Enjoying London Marathon

The London Marathon, probably the best marathon in the world. I've never done a marathon before, but this year I got a ballot place and was privileged to be amongst 40,000 runners all dedicated to one thing. My own dedication took a few knocks along the way, and I had to adjust my targets to suit. I started off with a target that even I realised was probably a bridge too far, of 3 hours. I'm 58 years old. 3 hours for a 58 year-old's first time marathon? Ridiculous! Yes, it probably was, but in any case it had to be adjusted once I discovered I would have to spend considerable time in the USA from November through to February. It's not that USA is a problem in itself, it's just that it would mean a lot of travelling, a lot of disruption, and a lot of hotels. I wouldn't be able to eat or train as I'd like to, and I wouldn't have the support and shared ambition of my regular running pals, or even my regular runclub nights. I consulted with James, who had also targeted 3 hours last year. He was disappointed with his 3:10:05 following some issues on the day, and has been pretty well injured for much of the time since then. Possibly not a good role model! And also about 3 decades younger than me, so there were plenty of reasons why he might not have been the best choice of race consultant. But he does share my drive to achieve, and he is my mate, so that overrides everything else. Finally, and most importantly, since he's my mate, I want to beat him more than I want to beat anyone else. I don't know what the logic of that is, but it can't just be me can it? So, he did 3:10:05 at the expense of his physical fitness for about a year. Yep, probably worth it, so I'll go for 3:10:04 then. Ok, so after one or two trips to the USA and another to Buenos Aires, I had to revise that again. I wasn't getting a consistent level of training, and it was unrealistic to retain 3:10 as a target. By November it was down to 3:15-3:20. I spent nearly all of November in Georgia, and running outside was almost impossible. I didn't know the area, and I went out of the hotel for a run that I'd planned on google maps. About 20 minutes later I hadn't managed to get across the road, so I went back into the hotel and did an hour on the treadmill. I repeated that for most of the month, at least I repeated the treadmill part - I wasn't stupid enough to stand at the side of a 8-lane highway every night trying to cross it. Right then, maybe 3:30 is realistic. December wasn't good. At least it wasn't good in terms of London marathon training. Work was going great, results were starting to come in, and I was getting a fabulous buzz from the energy of the sales office I was looking after. They were on fire, and I was loving the feeling of turning something round that had been very broken, it was massively rewarding. I'd also bought a nice car from Texas, and had it shipped over to Atlanta . But my training suffered, and by Christmas I was seriously considering deferring my London place till next year. I trained well over the Christmas period though, and went back to Atlanta thinking that if I got a good January in, I could pull it round. I'd also by now met some runners in Atlanta, and found some running routes, so I spent all the week on a treadmill, then the weekends out on the trails with my new friends. By the end of January I was feeling much fitter, and back to 3:30 as a target. I kept this going for a while until mid March, when a low-level virus had me off training and feeling low. Again, I considered deferring my place. But I shook the virus off, and London was back on.

What about the target then? 3:30 had been the last realistic one, and the 8 minute mileing it required was what I was regularly achieving in training long runs. 3:30 it was, then. Fixed. No going back. At the expo on the day before the marathon, I "committed" to 3:30 by pledging it on a Virgin Money wall. No going back.

I felt good on the run-up to the Marathon, and the day before did all the correct pasta/protein intake, hydrating properly followed by a decent night's sleep. No complaints.

. I got to the start and got ready with no dramas, my nerves were in control and all was well. We started off and I enjoyed all the feelings of being in a big event, enjoyed the big crowds, I even joined in some high-fiving. I took on the right amount of fluids and sports drinks, I kept out of trouble and I kept the pace around 8 minutes per mile. Textbook stuff.

I'd planned to negative split each 10K, and each half, and was about there with that aim give or take a few delays. The delays were: one - kissing each of my 2 nieces at mile 6; two - kissing the wife at mile 13; and some random runner-dodging as people in front of me decided at the last minute to veer left or right under who-knows-what influence. But it was generally going very well, and I past halfway thinking of the strong finish that I had certainly got left in me. I was feeling good, feeling strong, mentally in the right place. Sure, I'd had a couple of low spots but you have to expect that; I get them in all my races, but I know they pass. Coming in towards mile 20, and I thought: "Right, I'm on 3:30 pace, let's push on for a couple of miles, see how that goes, and then I'll push through to the finish. Maybe pick up 3, 4 minutes." It was then that the sniper got me: CRACK! Straight into the right calf. I stumbled, picked up and tried to run through it. CRACK! bullet number two hit the left calf with unswerving accuracy. Again I stumbled and recovered, checking my pace and mentally recalculating. I carried on but I couldn't push the pace, and dropped to around 8:20. Each time I picked it up the calves would yank me back, and this went on until I was on 9 minute mileing and worse. Still, I was unwilling to accept what was going on and kept recalculating what I needed to do to get back on pace. At first, 4 miles at 7:45 pace would do it. Yes! That was possible. Then it was 3 at 7:40, I could do that surely. It was only when I get to needing sub-4 minute miles that I gave it up. I hobbled home, using a gait that Charlie Chaplin would have found odd but which kept me going. Everything was hurting, but most of all my pride. There were signs in one of the tunnels saying "pain is temporary, pride is forever". "Fucking cheap" I thought, deep in my anger at my situation. "This isn't about pain, or desire, or anything. I simply cannot mechanically make my legs do what I want." I grimaced and groaned my way to the finish, the only highlight being when I realised I was ahead of Michael Owen. I hoped he was suffering. Not very charitable, I know. So, a Bridge too far indeed. And that, fundamentally, stops me enjoying the event. Everyone says well done, everyone says I should be proud to finish. Everyone says I must have got a terrific feeling being in such an iconic event, wasn't the atmosphere great and so on. Well yes, it was all of those things, but I didn't get the time I wanted, and that overrides all else. Worse still, I feel it wasn't "my fault". I don't know who I'm blaming, but it isn't me. I still think I did what I could, and didn't make any fundamental errors in fuelling or hydrating. I just don't get it, I just don't understand what went wrong. But my poor result - yes, my poor performance - overshadows everything. I can't tell anyone what time I did without adding: "but I was good up to mile 20 then I got cramp, blah, blah, blah" I'm proper boring, I know it. But I'll continue to be boring about it till it stops eating me up. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being a run snob here. I've got no problem with 3:43 as such. It's only MY 3:43 I've got an issue with, because it cudda shudder wudda been 3:30. Or less. I've not met anyone yet who has said: "do you know, I'm happy with my time of xxx" no one. janine - PB of 3:14, upset because she didn't feel strong in her running for part of the race! What? Nowhere near as bad as my problem. Ed, fell part with injury and cramp, struggled in at well over 4 hours after targeting a very realistic 3:30 and spending much of his race ahead of me. Well OK, bad luck but, you know it's a proper injury thing, probably his own fault anyway, and clearly not as bad as my own bad luck. Or Rob, flying home in 2:37, and complaint that it could have been 2:35 if his pacemakers had shown up as planned. Yeah, not really a problem at all that, is it? Not like mine. So everyone has their tale of woe, and nobody's happy. You never meet a happy runner, anymore than you'll meet a happy farmer. Hearing a runner say: " yes, very happy with my run, pleased with the time" is like hearing a farmer declare his satisfaction with the weather, the European Union and the present government.But that isn't strictly true. I'm not happy with the time, but it really is a pretty special event, and there's a couple of elements that to me, absolutely sum it up. The first is the fact that, while I was cruising happily along, in control and feeling good, there was only a general, unspecific cheer. For the last few miles though, where my distress must have been painted all over my face it was suddenly a wall of people shouting my name. "Come on Pete, you can do it!" "Go Pete, dig in". "Hey Pete, looking good, not far now!" And so on. They could all recognise I needed their help, and they gave it. In spades. I'm filling up now, just thinking about it and what it meant to me then. The other thing didn't really occur to me at the time, and that was on the tube. I was still in my kit, wearing my medal and probably stinking, and I struck up a conversation with a woman who was asking about my race. That doesn't happen in London. Loads of people in the streets shouted "well done, mate, congratulations." That doesn't happen either. It's quite understandable, and I was the same when I lived there. It gets put down as being unfriendly. Yeah, Londoners, miserable bunch, never talk to you, never acknowledge you, and so on. But think about it, you can't go around smiling and saying good morning to the thousand of people you'll see. You have to be on your guard when you know there's so much crime and in crowded places it's easy to get pick pocketed or something. So you're careful, watchful, and reserved. I thought later, how nothing but sport could break through all those barriers. Strangers were no longer strangers, runners were all everybody's friend. Absolutely fantastic, and a reinforcement of the atmosphere that made the London Olympics so special in 2012. You are so right. I did enjoy it. It just took me some time to realise it, and to get things into perspective. None of those who were watching cared about my time, they cared about me. Thanks London.