Den Haag Halve Marathon - Race Report

The weatherman said it was going to rain, but he was wrong. Sunday, 13 March was a warm, overcast day in The Hague - not bad running weather at all. Annie would be running the 10k and I would be running the half marathon, but since neither was due to start until the afternoon, the day began with a hearty breakfast: bread, porridge, and even the odd slice of cake (if you can't up your calorie count on race day, when can you?!). By 11:30 a.m. we were getting restless, so off to the start line we went.

After dropping off bags there wasn't much time to kill until the start of the 10k. I watched Annie line up in her starting wave and wished her luck. The gun went at bang on 1 p.m. and slowly but surely, the congested starting area emptied. From that point my friend Auke and I had a lot of time to kill until the half marathon, which wasn't scheduled to start for another hour and a half. We mooched about for half an hour and then watched some of the more accomplished 10k runners start to trickle over the finish line. After a bit of a warm-up, we waited to see Annie come home (in 2 minutes under her target time!) and then made our way to the starting area for our own event.

Panic was the first emotion I experienced. I couldn't find my way to my starting wave and by now there was only 5 minutes until the gun. In the end I had to run all the way to the back of the starting area and around to the other side, eventually taking my position alongside some rather serious looking athletes in wave B (of A-E). Was I in the right place? My bib seemed to say so. A few minutes warming up to some decidedly dreadful music, and we were away.

Although I was towards the front of the field, I was still pretty boxed in to start with. I started to weave my way in and out of the other runners and before long, things started to open up. Despite the congestion, I clocked 6m 54s for my first mile (I would need to average 6m 52s per mile to come home in my target of 1h 30m). With that in mind, I tried to sustain the pace I had already reached. That was my first mistake. See, I had sped up to compensate for the start, so what I really should have done was ease off a little. Instead, I found it all too easy to stay with the pack.

Mile 2 passed by in 6m 39s - more akin to 10k than half marathon pace, I thought to myself. And I should have listened to that little voice, but I was too comfortable. Maybe I could keep this up, I thought. Perhaps 1h 30m was a conservative target. So I carried on negotiating my way through the crowd and moving up the field.

I ran miles 3 and 4 in 6m 43s and 6m 44s respectively. Quick, consistent, but - as I was about to discover - deluded. I hadn't brought any fluids with me, deciding to rely instead on drinks stations. That was my second mistake. The first station appeared on the horizon during mile 5, and I was getting thirsty. As I drew nearer, I noticed the marshalls were doling out paper cups full of water. What? No isotonics? I took a desperate gulp at my water as it sloshed and spilled around in my right hand, taking in more air than fluids. Mistake number three. My watch beeped. Mile 5 had taken 6m 50s. Just hold it together, I thought.

But the die had already been cast. I was about to start feeling the effects of shallow breathing, trapped air and dehydration: a deadly trio. Mile 6 went by in 6m 57s and the first 10k in 42m 12s. That was too quick. On a good day I might run 10k in 40 minutes, but that would be me spent. A few hundred yards later and my diaphragm started to tighten up. My running and breathing were out of sync. Don't panic, I told myself: full breath out, deep breath in. Some of the other runners were visibly starting to tire, so although I had slowed down I still appeared to be holding my own. Mile 7 took me 7m 02s. OK, I thought. I can run 7 minute miles all day long in training, so maybe I could stick at this pace and still come home in a respectable time.

My stitch got worse. I had never stopped in a race. Surely I wasn't about to now. Every fibre of my being resisted the temptation, but my diaphragm seemed to be getting tighter and tighter. Was it psychological? Whatever it was, it bloody well hurt. I moved over to the side of the road and slowed right down. I must have walked for 5 seconds - just enough time to take a few deep breaths and pull it together. Then back to it. After a few hundred yards I passed the 14k mark - almost exactly two thirds of the full distance. The clock showed a gross time of 59m 30s. Miraculously, I was still 30 seconds under my target.

Another drinks station. It would be the last. What the hell? Still only water? I should just have steered clear, but like a complete twonk I tried to take on more fluids. Then almost immediately, my good friend Mr Stitch was back. The whole second half of the race was turning into a total nightmare. I started to physically grit my teeth. I knew it must have been bad when the bystanders started showing me sympathy. "Less than half to go", one man offered. "Wanna swap?", I thought. I clocked up 7m 02s for mile 9, but I was really grimacing by now.

The next couple of miles were a bit of a haze, but I managed them in 6m 56s and 7m 07s respectively. Mile 12 I remember distinctly. It must have lasted at least 5 miles. Every time I looked at my Garmin expecting to see another half mile behind me, in actual fact I had only run a tenth of a mile, sometimes less. The 20k mark was coming up: 1h 26m exactly since the gun. Any remaining illusions of a 1h 30m finish were shattered right there and then. Even if my net time was a few seconds quicker than that, there was still a kilometer and a bit to go until the end, and I was in no shape to put in a 4-minute 1k!

Mile 12 had taken me 7m 12s - my slowest lap time yet. I wanted so much to find a spurt from somewhere, to spring into action and leave all the other runners for dust. But it wasn't about to happen. It took everything I had left just to keep going. By now I was closing my eyes and pretending to be elsewhere. On a beach somewhere, or fly fishing in the lake district. "Laatste stukje!", the spectators were urging. Mile 13: 7 minutes dead.

In my own inimitable fashion, I started to make involuntary groans. The pain was unbearable. A fellow Brit sidled over. "Come on mate, you're nearly there!", he said. "You better not be lying", I somehow found the breath to reply. "No, look, the end is there! 300 yards! Come on!". I watched him ease off into the distance. Did he have rockets up his arse or something?! Bastard.

The final strait was like one of those optical illusions: the never-ending corridor. Could I sprint? No chance. I felt sick. I wanted to stop. I needed to stop. Eyes closed. Final push. Done. Thank Christ for that.

Official finish time: 1h 30m 43s
Official position: 563 / 7,213 (putting me in the top 8%)