I ran Paris eight weeks ago, and while I was still on the high from running a great race and getting a PB (4:27:28) I booked Cork, partly because I wanted the buzz again, but mostly just to see if I could do it. I followed Hal Higdon’s “Eight weeks between marathons” programme:
I didn’t have a target time for this one, although I did want to beat my Dublin time of 4:45:25. The weekend before the race was a bit crazy, as I went up to Dublin to watch Westlife at Croke Park, which meant a late night and hotel room sleep – although the breakfast the next morning was perfect as it was self service, so I ate pretty much everything. That day I took the train down to Cork, registered for the race and then had a bath and a rest, followed by pasta.
It was raining in the morning, which I was pleased about as last year the temperatures had been around 28⁰C. I had muesli, toast and lucozade for breakfast. By this time we realised just how much it was raining outside, and pilfered some bin bags from the cleaner. There were only around 2,000 people doing the full marathon, and a lot of people doing the relay race, including Sonia O’Sullivan.
I’d woken up that morning having somehow decided to go for a PB, which looking back on it now didn’t make any sense at all – I was 8 weeks out from Paris and I’d had a hard week which included a lot of whisky, and then a mad weekend. We set off at under 10 min mile pace, and although it felt slightly too fast for a comfortable marathon pace, I kept up with the others, which added to my spectacular demise later on in the race. There was a water station just before mile 7 where a woman was so eager to give everyone in the race a bottle that she stood directly in my path – I had people on my right and I had no room to move over, and as I got to her she stepped forward again and I ran right into her. We were making good time when we got to the tunnel at 7 miles (66 mins) and I was feeling good until we hit the uphill in the middle of the tunnel, and then I dropped back from one of the others.
Between miles 10 and 13 we ran along a path by the bay, and the rain got even harder – we were running through a cloud and couldn’t even see across to the other side of the bay. It was sharp rain coming down into our faces and we couldn’t see anything for about a mile. Even along this stretch there were people out to support us, absolutely soaked.
By half way I was much more tired than I should have been. The time at 13 miles said 2:09:01 – pretty much 10 min miles. At halfway the other person with me took off, and I settled into a more comfortable pace – something I should have done from the start. I had realised by this time that far from aiming for a PB, my aim now was to finish, even if it would be after my Dublin time, so just after mile 15 I stopped my watch (2:30:09).
I don’t remember much about the next 8 miles, only that I was in more pain than I had ever been during a run before, and I knew I had to keep going. At one of the water stations they were handing out energy drinks, and the guy who handed me a drink missed my hand, and the bottle fell to the ground. I bent down to pick it up, and the apparent injustice of it made me cry (I can’t remember why but I was getting upset by the smallest details at this stage). Despite all this misery I still wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else – I was doing this to see if I could run another marathon so soon after Paris, and I was going to finish the damn thing even if I had to crawl the rest of the way.
Having decided this, somewhere after mile 20 (I think), when I was running at the same pace as other people were walking, I stopped in the road and couldn’t run any further. For the first time since I started running last June the thought crossed my mind that I wouldn’t be able to finish: I was 5 miles away, a distance I would have run in my sleep even the day before, and it may as well have been another 20 miles. I made myself walk for about 200m, and told myself to break into a run when I reached the next corner, which I did, and to my surprise I had picked up what felt like my usual 10 min mile pace again. I pushed on for a mile or so, and then found I was back to my crawling pace, and then I had to walk again for a few metres. This cycle continued until mile 25, when I told myself I would run to the finish. (At this point I realised why you see so many people walking so close to the finish – I’d never understood it before and had always assumed it was a lack of will rather than simply a lack of physical strength).
The last 1.2 miles seemed interminable, and when I cleared the woods I could see Patrick Street across the river and the bridge ahead of me, and it still took a ridiculous length of time to get there. Finally I was on Patrick Street, and although I still couldn’t even see the finish, I knew my friends would be there, and I didn’t want to crawl over the line. I broke into what felt like a sprint but what was probably just a gentle jog, although I was now overtaking everybody on the final stretch. I crossed the line at 4:45:02 – 23 seconds ahead of my Dublin time. The first 13 miles had taken me 2:09:01. The last 13.2 miles took me 2:38:17 – I had lost 29 minutes somewhere between mile 15 and 26.
Although the actual race was obviously a fiasco, it was a good thing because I had been far too complacent about the marathon and I needed a knock back to reality to remind myself that it is a challenge, and an achievement. I didn’t get the same buzz as I had for the others, probably partly because of the fatigue but mostly because I didn’t put it in the mental effort needed to run a truly great race – I had set out to run a marathon, just because, and that’s what happened.
Looking back on what I’ve written, it all sounds extremely negative, but as I mentioned before, I wouldn’t have wanted to be doing anything else that day, and what I really got out of the day was not only a good flogging, which is always good, but also a greater respect for the marathon.
I didn’t have a target time for this one, although I did want to beat my Dublin time of 4:45:25. The weekend before the race was a bit crazy, as I went up to Dublin to watch Westlife at Croke Park, which meant a late night and hotel room sleep – although the breakfast the next morning was perfect as it was self service, so I ate pretty much everything. That day I took the train down to Cork, registered for the race and then had a bath and a rest, followed by pasta.
It was raining in the morning, which I was pleased about as last year the temperatures had been around 28⁰C. I had muesli, toast and lucozade for breakfast. By this time we realised just how much it was raining outside, and pilfered some bin bags from the cleaner. There were only around 2,000 people doing the full marathon, and a lot of people doing the relay race, including Sonia O’Sullivan.
I’d woken up that morning having somehow decided to go for a PB, which looking back on it now didn’t make any sense at all – I was 8 weeks out from Paris and I’d had a hard week which included a lot of whisky, and then a mad weekend. We set off at under 10 min mile pace, and although it felt slightly too fast for a comfortable marathon pace, I kept up with the others, which added to my spectacular demise later on in the race. There was a water station just before mile 7 where a woman was so eager to give everyone in the race a bottle that she stood directly in my path – I had people on my right and I had no room to move over, and as I got to her she stepped forward again and I ran right into her. We were making good time when we got to the tunnel at 7 miles (66 mins) and I was feeling good until we hit the uphill in the middle of the tunnel, and then I dropped back from one of the others.
Between miles 10 and 13 we ran along a path by the bay, and the rain got even harder – we were running through a cloud and couldn’t even see across to the other side of the bay. It was sharp rain coming down into our faces and we couldn’t see anything for about a mile. Even along this stretch there were people out to support us, absolutely soaked.
By half way I was much more tired than I should have been. The time at 13 miles said 2:09:01 – pretty much 10 min miles. At halfway the other person with me took off, and I settled into a more comfortable pace – something I should have done from the start. I had realised by this time that far from aiming for a PB, my aim now was to finish, even if it would be after my Dublin time, so just after mile 15 I stopped my watch (2:30:09).
I don’t remember much about the next 8 miles, only that I was in more pain than I had ever been during a run before, and I knew I had to keep going. At one of the water stations they were handing out energy drinks, and the guy who handed me a drink missed my hand, and the bottle fell to the ground. I bent down to pick it up, and the apparent injustice of it made me cry (I can’t remember why but I was getting upset by the smallest details at this stage). Despite all this misery I still wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else – I was doing this to see if I could run another marathon so soon after Paris, and I was going to finish the damn thing even if I had to crawl the rest of the way.
Having decided this, somewhere after mile 20 (I think), when I was running at the same pace as other people were walking, I stopped in the road and couldn’t run any further. For the first time since I started running last June the thought crossed my mind that I wouldn’t be able to finish: I was 5 miles away, a distance I would have run in my sleep even the day before, and it may as well have been another 20 miles. I made myself walk for about 200m, and told myself to break into a run when I reached the next corner, which I did, and to my surprise I had picked up what felt like my usual 10 min mile pace again. I pushed on for a mile or so, and then found I was back to my crawling pace, and then I had to walk again for a few metres. This cycle continued until mile 25, when I told myself I would run to the finish. (At this point I realised why you see so many people walking so close to the finish – I’d never understood it before and had always assumed it was a lack of will rather than simply a lack of physical strength).
The last 1.2 miles seemed interminable, and when I cleared the woods I could see Patrick Street across the river and the bridge ahead of me, and it still took a ridiculous length of time to get there. Finally I was on Patrick Street, and although I still couldn’t even see the finish, I knew my friends would be there, and I didn’t want to crawl over the line. I broke into what felt like a sprint but what was probably just a gentle jog, although I was now overtaking everybody on the final stretch. I crossed the line at 4:45:02 – 23 seconds ahead of my Dublin time. The first 13 miles had taken me 2:09:01. The last 13.2 miles took me 2:38:17 – I had lost 29 minutes somewhere between mile 15 and 26.
Although the actual race was obviously a fiasco, it was a good thing because I had been far too complacent about the marathon and I needed a knock back to reality to remind myself that it is a challenge, and an achievement. I didn’t get the same buzz as I had for the others, probably partly because of the fatigue but mostly because I didn’t put it in the mental effort needed to run a truly great race – I had set out to run a marathon, just because, and that’s what happened.
Looking back on what I’ve written, it all sounds extremely negative, but as I mentioned before, I wouldn’t have wanted to be doing anything else that day, and what I really got out of the day was not only a good flogging, which is always good, but also a greater respect for the marathon.
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