Two years ago, I wrote but never published a post entitled “Things I hate about the London Marathon”. I decided against posting it because I didn’t want to piss on the parade of those who had found it a highlight of their racing calendar. Some of my vitriol, however, did seep into a Facebook post where I said: “Watching the London marathon fills me with a mix of emotions: relief that I’m not out there with all that rain, noise and peopleyness, and sadness that I didn’t, and will never, have the joyous experience all the good runners crossing the line in average times seem to be having. Also bitter and unbridled resentment that my marathon time was slower than the man with the 25kg fridge on his back, walkers and Ian Beale. Also if I hear the word “inspirational” once more I’ll head out there and start tripping people up.”
When I wrote that post I was 100% sure that I would never do another marathon. I didn’t think I could enjoy a marathon the way other people seemed to – or more importantly, the way I enjoyed a parkrun or half marathon. The distance was so far beyond me, I was left so far behind the crowds that when I finished I just felt shame-faced. And then I managed to get fast enough to think, “maybe I CAN get there”. And there was Yorkshire. The feeling of being so close to achieving my goal, then getting injured with six weeks to go and having a thoroughly miserable time. When I told people my finish time, and my mitigating circumstances, all people could say was “but you did it!” And that made me feel shame-faced again, because my goal hadn’t been to do it (I had already done it, twice) but to do it well, and I had thought I was capable but had metaphorically fallen flat on my face. But of course I couldn’t leave it like that and that is why I signed up for Hamburg. One last chance to prove myself not to be a total marathon failure.
I set out to Hamburg trying my best not to get too bogged by having a time in mind, because I wasn’t sure exactly what I was capable of, but in truth FIVE HOURS was floating tantalisingly above my head, spelled out in pink fluffy clouds with angels singing, ready for me to reach out and grab it. I tried to blow the dream away (because what if I finished in 5:01 and came home disappointed?) and just focus on not letting the distance get the better of me and not descend into Defeated Walking (there are two types of walking in a race, Tactical Walking and Defeated Walking) and whatever time I got would be what I got and I would be HAPPY with that.
Standing nervously in the start pen, listening to people waffling in German and trying to pick out the odd word (“laufen” etc) I told myself that everything was perfect this time and that I just had to keep going. The weather was perfect (18c and sunny), my training had been perfect, the course was perfect. I had a plan, which was slightly unorthodox in that I planned to go out about 15 seconds per km faster than my goal pace because I knew that I was highly likely to slow down to the end. I kept thinking of something I read recently that said “start out at your goal pace, even if it feels slow, if it still feels slow after 18 miles you can speed up” but I can’t help thinking that this complete bollocks unless you are so accomplished at marathoning that the distance doesn’t bother you. It makes far more sense to get a little extra speed in when you are fresh than trying to bang it out when your legs have turned to jelly and you think you’ve taken a wrong turn and ended up in hell.
I’ll do my best to describe the route but it’s difficult because I don’t know much about Hamburg and running a marathon is not the best way to familiarise yourself with landmarks. It started by the exhibition halls where the expo and number pick up had been and went into the town centre near St Pauli and the place where the massive fairground sometimes is, then along Reeperbahn which is a favourite stag night haunt and also where I went to see Faderhead on my only other trip to Hamburg. After Reeperbahn it got a bit more suburban. There were lots of bakeries emitting nice smells and German people holding up signs and shouting “Super!” One of the things I dislike about London Marathon is the sheer number and noise of the spectators (who seem to think it is more a carnival than a race) and I was pleased to see Hamburg had a far more sensible quantity though I was dismayed to see bloody steel drum players were out in abundance. I hate them, they are so bloody loud. I also note that I did not see a single stupid (or even non-stupid) fancy dress costume on a runner, or anyone carrying a fridge. Or Ian Beale. (Ian Beale was running London – of course he was).
Next came a downhill section back into the town with some kind of view of water and big ships if you looked in the right direction – this bit rather reminded me of the section of the Brighton Half when you re-enter Brighton after the cliffs. This took us to 10k and I was bang on the tail of the 4:45 pacer and so far, it felt pretty easy. “FIVE HOURS” started floating over my head again, looping around, tempting me to stretch out for it. I batted it away and told myself not to lose my head: my 10k split meant nothing.
The next bit was quite central with big buildings (the type that might be banks and Kaufhauses?) and some formal looking water with railings. There was a tunnel which I didn’t like because everyone realised it had an echo and started clapping and whooping but at least no one shouted “oggy oggy oggy” as they would be sure to in the UK. Then it started to get more suburban again and if you squinted you might as well have been in Hove, with tall white houses and lots of leaves. I was hoping to get a halfway photo to outdo the Brighton Jelly Snake with a jaunty, happy halfway photo but they didn’t actually put a photographer at half way – still, Jelly Snake set a low bar so here is a just before halfway photo where I clearly still have the will to live and no random confectionary dangling from my person. My half marathon split was 2:21:16, still on the pace.
Some green stuff and some water and several u-bahn stations passed in a haze and it was definitely starting to get a lot harder. It had warmed up enough for me to remove my hairband (apparently in Germany they call them a “stirnband” which means “forehead band”) but it wasn’t as hot as the weather they had in London (told you London was rubbish) but my legs hurting was a more pressing problem. I was also starting to feel like I had a mouth full of hairy sugar, even though I had only had three Gu gels. The 32km (20 mile) marker arrived and I realised that I was going to have to part ways with the 4:45 pacer and move on to phase two, hanging on to FIVE HOURS for dear life, trying to get a grip on that fluffy cloud and not let it float away out to see.
There comes a time in every marathon when one has to do Maths. This is unavoidable but extremely cruel when you have been running for over three hours and can’t remember why you started, what is going on or why everyone is speaking German. Eventually I had the brainwave that if I had 10km left and had 15 minutes in the bag I could gain a minute per km and still have five in the bag. I had been running at 6:45 pace so could slow down to 7:45. 7:45 seemed a very doable pace, a slow run or a run/walk. I decided some Tactical Walking might help my legs, thinking a novel movement might introduce a bit of life into them. I set the run/walk timer for 3 minutes run, one minute walk and watched the 4:45 pacer sail off. It was just me on my own now and I had to keep below 7:45 and not lose my head.
I had thoroughly enjoyed the first 32km but I can’t say the same for the last ten. I would have been quite glad for them to be over. Every step was more and more painful, both hamstrings were playing up, my calves were burning, I felt like I’d been bashed with a hammer on both knees and have a novel pinging sensation in my left groin that made me want to waddle rather than run. But I told myself, this is a normal state of feeling fucked. Everyone around me probably feels the same. And they aren’t leaving you behind, you are still in it. If you keep pushing through this you will finish under five hours and you can tell everyone your time and no one will say “at least you did it”.
The rest is a bit of a blur until I turned a corner and saw the tower and the red carpet of the finish line and only then did I really believe that it wasn’t going to get away. Unremarkably surrounded by others, without sympathetic cheers, with the sun very much in the sky and the sweep up car over an hour behind me, I joyously punched the air as I sailed under the finish line in a very average 4:54:12.
I was faster than Ian Beale. But not the man with the fridge.
7:07 