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| "Don't forget two small bandages for your tits." |
First there's the ire, or chafing. If you rub any part of your body repetitively for hours, your skin will come off, and oh my do you feel the burn when you have your first post-race shower. If you watch the finish line of any marathon you'll see plenty of nipple-less men with bloody shirts. As for me, I had nowhere to store two of my four energy gels but in my sports bra, and those packets have some sharp edges on them. Running 12 miles - which was when I'd taken the second of the bra gels - was enough to provide me with some magnificent and mysterious scratches on my décolletage. Depending on what you're wearing, ire can manifest on the most delicate parts of the body: armpits, thighs, buttocks, groin. Vaseline helps enormously with this, of course, but sometimes the race conditions are so sweaty and humid that the amount of bodily friction is too heavy a burden for the faithful greasepot to bear. Just remember to turn the water on cold when it starts to burn.
Then there are the blisters. If you're not wearing the right socks and shoes, or if you have a propensity to induce moist conditions inside your footwear, those babies can rise to splendid heights, and provide superb eruptions when popped. I was still wearing my shoes in when I ran the marathon (a rookie mistake but one that was unavoidable as I have explained), and I developed an unusually grotesque growth: a blister underneath my right big toenail. I discovered it last night when it became rather painful, and I realised that it had filled with fluid and was pushing my toenail out of its bed. I quickly took action with a medical wipe, a needle and some Germolene, and pressed down hard on the nail bed. I won't gloss over the details - I can't deny that there was an audible spurting sound, but I could instantly feel the pressure release as the clear liquid flowed forth. It has since settled back down onto its habitual resting place, and turned a pretty shade of lilac.
Even during the race there's always some loss of dignity, particularly for us women. If you have to stop for a wee and there's nowhere totally out of sight of the route, which way do you face? Buttocks outwards or urine jet outwards? That's a decision you'll have to make on your own. Just don't choose a spot on the inside of a hairpin bend or you'll bare everything to the whole race course. I spotted my first naked arse at mile 4 in Barcelona; as for me, I was lucky enough to find a relatively private space between two parked cars to relieve myself. But when you're running, and particularly in a race, dignity and grace are really the last things you think of. It's just not important compared to feeling comfortable when running, or achieving that finish time you've been striving for.
Finally, there's the post-race gait. The day after a marathon, one tends to exhibit some quality comedy that will possibly lead to swift government funding from the Ministry of Silly Walks. I've hobbled down many a flight of stairs with my sore quads silently screeching in protest. Even lowering myself onto a toilet seat is fraught with danger, as it's unlikely I'll be able to get up again until three rest days have passed. If your silly walk makes you late for anything, just use this helpful line from Monty Python: "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but I'm afraid my walk has become rather sillier lately."
The afternoon of and the day after a marathon is one of my favourite times. I love wandering around the city in pursuit of a couple of pints, and spotting from a distance a familiar stiff-legged gait and race t-shirt. This is always followed by either a shared nod and smile of respect from across the street, or a full post-mortem of each other's race from the first to the last mile and beyond. It makes me a little bit sad to take off the t-shirt after that magical day, as if I've divested myself of my superwoman clothing and suddenly become unidentifiable to other runners. At least I have a purple toenail to fondly remember it by.
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