As I’d said in my last couple of posts, I had been
seriously unwell in the week leading up to the marathon. And the advice they
give you is that if you’ve been unwell, you should definitely not run. However,
as I was beginning to feel a bit better by Thursday and had raised quite a bit
of cash for charity, I was always going to run it. But what I found out - the
hard way - is that there is a world of difference between feeling a bit better,
and feeling marathon fit.
I got up at 4.30am on Sunday morning and just as I was
about to leave at 5.45 Clare gave me two good luck cards, one from her and one
from Evie. I thought it was a lovely touch and reminded me why I married her,
and I set off in a world of positivity.
I made it to Greenwich by 8.35, and had a pretty
uneventful hour or so before the start. I got in the pen about 9.15 and sat
down on the kerb, chatting to a few first-timers who were bundles of nerves. I
had my race plan, but after what had happened during the week, I was completely
undecided about what I should do. As I was thinking about it, I noticed the
3.30 pacing group starting to congregate right in front of me. All of my
training was for 3.30 (8 minute miles), and I knew from running the Gloucester
20 that I could get to 20 on that, so I thought it might be an omen and I
should follow them from the start and see how I go.
The gun went and I made a conscious effort not to look at
my watch and to let the pacing man worry about it for me. I felt surprisingly
warm and it seemed like a real effort to keep up with him, so when we got to
mile 1 I looked at my watch. My heart rate was 175, which is what it normally
is when finishing a half-marathon running at 7.15 pace. Not good. I told myself
it might just be nerves, and to stick with it.
By the end of mile two, the heart rate was up to 184 –
higher than it was when running a 5K at 90 seconds a mile faster – and by mile
3 it hit 187. I have never, ever seen it go higher than 185 so knew something
was seriously wrong, and that I had a decision to make. I knew I wouldn’t get
another 2 miles, let alone another 23, unless I brought it down, so let the
group go and decided to readjust and try 8.10, then 8.20, then 8.30 until it
reached a manageable level.
I thought this was a good plan, but no matter what I
tried I couldn’t get it down. I was sweating buckets, my nose was streaming and
I was wheezing, and by the time we reached Cutty Sark I was getting
increasingly worried. I carried on, letting it go to 8.40, 8.50 but it had
absolutely no impact. I’d missed Katie at mile 6, so decided to focus on
getting to my next mental marker, Sophie at mile 9. I was actively seeking
shade by that point, and by the time I spotted Sophie I was hanging on for grim
death, heart rate still in the 180s and my pace dropping below 9 minute miles.
At this point, I had people streaming past me from all
sides, and I had reached a bit of a mild panic. Having had a bit of a heart
scare a few years ago, I was getting worried about it, as it has never, ever -
even when running flat out in training – stayed higher than 180 for more than
three miles. But here I was, just 9 miles in and with 17 still to go, and my
heart rate had been off of the scale for nearly 9 miles.
I made a mental note to get to Tower Bridge, and the psychological
lift that gives you, and reassess from there but I couldn’t even manage that.
No, just after Rotherhithe station at 11 miles I was reduced to a walk. I can’t
describe the feeling of utter dejection that gives. Having spent four months and
consistently racked up 20 mile runs, to be in the gutter by 11 is totally
indescribable. I was upset, embarrassed and felt a sense of total humiliation
as I walked past the crowds who were cheering me on – I was sure they were
thinking, ‘blimey, he’s walking already, he’s never going to make it’. I wanted
the ground to swallow me up, and I had no idea how I was going to make it to
the finish.
That was the lowest point. Mentally I knew my goal of
3.30 that I had trained so hard to achieve was out of the question from as
early as mile 2. I was ok with that, as I’d written it off earlier in the week.
But what I didn’t know, and what hit me so hard, was that I’d never
contemplated not finishing. And here I was, with 15 miles still to go, and I
couldn’t put one foot in-front of the other. I had no energy whatsoever, my
legs were like lead, my heart was beating out of my skin and I was dripping
head to toe in sweat. I felt like one of those D-List celebrities that bowl up without having trained and then complain it's harder than they thought. Except I had done the training. It was at that point that I was going to abandon, as I just couldn’t see any way ahead.
I walked for probably 200 yards before telling myself
that I had to do it. After all, the closer you get to Tower Bridge, the easier
it is to get back to The Mall anyway. And I was contemplating the walk of shame
tomorrow morning, when everyone asks me how I got on – ‘well I quit at 11
miles, now you should ask’.
I dragged myself out of the gutter, and told myself I
should go really slowly to 12 and see what happened. I made it there, looked
down and my heart rate was off the scale again, from a 1,000 metre slow jog. I
told myself to get to Tower Bridge, where Deeks had my name on a banner, and
that will make me feel better. I rounded the corner and there it was – the
iconic piece of architecture that is
the London Marathon, and that gave me such an emotional high the last time I
did it. This time I was hit with a feeling of total and utter abject disappointment.
How could it have all gone so wrong?
I didn’t spot the banner, and I didn’t spot Deeks. I went
through half-way in 1.50 – just six weeks ago I did a half-marathon on a
horrific, hilly course in 1.35 in a monsoon – and here I was, unable to even
get to 13 miles a full 15 minutes slower and on the flat. Words cannot describe
how totally demoralising that is, especially when you are getting overtaken by
thousands of people.
The crowds were fantastic, cheering me on and trying to
gee me up, but I just couldn’t respond. I felt like crying. A St John’s
Ambulance man grabbed my arm at 15 and asked me if I was ok – the answer to
that was pretty obvious, but I told him that I was fine. Then a marshal asked
me the exact same question not half a mile later so that must have been the
point where I looked the worst.
The thing that I haven’t mentioned so far was that
because I had no energy, I made a decision that getting some sugar into me was
a good idea. I’d had 3 energy gels by mile 14 (which was the plan all along),
but had also drunk at three lucozade stations, which certainly wasn’t. And a
big mistake it was too, as I was starting to get stomach cramps and could
barely run for 200 yards without being bent over double.
I made a pact with myself not to look at my watch, as
each glance was destroying me, and got my head down for a pattern that went
something like... run, get searing pains through your stomach and/or struggle
for breath, stop, lean on a barrier, walk for 20 yards, hope it eases up, then
run again.
Miles 16 – 22 were unremarkable and unbearable in equal measure, apart from seeing Matty
not once but twice, which considering he hadn’t told me he was watching, nor
where he’d be, was pretty bizarre. I mouthed a rude word at him to describe how I was feeling the second time
I saw him, and immediately felt absolutely
horrific as I’m sure there were children around. I was beginning to think the
day couldn’t get any worse – bar a ‘Paula’ moment.
I can so far salvage three positive moments out of the
day – the first being the lovely cards first thing in the morning, and I was
about to get my next positive moment. At Mile 23 I couldn’t quite believe what
I was seeing, I caught up and went past Iwan Thomas, the Olympic 400 metre
runner. I tapped him on the back and said ‘come on, you can’t be beaten by me’,
and to his credit, he wasn’t. He got an almighty roar going past his charity a
bit further down the road and that was the last I saw of him.
The third and final positive of the day was seeing my
family at mile 24. The thought of it had kept me going for the past hour, both
through relief at seeing them, relief at only having two miles to go, and also
relief that I knew they’d be worried sick about me. My Mum has a fractured knee
cap, and all I could do was think about how I was putting her through extra
pain by being so bloody useless that I was a full 40 minutes behind the time I
told them I’d go past.
I spotted them, gave Evie a kiss, apologised to them for
being so utterly rubbish and for keeping them waiting, and then gave Clare a
kiss. What I didn’t know was that my apology would make Clare cry. I knew
deep-down they were all proud of me, but the only emotion I had at the time was
one of total dejection, at having let everyone down.
I soldiered on to the end, not enjoying the Embankment or
turning onto the Mall. Normally that is a massive pick up, but by now my
stomach cramps were totally unbearable, and every step was making me think I was
going to do a ‘Paula’. I got to the finish and clocked in at 4.15.
When you do the marathon they say that going over the
finish line is absolutely amazing. The type of words they use to describe it
are emotional, tearful, uplifting, overwhelming etc. I had none of the first
three, but I was overwhelmed alright - overwhelmed with feelings of deflation,
dejection and embarrassment at having failed so miserably at getting the time I
wanted.
I was dizzy, unsteady on my feet, I couldn’t see
properly, and I knew if I didn’t find a toilet quick I was going to be in all
sorts of trouble. Thankfully I did, and then I slumped on a kerb for the next
10 minutes totally unable to come to terms with what had happened.
I went to meet my family at Kings Cross and when I got
there they took one look at me and were a bit concerned. My Mum said I was
white as a sheet (ironic considering I got badly sunburnt!), and I couldn’t do the one thing you’re supposed to do after a
marathon – drink and eat – I just felt so unwell I couldn’t take anything on.
One thing that I am glad about, looking back, is that
your marathon medal entitles you to free travel on the day of the race. I say that because I was
going to leave it on the table in the restaurant as I felt like a
fraud and that I hadn’t deserved it, but I needed it to get back to
Cockfosters. A day later, I’m glad I picked it back up again.
I’d like to say a really big thank you to all of the
people who have sponsored me, the people who came to the quiz, and my friends
and family for being so supportive. And especially Clare, who has never
complained about me going out for endless hours of training or boring her senseless
about running, in what turned out to be a completely hopeless pursuit of the
time I wanted to get.
If I’ve learned one thing this week, it’s that if anyone
ever says they’re contemplating running a marathon and that they’ve been
unwell, I shall tell them that it really isn’t worth it. Because it isn’t. It’s
horrific. Those were the worst four hours of my life without a doubt.
At the moment, it’s hard to get away from the fact that
marathon day (well marathon week really), was a total unmitigated disaster. But
I should try to remember that I’ve set 5K, half-marathon, and 20 mile PBs along
the way. And, quite ridiculously, despite feeling in a world of pain, I managed
to beat my last marathon effort by 7 minutes.
The other thing I think I may have done is to set a new
world record. The time I wanted to get was 3.30, which would have had me at
around 5,000 place. As it was, I got 4.15 which was 15,000 place. So given I
kept up with my pace for the first three miles, I may have set a record for
being overtaken by the most people ever in a race, nearly 10,000!
More importantly though, thanks to your kind generosity I’ve
raised nearly £2,000 for a great charity, so hopefully my four hours of pain have
been worth it to help people who are in real need. And, as my friend Chas so
eloquently put it, I would have had to put up with years of endless piss-taking
had I not got around, so I should be grateful for small mercies.
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