On race day, I relied totally on my friend (a Berliner, but not the doughnut type) to get me to the start line. My sense of direction is shameful. Anyway, we took the S-Bahn because the trams weren't running (for obvious reasons). In the end, we didn't have much time to spare: I got to my starting wave 4 minutes before the off! But at least I didn't have to stand around getting cold (or listening to lame warm-up music). The elites were introduced, including Paula Radcliffe and good old Haile, both of whom received a rapturous applause. Then we were off.
In April, I had failed spectacularly to hit my target of 3:15 on a warm Parisian day, so logically, 3:15 became my target for Berlin instead. However, eager not to overstretch myself, I decided I would be happy to beat my PB of 3:24:15, set almost exactly a year previously in Brussels. God, I do go on. Sorry. I'll get back to the race...
The start was, of course, crowded. The odd numpty had somehow found their way into waves A or B and was now successfully causing pile-ups. I tutted and flamboyantly veered around them, like I do on the motorways to middle-laners. But much to the disappointment of the martyr in me, pretty soon the field opened up (as I left 90% of my competitors behind me, that is -- muahaha!).
The first 4 or 5 miles were a blur. It was weird. They seemed to fly by. I think I was soaking up the atmosphere, or perhaps enjoying the scenery. I can't remember. Anyway, I was taking it relatively easily. According to the provisional results, I racked up my first 10km in 47:07. I was pretty happy with the way things were going. Well on track to beating my PB and not far outside that elusive 3:15. A kilometre later, my host and good friend, Nikki, took my photo and egged me on. Feeling confident, I made a 'victory V' sign. A little premature, maybe.
The 'victory V' at 11km
After that, things carried on much in the same vein. I seemed to have hit a groove: according to my Garmin, my split times all stayed at or under 7:30. By now I had noticed how amazing the public support was. People were cheering me on by name (our names were printed under our numbers); jazz ensembles, samba percussion groups and rock bands made for a great ambiance. At every turn I was lifted by the enthusiasm of the thousands of onlookers. I've never known any race like it.
The first time I felt any fatigue in my legs was around the 10-mile mark. 'Uh oh!', I thought to myself. The last time I remembered feeling that burning in my quads was about 16 miles into the Paris Marathon, just before I fell apart at the seams. But I cracked on in the knowledge that only three weeks before, I had run 21 miles on no breakfast, gels or any other carbohydrate concoction. Who needed glycogen? My legs could chew up fat reserves for fun. I had also been taking on plenty of fluids. I sipped constantly at my 500ml bottle of homemade, laugh-in-the-face-of-austerity powerade (half apple juice, half water), grabbed at any available cups of water and energy drinks like a crazed, lost man in the Sahara and took in an energy gel every 40 minutes or so. No, I would be fine. Mind over matter and all that.
I hit the halfway mark at 1:38:40. Nice. Still on track for a decent time, and my legs felt strong again. In fact, I started thinking silly thoughts about negative splits, got a bit giddy and threw in a handful of relatively quick split times (averaging 7:10 over miles 13, 14 and 15). I calmed down again after that, though. Since Paris, the 16-mile mark had definitely become a bit of a barrier in my mind. Even in training I would suddenly go all wobbly. So I settled back into the comfortable zone of 7:30(ish) per mile.
Plod, plod, plod. Gulp, sip, swig. Overtake, smile smugly, overtake again. Wow, this was a revelation! Legs, I love you! The miles were racking up -- 16, 17, 18, 19... -- and no sign of 'the wall' as yet. I know, I know: a lot can happen in the final third, but I couldn't help but grin. And grin I did. High fives for the little tykes on the sidelines, the odd 'danke schön' for the cheering spectators.
Inevitably though, I started to tire. I remember eagerly awaiting the 32km marker, just so I knew I was down to single figures. My friend Nikki had dutifully cycled to the 34km mark to cheer me on yet again, which was a welcome boost. My legs were aching, but I was still managing to hammer out split times around the 7:20 mark. Only at mile 24 did I slow noticeably. My slowest split time was mile 26, but even that was only 7:44.
At 34km - looking decidedly less energetic
All in all, I was over the moon: by now it was clear I would beat my PB by a decent margin. Could I make that pesky 3:15? Well, yes and no. My Garmin hit 26.2 miles in just under 3:14. But clearly I'd run in zig zags because I was still almost half a mile from the finish line! And I'd made a concerted effort to follow the handy little blue markers on the floor as well! Tsk!
Ultimately, I crossed the line in 3:16:56. That's a massive 7:19 off my PB. Patrick Makau only beat the world record by a measly 21 seconds ;-) And the cherry on the icing on the cake? I even managed a negative split. Gotta be happy with that!
My split times couldn't have been much more consistent
Distance: 26.63 miles
Avg pace: 7m 24s / mile
Provisional position: 3,013 (of about 40,000)
Avg HR: No HR monitor
Conditions: warm, 21°C
