Monday 9 May 2011

To PB or not to PB? A tale of the Shakespeare Marathon

Sunday 8th May 2011. The day I had been building up to for the past 4 and a half months. It was the Shakespeare marathon in Stratford upon Avon.

When I didn’t make it into London this year, my extremely motivational running buddy suggested Stratford. Having done one marathon before 4 years ago and hating at least 120 minutes of it, I decided, like the sadistic running type I am, that I had to give it another go. So I signed up and started training. It went according to plan pretty much, generally 3 runs a week, one interval, one tempo, one long run with a few hills thrown in for good measure (all I could fit it working long hours and having other commitments).

My plans changed when, a month before London I was offered a place from a friend of a friend who was dropping out. Having never run it I happily accepted and decided it would be a perfectly timed extra long training run. My plan was to take it easy and feel good at the end.

The day came and the nerves built – more so about finding the start than actually running the race. I’d also picked up a bit of a knee niggle – strained hamstring – which was worrying me. I decided if I could run 6, I could run 26.2 so at 6 miles the pain stopped. I loved every minute of it and was very much carried by the crowds finishing in 4.08 hrs which was a 21 minute PB. I felt brilliant at the end and decided if I could do that at London, I could definitely do better 3 weeks later with my new found confidence.

3 weeks, two sports massages and a lot of carbs later, I was ready for the next one. Unfortunately though, it was preceded the day before by a friend’s wedding celebrations which were wonderful but had a menu severely lacking carbs. After being on my feet in heels all day and dancing until midnight, I should have known the marathon may not go quite according to plan.

The morning of the marathon. I had a good breakfast and did plenty of stretching (my knee was still not quite right although I knew I could run a marathon on it now), but unsurprisingly I felt tired.

The gun went and so did I, maintaining a decent pace and gradually getting into my stride over the first 13 miles. I went through halfway in 1.52 hours and felt comfortable by then. I really wasn’t loving it though. The miles seemed to crawl and by 15 miles, I felt like I was constantly running up hill and hunger was starting to set in. I’d drunk my one bottle of energy drink and although I’d prepped my other half with 2 more bottles, I’d not seem him at all so far.

By mile 17, I felt like I was running on empty and I could barely put one foot in front of the other. If this was a wall, it was a soft one and I was clambering through it, making little progress. I saw a little boy with a bowl of – what was – orange pieces – the runner in front of me took the last one. His mum stood a little further on with a bag full, not offering them out. I stopped in front of her and held out my hand – they were for her daughter who had not yet been by, she told me. Not able to say a word I took one and carried on. I am usually so polite so I apologise to that lady for stealing her daughter’s oranges.

I walked up a hill (this really was a hill) and my legs turned to jelly. I wanted to lie down but there were no marshals around so I knew it wasn’t wise. I thought if I could just reach the top, I could get myself going again on what I knew from lap 1 was a steep downhill. I did, and I made it to the next water station… where I collapsed on the grass and declared that I was done.

The marshal gave me some water whilst I sat, feeling sorry for myself, making the decision to give up running – particularly marathons –for good. After 10 minutes, the friendly people manning the station said they would radio for a car to pick me up and I asked for a phone to get in touch with someone.

Just as I dialled the number, my boyfriend, Paul, put his hand on my shoulder – he’d cycled the course and was coming to cheer me on. I ate a nut bar (I hate nuts), shortbread and drunk more energy drink. I stood up and sat back down again and I was ready it throw in the towel - again.

Paul gave me a pep talk – if I was injured I should stop but this was fatigue, no reason to give in now with less that 7 miles to go. Plus, he assured me I'd feel a hell of a lot worse tomorrow than I did now with a DNF next to my name for the first time ever.

He picked me up and said we could walk to the next drinks station where I could make the decision to carry on or stop. I started running a mile later and stopped after about 200 meters. I complained about what was hurting – pretty much everything as far as I was concerned.

As I turned the corner at 21.5 miles onto the infamous Greenway, this was my last chance – I either stopped here or I finished (cars can’t get onto the Greenway). I sat down on a rock with St. John’s Ambulance and sobbed. I knew I just needed to think some positive thoughts – 20 minutes on and the sugar from the snacks I’d had started to make their way around my body so my energy was slowly coming back.

St. John’s gave me an energy gel and Paul said he’d bike the rest of the way with me. I got up and ran. I stopped a mile or so later when I another girl was lying on the floor and suffering like I had. By this time, I was determined this marathon would not beat me and offered her a similar pep talk to the one Paul had given me – she probably wanted to punch me. She sat up and as soon as St John’s arrived, on I went.

Paul chatted to me whilst I swore at my trainers and slowly picked up my pace. I worked out I was 4 hours 15 in, going by the time of day as I’d stopped my Garmin when I’d decided to give up at 19 miles.

Soon came mile 25 and then the road, which my running buddy had told me about. I overtook people, patting them on the back and telling them well done as I went – they probably wanted to punch me too.

As I turned under the bridge towards the finish, Paul left me and I could see my running club supporters ahead. Knowing something must have gone wrong, one shouted ‘You didn’t drop out – well done’ prompting me to pick up my pace and burst into tears. As I approached the others, they shouted and cheered and my running buddy high fived me.

By the time I was at 100m to go, I was the only runner and the whole crowd seemed to be with me, as if they knew what I’d been through. They shouted at me for a sprint finish and the more they shouted, the more I cried and the faster I ran. I finished my supposedly sub-4 hour marathon in 4.46.50. But I finished.

Any runner reading this and particularly those who have run a marathon or more, will understand how mentally draining running can be when this type of thing happens – I think we’ve probably all been there at one point or another. It’s tough and emotional but if finishing feels that good, why would you want to give up? I am currently planning my next marathon.