Marathon Diaries Part Three: The Race

After an agonising wait, the time had finally arrived to put to task everything I’d worked towards over the past twelve months. With every stride, I was one step closer to the dream of finishing my first marathon. But a four hour run warrants a degree of patience and longevity that it is prudent to break the 26.2 mile distance into small chunks. In my mind I had a four phase strategy: miles 1-8, 9-16, 17-20 and the final stretch.

My aim was to maintain a consist 8-minute mile pace for the first 16-20 miles, leaving me with ample time to hit the sub 4h and 3h 45 targets, whatever the last 10k threw at me. Indeed, the opening few miles of a race are usually an opportune time to get minutes in the bag, where one can clock even quicker miles without pushing too hard. In Paris, this proved impossible as the congestion of a big city marathon does not allow one to make short bursts and overtaking often presents a health hazard given all the elbows one needs to avoid. In fact, I found myself going slower than even in training and despite feeling fresh despite warming weather conditions, frustration was kicking in at the 10k stage which I arrived at in 52 minutes. To put this into context, in the Birmingham half I was there after 46. Still, phase one was almost complete and my body was holding up.

As I was expecting, the cardiovascular side was perfectly fine; by mile 10 I was well into my rhythm and felt I had much left in the tank. On the other hand, hip pains that were my main concern beforehand were worsening to the extent that I was now expecting to stop later in the race. There was at least some daylight between the runners now and I was able to push on ahead, getting to the half way stage by 1h 48. This is perhaps the most important stage of the race mentally, since for the first time you are able to count down the distance left to cover relative to that already conquered.

In anticipation of the wall, I cranked out my small stash of jelly beans for an invaluable sugar boost. The sun was well and truly shining down on us, but I tend not to sweat too much and on this most crucial of days, my bladder was holding up. I got to 16 miles at around 2h 11, on par with my effort in the kilomathon four weeks earlier. By now, hip pain was overshadowed by the familiar hamstring discomfort that had threatened to stop me in previous runs. The focus now was to get through to mile 20, as then surely the motivation to finish would be enough to get me through the final phase.

I was taking in many of Paris’s key landmarks along the route, but paying little attention to them. Instead, my personal highlight of the race was at the 17th mile where we passed through an underground tunnel that stretched for the honest part of a kilometre or so. With Eminem’s Lose Yourself blasting through my earphones and nothing but the runners in the vicinity, this was undoubtedly the most epic part of the race. My hamstrings were on fire now and lower down, my calves and heels were making their complaints too. The fun part of the race was over and the grunt work was in full flow.

My pace slowing, I laboured to the 20 mile mark and considered this testimony to all the hours of training. I had got there in 2h 47, on schedule, without stopping. My energy reserves were being depleted every few km, but every time I felt too hot there would be buckets of cold water to cool me down. When I needed an energy boost, endless supplies of oranges and water were picking me up. I was now entering the defining part of the marathon and had around an hour to finish 10k in order to meet my goals.

Completing the marathon without stopping was always a key ambition of mine. I felt the training would get me through to 20 miles and this indeed proved the case. But it came at an inevitable price of leaving me in excruciating pain. Now was the time to persevere through this pain, which would only get worse with more miles, to the end of the race. I was at the Wall, which I had envisaged in my head so many times. Every kilometre was torture and suddenly the belief that adrenaline alone would be enough seemed laughable.

The last 10k personifies the challenge of the marathon. By now, every muscle is screaming at you to stop. Except, if you do, it makes absolutely no difference since the pain persists. This is the ultimate mental battle that defines the fine line between success and failure. The temptation to stop and walk was massive, given that I could still get through in under four hours. But I entered the marathon with the inherent belief that I was bigger than it; that I could overcome any obstacle and endure anything that came my way. So in this sense, stopping was not an option.

To achieve this, I had to call upon the deepest of my mental reserves. I thought back to the darkest days of my life, as recent as three years ago but mainly my childhood, where day after day I would encounter torturous pain through my pancreatitis. Surely if I could manage the chronic pain and abdominal surgery, these final few miles would be easy enough, right? Wrong. The crucial difference is that with the former, one can at least seek pain relief and even when it doesn’t come one can win the mental battle because they are in an environment where everyone is fighting with them against the pain. In Paris, I was alone and nothing, not even stopping, would help the pain. All around me, runners were collapsing, packing it in, or walking. All looked dejected; as if they had lost the battle because the race had become bigger than their capacity to deal with it.

Two inspirations came to mind. Eddie Izzard; if he could run 43 marathons in one go, it was quite pathetic of me to struggle towards my first. I am no fan of Izzard or his comedy, but as a runner you must have the utmost respect for his accomplishment. Then Lance Armstrong’s mantra came to mind: quitting provides temporary relief, but a lifetime of regret. I hadn’t come this far to limp away in defeat. This was not the time for mediocrity; if I couldn’t rise above it now I may as well give up any pursuit of greatness.

So on I went. I thought I knew pain, but on this day, in these final miles, I finally realised what the marathon is all about. Overcoming barriers; not just the big hurdles but the impossible ones. Even though my pace had plummeted to 10-minute miles, I knew I was on the verge of making personal history. Glory awaited and the end was close. Five kilometres became four, then three, two and one. Then the final straight, where for the first time in the race I knew I’d done it. The emotions of the final 200m down Foch Avenue are impossible to pinpoint, but they were the sum total of the hardest struggle of my life. The last hour was nothing short of merciless torture. But when I crossed the finish line, I was so grateful for it. This is what I signed up for all those months ago. Even though I missed 3h 45, instead coming through in 3h 48, I realised the magnitude of what I had just pulled off. The tears that followed owed as much to this as they did the physical pain that had crippled my lower body. It was a pain that ripped right through me for a good hour after the race. As I sat on Foch Avenue, sharing the painstaking story of my race with fellow runners, I lost all sense of time. Even in this state of delirium though, I was careful to rehydrate and get energy levels back up.

In a defining image that will stay with me forever, I stood in front of the Arc de Triomphe, munching away at the halal burger I had just accosted, remembering the view from the top. I had visited Paris once previously, whilst a teenager in 2002. I thought then that the view was unbeatable, but looking around me Paris had never looked so damn beautiful.

This moment sits right at the top of my personal achievements. It was unthinkable a year ago. But there is nothing that can’t be done when the human spirit desires. In one sense, with over five million runners every year (and growing) worldwide, the marathon is the very definition of cliché. But I can assure you that no two runners will have the same story. Every race is a unique journey that ends with the same outcome for those who finish: sheer, unadulterated joy. These are the moments we live for. Many say after their first marathon that it will be years before they take it on again. But I have the bug and want to get back out there as soon as my body permits it. How can anyone get tired of feeling like this?