I woke up at 7:15 this morning still feeling pretty hoarse after having picked up a cold earlier this week, but nothing was going to stop me getting to that start line! I made myself a nice, big bowl of porridge and knocked back a couple of pain killers and took my vitamin supplements and cod liver oil - yum! Then into my gear and out of the door without much time to spare.
The weather was perfect. Clear, cool and crisp. When I got to the start there was already quite a crowd. And because Brussels is a relatively small event, there were no waves. I did my best to feed into the pack, but couldn't get anywhere near the 3:30:00 markers (my target time). The start came as a bit of a surprise: although I didn't hear any buzzer or gun, all of a sudden the pack was moving. The start line itself was also a few hundred yards sooner than I expected, so I found myself fighting through quite a dense crowd for the first mile or so. My Garmin clocked the first mile at 7:37, which I was relatively happy with. I decided I would stick around that pace and just listen to my body. I didn't know how much my cold had taken out of me.
As the first few miles racked up, I began to worry whether I was going at it too hard. All of my first 6 miles were all under 7:40, but I felt fresh and strong so the strategy stayed the same. Having covered most of the course in training, I knew there were some pretty evil hills to come in the second half, so I was happy to try and keep the mile times down while I could! I also wondered how accurate my Garmin times were as I'd lost the satellite signal a couple of times in tunnels.
I had a bit of a boost at mile 11, where my girlfriend was waiting to cheer me on and take the obligatory picture. I was still feeling pretty fresh at that point, but the first real test was just around the corner. And there it was: the first big hill. I could see the runners around me starting to flag as the steady, mile-long ascent took its toll. There was no time to be smug though, as my legs also started to give way. And sure enough, mile 13 was my first below target pace at 8:07. Nonetheless, I was happy with my performance so far. The half marathon checkpoint was a couple of hundred yards ahead. Amazing. The clock had just turned 1:41:00. I was well on course for my target time, but I didn't let it go to my head. The hardest was yet to come.
Thumbs up at 11 miles
What comes up must come down, so the next couple of miles were a joy. I tucked in behind a couple of club runners and let gravity do the rest. I even posted a sub-7 minute mile. Would I live to regret it? Probably. But it felt good at the time!
The course led us through a beautiful part of Brussels next. Forest trails, lakes, and all nice and flat! I seemed to be at home among the pack of runners I'd found. We were sticking around 7:30/mile and I felt good. I still wasn't sure why I hadn't tired, but was happy to keep plodding on for now.
Then at 17 miles I felt my legs grow heavy for the first time. Panic set in. I was within 2 miles of another long ascent and didn't know if I had enough left in me. I took full advantage of the next water station. Plenty of gel and fluids. If this hill was going to beat me, I'd at least be prepared!
Plod... plod... plod... I slowed to a shuffle. Who puts a monster hill at the infamous 20th mile of a marathon, anyway?! Pure sadism. My quads started to burn. My gel belt had slipped up to my midriff and was strangling the life out of my diaphragm. My breath grew short and sharp. What the hell had I been thinking? All those sub-7:30 miles. I felt like a kid who had ripped open all his Christmas presents at 7am and now had to watch everyone else open theirs. No more fun for me from here on in!
The hill was behind me, but the pain in my quads lingered. Thankfully, there was a pretty lengthy descent coming up. Gravity would be my friend again! At the bottom of the hill, Annie was there again to cheer me on. I left her with the gel belt from hell and apologised to my lungs. Just in time, too. There was another hill on the horizon! The last and the steepest...
This time I knew I had nothing left in me. I held onto the fact that there were only 3 miles left. There was a half marathon running at the same time as the marathon and our courses merged. This didn't help my pacing. I went from sitting in with half a dozen marathoners to being swamped by runners of all abilities. As we headed into the most demanding section of the course, I lost all gauge of where I should be. I went into auto-pilot. Plod... plod... plod.
The gruelling course profile
By the time I got to the top, I just wanted to stop. But somehow I managed to just float around my target pace until the end was in sight. Some of the other runners started to sprint by me. Come on legs, show them what you've got! No chance. It was a Ferrari convention and I was farting along in a Fiat Uno. Into the final strait. I grimaced and pushed for the last 200 yards, ragging that 1-litre engine for all it was worth. The crowds of cheering spectators barely registered; the motivation came from somewhere deep inside. Don't ask me where. Then, sweet release. I stumbled over the line and into a fellow runner. I apologised and motioned to pat him on the back in a reserved, English manner. He grinned and gave me a big, Gallic, sweaty hug. And the official finish time? 3:24:15. Surely you never doubted me ;-)
No comments:
Post a Comment