the head hole. I applied a bit more carpet tape and hoped they would hold out.

The next two planning failures were a little more serious. I emptied out my bag to discover that my new magic in-race carb source, the flapjack squares, had been reduced to a pile of sticky crumbs under the weight of my race kit. Fortunately I’d packed extra jelly babies, so the flapjack mush became extra breakfast and the gelatinous infants were stowed in the specially-constructed snack pocket in the front of the costume.

Next, to load the specially-constructed bottle holder, fashioned expertly from yet more gaffer tape. Except the bottle I’d brought… didn’t fit the damn holder. Schoolboy error. My used apple juice bottle fitted at a squeeze, so the water was transferred and that bottle wedged in, rather too tightly. Fortunately the hydration stations were plentiful, so this feature was really only a nice-to-have.

Next, I changed into tight-fitting lycra clothing, applied Vaseline to my personal regions, and received a phone call from Mr Tom Roper to arrange a rendezvous. Not that I’m suggesting these are normal preparations for a meeting with Tom. He duly appeared, wearing the little black number of the Seaford Striders, which of course goes with anything but on such a day might have absorbed a bit more radiation than a lighter-coloured garment. It was great to meet you Tom, always nice to put a corporeal being to the virtual personality. Words of encouragement exchanged, we went our separate ways and I headed for the loo queue.

The organisers claimed that they were adding more facilities this year, including runner-only khazis, but all I could see were snaking lines heading for banks of identical portaloos. Fortunately due to gender, and my particular needs on this occasion, my wait was limited to around 10 minutes. Next it was time to say goodbye to the kitbag, and suddenly I was all alone with only the 6 foot monstrosity for company. We strolled down towards the start pens together, then with about 10 minutes to go, there seemed no point delaying any further. Bystanders’ worst fears were realised as I slotted my head and arms into the tube, and emerged looking like something from It’s a Knockout. A couple of bemused runners helped me adjust the shoulder pads, and then I nonchalantly entered the yellow start corral.

I couldn’t remember what estimated time yellow corresponded to, but I noticed that I was behind the 5 hour pacer. When lining up for a major sporting event looking like a complete idiot, two approaches are possible: the calm, introspective, focussed look, accompanied by bounces, sips of water, checks of the watch and so on, or the “Hey everyone, Crazy Guy is here!” routine. I tend to favour the former, although it feels a little odd given how I’m dressed. So my banter was restricted to the normal start-line small talk, and it was quite easy to forget that everyone in the entire park could see me.

[marathondan]

Somewhere in the distance, Steve Cram did the business with the gun, and we were off, in the usual ten minute walk / run shuffle that it takes the back markers to cross the start line. I was already getting a few cheers from the crowd in the park, and got (as expected, frankly) a special mention from the start line announcer. I cleared the start gantry with no problems, but shortly passed my first obstacles, a couple Saucony banners which had to be ducked under. I also noticed that low-hanging trees were going to be a problem in the park area, so moved out into the centre of the road.

The costume was making an alarming loud clanking noise, and I soon discovered the reason. I had an emergency roll of gaffer tape hooked onto the top of one of my bamboo poles via a piece of garden wire. The tape was banging against the pole with every step, and the sound was vibrating down the pole, which passed right by my ear. This was something I was going to have to get used to.

As we completed our circuit of the road around the park, and I began to explore what the running rhythm felt like, there was a commotion in my chest area and a clatter on the road. I looked back to see a pile of jelly babies, my phone, and my pot of vaseline some yards behind me. My snack pocket had split less than a mile into the race. Fortunately there was some space between the runners, and let’s face it I was pretty visible, so I dashed to the side, made my way back, stepped into the flow and picked up the phone and pot – discovering in the process that it was at least possible to bend down in the outfit.

Jelly babies gone, I would have to make use of the Powerade and Shot Bloks provided on the course. But there was no way I was going to carry my phone and Vaseline in my hands for 5 hours. So, enlisting the help of a spectator, I bent down so he could retrieve the gaffer tape from the top of the outfit. I taped up the pocket as securely as I could, got my friend to replace the tape roll, and then rejoined the stream of runners.

That was a stop of around three minutes within the first mile: the pacing plan stuck inside my head hole was already worthless. But I was delighted in the decision to carry the tape, clanking notwithstanding.

As we wound our way through the first few town centre miles I received plenty of support from the locals. It was already obvious that the shoulder pads had been stitched in place by a man (me), and that I should have enlisted the help of the missus. They were sliding all over the place and required constant readjustment. That made it hard to settle into a rhythm and soak up the atmosphere.

But then who should appear at my shoulder but Fran and Andy (aka Mr and Mrs Stillwaddler). They were in great spirits and looked in good form, and had started behind me and gradually chased me down. Hearing of my jelly baby spillage, they generously pooled their own spares and handed over a bag to me, for which I was hugely grateful. We chatted easily for a few minutes, and I was just explaining that my friend Chris and his son Ben had come down for the day to support me. “But I’ve absolutely no idea where they’ll b…” I said, as they appeared on the pavement to my right. I ducked out of the flow to say hello. Ben (9) seemed dumbfounded by my strange appearance, and to be honest his dad wasn’t that much better. But it was great to see them so early on, and we made rough plans for the next rendezvous.

In fact Chris and Ben’s reaction was quite typical of the crowd. While I was getting plenty of great shouts of “Go Brighton Rock” from the supporters (as opposed to the “Go, er, barber’s pole thingy”, that I had feared), and the heartening sight of people quickly reaching for their cameras, a lot of people (runners included) seemed to just stare or laugh in disbelief. But so long as I get a reaction, I don’t really mind.

As we headed down towards the front, around the mile 4 region, I noticed that the clanking had settled down. The aforementioned bamboo poles had been drilled in strategic spots and attached to the wire spiral of the play tunnels with string ties. The roll of tape had now severed the first piece of string and slipped down the pole to a more stable position. Good for my ears, but not so good for the prospect of it slicing through the strings one by one until the pole became completely detached. Once again I pulled over to the side and asked a bystander to remove the tape from the top of the tube. I secured it lower down next to my head, where it was supported by a shoulder pad but also at risk of whacking me in the ear from time to time.

A few miles later I spotted the twin yellow vests of the Stillwaddlers, and we fell back into easy conversation. We briefly got separated, and then I’m not quite sure what happened, and then I pulled away from them without so much as a bye-your-leave. Sorry guys, for leaving you so rudely, especially when you’d helped me in my hour of need earlier.

We reached the first of the many double-backs, disliked by many runners but for we crazies a chance to interact with our fellow athletes. Here I spotted a gorilla, in I think a slightly better costume than mine from last year, but already walking. His mask wore a fairly sad expression; I had no idea if the runner inside was as despondent as his alter ego appeared.

[marathondan]

At last we reached the seafront and began the long pull out towards Rottingdean. We soon encountered the first wave of gazelles, already on their way back. As well as bloody fast, they looked pretty warm. I, on the other hand, wasn’t feeling the sun, tucked away in my portable tent. But what was becoming evident was the wind. There was a light north-easterly breeze coming off the land, jamming the left pole against my forehead. This wasn’t too much of a problem in itself, but it meant that the costume was repeatedly slipping off my right shoulder, and the shoulder pad on that side needed constant attention. This was a pretty frustrating section for me.

Time-wise there was little point aiming for my hopeful time of 4:30, having already lost at least 5 minutes in stops, but I remembered that 11 minute miling equated to last year’s target of 4:50. With each passing mile stop I was able to do a quick calculation and see that I was gradually catching up with that rate of progress.

As we turned inland and slightly uphill towards Ovingdean, the wind was closer to head-on, which was surprisingly beneficial. My head was now pushed into the face hole, keeping the whole thing much more stable. This was probably the most enjoyable part of the course so far. However, the headwind was a little draining, and I allowed myself a small walk break as we approached the top of the hill. Then came the welcome relief of the top of the hill, and a pleasant coast down through the school to cheers from the crowds, and the knowledge that we were almost ready to turn back towards the town.

The eastmost point of the course rounded, we headed back towards Brighton along what I remember as being an enjoyable stretch this year. The slight downhill gives a good vantage point along the field ahead for a couple of miles, although the pier is disturbingly distant and the Portslade power station a mere speck. This time around though, it was a less than pleasant section. The wind was now behind me, normally a good thing, but in my case the costume was pushed forwards and over my face. Awkward arm effort had to be employed here to keep the thing upright. Plus the evil shoulder pads were no better, and I pulled over to the side a number of times to sort them out. Fellow runners stopped a couple of times to check that I was OK, which was touching. Along here I also saw the gorilla again – still walking, and looking glummer than ever.

We approached the half way point, returning to the town environment with its associated crowds. Down below was the finish at Madeira Drive, only a matter of yards away but inconceivably distant in running terms. But we were half way, and just starting to get into the serious part of the race. Suddenly I felt the familiar sensation in my chest area followed by a clatter on the road, and possessions scattered once more. How many times can a plastic bag split? I gathered up my things and retired to the kerb. I tried to work the gaffer tape again but it was dirty and losing its tack in the heat. The game was up as far as the snack pack was concerned. I scoffed the last of the Stillwaddlers’ jelly babies, chucked the badly-fitting water bottle into the kerb, and slipped the vaseline and phone into the crappy bottle holder. But that was no good: the phone wasn’t secure and down at my hip I wouldn’t notice if it fell out. So the pot of vaseline also had to go into the gutter – whether that’s a common find in the streets of Brighton I don’t know – and to add to my discomfort, I would be grasping my phone in my sweaty palm for the next 13 miles.

Heading for the heartland of the crowd now, I saw the JDRF banners up ahead and scanned the team’s faces for the redoubtable Sweder. I don’t know if he’d primed them, but I got an almighty cheer as I passed. I actually failed to pick out the big guy among his colleagues, but I could easily identify the now well-documented stentorian roar – all the encouragement I needed.

And so we ground out the miles into the high teens. It was nice to have some familiarity with the course and take stock of progress. Around 18 or 19 miles I started to struggle – this is approaching the limit of training distances, and hence uncharted territory, at least since last year’s race. For me, the most notable feature of the marathon is the soul-searching of the last 6 miles: that last hour asks tough questions of us, and the reply that we drag up from the depths of our being is what it’s all about. But I was starting to feel that I didn’t have much reply to offer today, or at least I didn’t feel the need to give it my all. I think the hassle with the costume had somewhat drained my will to compete, and too many times during the last hour I gave in to the temptation to walk.

Ah, just typing that has depressed me. So let’s fast-forward through miles 19-23, ticking off the art installation known as “The Wall” (which I had to duck under), the smelly docks, the ever-miserable power station, the final rounding of the westernmost point, “The Wall” again (which this time I skirted around), and finally the sights of Brighton in the distance for the last time.

Along with my body and my willpower, the costume was also gradually degrading. One by one, the fixing strings on the bamboo canes were snapping, and by the time I was heading east for the last time, each pole was only held on by a single string, meaning they were free to flap about inside the tube, whack me in the face, and provide considerably less rigidity than intended. The roll of gaffer tape was all over the shop inside the costume and I was getting fed up of it digging me in the ribs, so it too went into a litter bin. I took stock of the shoulder pads and discovered the right one had gone completely – oh well, less than an hour to go, a bit of chafing won’t matter.

[marathondan]

Three miles looks a hell of a long way when it’s laid out in front of you, but I gradually reeled it in. All too often I gave in to the walk demon, knowing full well that I wasn’t pushing myself to the very limit, but somehow not feeling the need to. The freely flailing poles were giving little support now, and I resorted to jamming my face deeper into the hole to provide some extra support. I could feel a chafe spot developing on my chin, but it was a necessary evil.

As we reached Hove prom, the crowds got deeper, and the support was truly fantastic. Looking back, I think part of my slight disappointment with the race was that I couldn’t fully appreciate the support and really interact with the crowd, because I was so preoccupied with my hardware issues.

Past the 24 mile mark, and the inevitable happened. With a clang and a bounce, the left-hand pole finally loosed its moorings and fell to the floor. At 6 ft long it was too long for me to deal with, so I had to ask a spectator to pull it out of the top and leave it by the roadside. I was now coming in on a wing and a prayer. If the other pole went, I would be less stick of rock and more flaccid sausage. I had to hold up the front of the costume by hand for the rest of the race.

As always, the end game is a blur in the memory. Somehow I made it to the final stages, then suddenly I was looking down the lens of Sweder’s camera. Snap captured, he still had time for a high five and another roar, and I knew I was nearly home and dry. 800 m, 400 m, 200 m, these are surely some of the best sights in life. One final hairy moment as I had to judge whether I would fit under the finish gantry; I edged to the side of the clock and ducked for good measure. And it was done. Chip time 4:43; 3 minutes faster than last year, and a mere 57 minutes outside my PB.

Despite the organisers’ claimed streamlining of the finish area, the post-race was as chaotic as last year and I was stuck in a jam, still in costume, and lacking the willpower to boldly strike out for the exit. Fortunately the cavalry appeared in the shape of Chris and Ben, who’d avoided the crowds at the run-in and made straight for the repatriation area in excellent time. We cleared a small space and got me out of the outfit, then gradually lugged the monstrosity up the steps to road level. As we gently wound our way back towards the station, carrying this thing between us like a corpse, I realised that a decision had to be made regarding its fate. Drag it all the way home, only for it to rot in the loft and be thrown out in five years’ time? No, let’s be sensible. The municipal skips along Marine Parade stated “no large items”, but we felt that an exception was merited. We said a word of farewell over the mortal remains, removed the race number for posterity, and committed my companion to the hands of Brighton & Hove local council.

The train journey back to Redhill was a good way to unwind, and restorative Powerade and malt loaf were applied. I managed the hour’s drive home with surprisingly few problems, leading me to conclude that this was indeed the easiest of my four marathons to date. My good recovery has continued, and I was back out on the road again by the Friday for a gentle couple of miles, whereas in previous years my runners have gone to the back of the cupboard for a good month post-race.

So there we have it. A crazy day, an undeniably great fundraising total, and yet somehow not 100% satisfying. I guess that must be put down to the costume problems taking the edge off my enjoyment of the run and of the overall spectacle. But paradoxically those problems were all part of the effort, and had it all gone smoothly I might not have been any better off. Now a couple of weeks out, that weirdness has subsided, I do have a sense of a job well done, and perhaps most encouragingly, I’m already thinking about challenges to come.

Huge thanks as always to the community here for ongoing support, to Fran and Andy and Tom and Sweder on the day for good company and much-needed jelly babies, and to everyone who sponsored me.

Rock on.

[The Beast of Bevendean]

A great account of a great day. But as to my LBD, I would point you to Mediterranean widows, who have been draping themselves in black for many years in warmer places than Portslade and seem none the worse for it.

[ladyrunner]

Thank you for writing such a brilliant account of the day. Now we all know what we are letting ourselves in for if we ever decide to go down the road of costume marathon running. It sounds like you had a lot of technical problems to deal with so to finish with a time of 4:43 is fantastic.

[marathondan]

Main lesson learned: ROAD TEST THE COSTUME.

[Bierzo Baggie]

Is this a world record for a stick of rock? I’m sure no stick of rock has ever run faster whilst disintergrating. Gorillas? That’s so “last year”.. can’t wait for the next one (and don’t say you’re going to run normal..)

The time was amazing by the way. Like the way you unceremoniously dumped the costume at the end.
Brilliant!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Astonishing effort, brilliant time, great race report Dan ... you do, indeed, rock!

[Sweder]

My dear fellow, no apologies needed. An epic adventure deserves an epic report. Bravo! These (literally) inside stories inspire those of us struggling to get out there. Great stuff.

[marathondan]

(and don’t say you’re going to run normal..)

That's my current thinking. I truly think that trying for a straight PB would be a tougher challenge than another fancy dress adventure. But we'll see...

[El Gordo]

Wow! Excellent report, Dan. I love the detail.

This made me laugh out loud:

"Next, I changed into tight-fitting lycra clothing, applied Vaseline to my personal regions, and received a phone call from Mr Tom Roper to arrange a rendezvous. Not that I’m suggesting these are normal preparations for a meeting with Tom".

There was plenty of other stuff in there I never thought I'd see in a race report, and dilemmas I hope I never have to confront, like "Where do I attach my spare roll of gaffer tape?"

And how many marathon runners have had to contend with the problem of chafing on the chin?

Delighted to hear (as it were) that other great man's Stentorian bellow receiving further publicity. This well-established race feature, honed on the terraces at The Dripping Pan, and in the distribution warehouses of Kuala Lumpur, will soon be worthy of its own website.

Thanks for taking the time to get it written up. Just like the performance itself, this record of what it is to run a marathon in an outlandish costume, will take some beating.

[Sweder]

"I would be less stick of rock and more flaccid sausage"
Just one of many phrases unlikely to be found in yer average race report. Brilliant.

[marathondan]

"I would be less stick of rock and more flaccid sausage"
Just one of many phrases unlikely to be found in yer average race report. Brilliant.

Incidentally, in case anyone chances upon this report in the future and uses it as a resource for fancy dress marathon preparation... I recounted the tale of the gradually-snapping strings and eventual pole loss to my brother-in-law, who is an IT/Telecoms engineer. Without missing a beat, he gave me two words that would have been the ideal solution: cable ties.

(Actually, half his house is held together with the things.)

Have just been catching up with the VLM edition of Marathon Talk. I heartily recommend you listen to episode 67 and fast forward to 1 hour 26 mins to hear Tony Audenshaw's race report. He's a professional racconteur (well, actor) and he tells a good yarn.

Also heard on the podcast, one of the duo completing this insane challenge was asked if he was planning any more extreme endurance events. His reply was my favourite line of the week:

"Not in my current marriage, no."

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Without missing a beat, he gave me two words that would have been the ideal solution: cable ties.

(Actually, half his house is held together with the things.)

Indeed. If you can't fix something with gaffa tape (Nashua brand - it must be Nashua) and cable ties, it can't be fixed.

[marathondan]

A friend just emailed through a video clip from the race - uploaded here.

SW, is that you and Andy in there as well?