It's the Sunday of my Barcelona marathon training Week 3, and today I ran - no, I raced - the Waterford AC half marathon.
Mile 1: This is an 11 mile half marathon, because from mile 11 to the finish line the route follows my 3 mile Tuesday lunchtime run. I know every turn, camber and incline in the road between miles 11 and 13.1, so they don't really count. So, it's an 11 mile half marathon, and that's the distance I ran last weekend. Easy peasy. I am the queen of mind games.
Mile 2: "Relax." I say to myself, out loud. "Relax." I know I'm running too fast. "Relax." I have to say it three times, because that's how many times it takes for the instruction to leave my mouth and filter through to my body. But my body isn't listening. It's having too much fun. It doesn't slow down. I'm not going to make it if I keep this pace. "RELAX, JESUS!" I bellow loudly. The people near me look round in alarm. But my blasphemous outburst has done the trick. I slow down.
Mile 3: I find my pace matching with someone else's. He's saying something out loud. The words don't make any sense to me, and I look over at him. He's wearing headphones and talking to himself. I'm pleased, because I'm doing the same, and he can't hear me. We continue our pleasant dalliance until we reach a hill, and then I leave him behind, still muttering.
Mile 4: I'm running next to a couple who are discussing what pace they think they're running. She thinks it's around 10 minute miles, and that they have four minutes to play with. I have a stop watch, no GPS, but I know we're moving faster than that. "This is way under 10 minute miles," I tell them. "It's more like 9:30s." I leave them with this happy revelation and move on.
Mile 5: A girl has moved over to the side of the road. She's clutching her right leg and limping badly; she can barely walk. Everyone around her, including me, asks if she's alright. But we don't stop, because we all know she's not alright, and we can't offer anything more than heartfelt sympathy.
Mile 6: I become aware of a lot of noise behind me: heavy breathing and wheezing. It sounds like someone's having an asthma attack. I hear a voice ask, "Are you alright?", and a breathless reply, "Grand, thanks!" And then, with a wheezy sigh: "Very comfortable."
Mile 7: I see a sign reading, "DUMPING STRICTLY PROHIBITED". I snigger, because I am a child.
Mile 8: I've accumulated a lot of spit in my mouth, and I project it outwards in a globule. It dribbles down my face and lands on my bare thigh with a splat. I wipe it off with my hand, and clean my hand on my t-shirt. The goop joins the sweat and snot marks already there. I decide I need to work on my projection.
Mile 9: WHERE IS MILE 11?! I want to stop my watch because it's stressing me out. I know I'm running hard because I can no longer do simple mental arithmetic to calculate my pace and my predicted finish time. I have a sudden, horrifying thought that because I started this race with the intention of getting to mile 11, I won't be able to continue past that point. This thought tortures me, and I temporarily convince myself that I won't be able to finish. I see a friend from my circuits class at the side of the road. I want to ask her where the pacers with the two hour balloons are, but the words and thoughts leave my mouth in a jumble, and I shout at her, "Where's the ten hours?"
Mile 10: I'm fading, and I need support. I need to hear someone say my name to cheer me on. And as soon as I think this, I hear it - someone I know shouting at me. At the same time, a little girl appears just ahead, holding out her tiny hand. In it is a single, green jelly baby. I know it's for me, because I need it, and because the green ones are my favourite. I take it gratefully and inhale it in an instant. And then, I'm here. Mile 11.
Mile 11: My watch says 1:40. I have a comfortable twenty minutes to run a net downhill 2.1 miles. I have no idea what pace I'm running. I can't tell anymore. But I'm fatigued evenly, all over my body, and this pleases me because it means I'm not injury-prone and my form is still correct. I'm also steadily overtaking everyone now, and I realise with a start that no one has passed me for about two miles.
Mile 12: This is my route. I run this every week. I know this road, and I also know that I'll finish under two hours. With 500 metres to go I overtake the two hour pacer. He started well ahead of me in the corral so I know I can relax.
Mile 13: Someone has put a hill in the way. There's a hill, and my legs don't like it.
Mile 13.1: When I see the finish line clock it reads 1:59:53. The crowds at the finish line are shouting at me to sprint, but I know I don't have to - I can't - because I started so far back in the corral at the beginning. I slow down instead. And my watch says 1:58:33. PB.
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