No appetite in the morning as others around me have their
porridge and oats. Two cups of tea and a
shortbread biscuit for me is sufficient.
I’ve never needed, or felt like, eating before running. In fact, I’m not a fan of dinner the night
before either. None of the
pasta-carboloading hype for me. It is
the previous week of nutrition which is stored in the cells of the body that
accumulates to make the difference. Eat
well as a routine, not just the 24 hours before an event. And not eating dinner the night before
reduces the risk of getting the stomach cramps and GI problems on the run I’ve
decided.
But boy – I’m thirsty! ‘J’ai la guelle de bois’ I once learnt from a Frenchman. Little bit of a headache too. At least that’ll take my thoughts of discomfort away from my legs...
Bollocks. Fuck. I’m shagged. 02.59.35. I need a beer. Then I start thinking if I can take another fifteen minutes off in Paris... That will surely hurt.
But boy – I’m thirsty! ‘J’ai la guelle de bois’ I once learnt from a Frenchman. Little bit of a headache too. At least that’ll take my thoughts of discomfort away from my legs...
Rushed taxi to
the start line. Meet others at the bag
drop-off. Bad nights’ sleep due to
nerves they say. Four pints and a bottle
of Rioja I say. You look shit they
say. See you at the finish I say. Ten minutes to the start. No time for stretching; I’ll do the warm-up
in the first three km’s! Toilet
first. Past the portaloos and endless
queues. Not for me. There is always a fancy hotel or restaurant open
nearby... Get to the back of the start line behind two thousand other runners
as the start gun goes off with barely enough time to touch my toes. Here it goes: 42.195km. It is not going to be pretty...
No sight of the
Ethiopians and Kenyans for me this year at the rear but it really is a great
thing about marathon running that you can line up on the start line with the
world’s best and compete in the same event as them. You couldn’t turn up to
Wembley for a kick-about with your mates...
I move up past the back markers.
Thankfully no pantomime horses obstructing the way. Settle into a steady pace as I continue to
move up the field. No sign of the
others. Should I have left the hotel
five minutes earlier to avoid this congestion?
Not to worry. The runners thin
out soon enough. It won’t make much of a
difference to my time, certainly no more than the bottle of Rioja.
No looking at the
Dubai skyscape for distraction. A thick
fog hangs in the air hiding the top of the Burj Khalifa. Eyes ahead instead. I feel a little disorientated as we come out
of the Business Bay and the Dubai Mall until we pass the Trade Centre, the
original ‘tall’ building of Dubai completed at the start of Dubai’s building
frenzy and modern day invention but now dwarfed by all those all around it.
Towards the sea
and the flag at Customs House. The fog
opens temporarily 5km in and I quickly grab water at the first aid
station. A runner besides me says,
unknowingly, that it is a little early for being so dehydrated already. He has no idea...
I see Matt and
Steve on the other side after the U turn behind me, followed by others: Toby in his build-up to Ironman South Africa; James, Tom; the trio of Danny, Richard and Craig together; then I pass Colin at around
8km. He says I’m looking good and strong
which is encouraging. I think how I need
to get in touch with Colin when we are back in our sandpit for some runs
together... And by now I’m beginning to feel strong. I settle into a steady rhythm. 4min15 per km
pace as I go through the 10km after 45 minutes.
Maybe this won’t be as bad after all.
Along the
Jumeriah beach road the fog thickens again.
It keeps the temperature down. No
wind either. Near perfect conditions. Visibility ahead is about 75 metres. The fog and poor visibility has another
benefit. I can only see a couple of
runners ahead, and certainly no sight of the Burj Al Arab at the turnaround
point some way still to go up ahead. I
remember the previous marathons here that the out and back route is
psychologically difficult with the Burj Al Arab or huge flag at the other end
never appearing to come any closer despite the accumulating fatigue.
But today the fog
creates a quiet space for me to be in. I
run in a little zone, exclusive of others.
The hang-over came and went at the 15km mark and now I’m enjoying
myself. This is it: running free of
constraints, expectations, pressure. I’m
running because I want to, because I enjoy the breathing, the rhythm, the
feeling.
The East Africans
fly past on the other side of the road; the half-marathon mark for me is still
up ahead. Only a half-marathon! Not
the full thing some might scoff but it still is a long way nonetheless. Maybe it needs another name to make it sound
less like the inferior relative of the 42.195km but an achievement in its own
right, as has the half-ironman become known as the 70.3 event has due to the
all pervasive American marketing. But
that then annoys the purist in me when I hear 70.3 finishers say they are
ironmen – no you are not!! But those
that scoff the achievements of half-marathoners, or even the 10km, won’t be
runners themselves. What do they know!
Half-marathon
mark: 1h30min and a few seconds and I’m feeling good. My concerns begin to
recede. I’m actually feeling strong both
mentally and physically and I begin to think about this as a race for the first
time. In an instant the race plan comes
to me: to attack the last 10km with everything I have left in my legs. Push myself to my limits, to find where those
limits are today. The whole build-up has
not been about this marathon with the Paris goal still work in progress, and
although I seriously thought I’d be happy with this as a training run and
therefore a time of 3h15/3h30, I now decide with intent that the fiasco of this
morning and the recklessness of last night should not get in the way of a sub
three hour time. The symbolic sub three
is well worth the effort: it is too close an achievable target to pass up. And even if I do blow-up, to hell with it –
it will be fun trying! It will be a
valuable experience regardless of the outcome.
I start breaking
down the segments: 10km to run before its 32km and then I’ll start to really
push myself. No. Too big a chunk – something smaller. 3km to the 25km mark and I’ll take the
isotonic drink – no idea which one it is – rather than water. Then it is three more kilometres before the 2
hour mark. 2/3’s done.
After that, it will be 15 minutes before I start pushing myself. I remember Michael Atherton saying how he
broke up the time at the crease into bite size chunks: in 15 minutes it will be
10 minutes before tea...
Currently running
at 4min20 per km pace. I’ll aim to hit 4min pace – the target pace for
Paris. Too challenging. No, not today; the last 10km in 40 minutes;
too much to ask. I work out that if I
can manage 45 minutes for the last 10km I will have three minutes to
spare. It will be close but that
strengthens my resolve.
31km. Last of the
‘easy’ kilometres before the fun starts...
The Abu Dhabi
triathlon last year was the first time that I really, really, pushed myself to
my limits. Competing with an injury
could be considered unwise but I gained a far more valuable lesson and
knowledge of myself compared with what I lost from a month of missed running
training afterwards. After the 100km
bike I managed a 39 minute 10km and was absolutely spent at the end – totally
and utterly, with nothing left having ran through pain to finish to collapse
onto my knees. But when considering the
bigger picture, it gave me the confidence and knowledge that I can push myself
to my limits if I desire it enough. And
today, although I did not earlier, I do now.
I flick the switch: let’s take this seriously. 10km to go.
Time to start running; no more pissing about; time to dig deep and to
use my experience and confidence to do this.
I can achieve, but it will hurt and it won’t be easy. The achievement will be greater as a
consequence. I try and recall a passage
from a book I read recently: we decide for ourselves when it will hurt and it
will not hurt unless I decide. I reword
it into my running mantra.
I will decide when it hurts, and it will hurt
when I decide. Or is it better the other way
round? It will hurt when I decide, and I’ll decide when it hurts. As I increase my pace the point is made: it
is going to hurt, but not yet. Stay
focussed.
My breathing
deepens but I remain relaxed. First
target is a runner about 100m ahead.
This is now the game – try and tick them off one by one. I am the strong one toady, no fading for
me. I wonder how many are up ahead? All those that had five minutes less in bed
this morning and were in pole position on the start line.
35km mark. Going well. No wall in sight to hit, but no
heartbreak hill on the flat Dubai course either. Garmin says 4.05 min pace. I push myself to try and hold 4 minute km pace
as I past the zoo. The Lime Tree cafe
isn’t too far. The fog remains keeping
it cool. I pass on the water at the aid
station but take a sponge to suck the moisture instead. Less chance of getting a stitch from the
sponge than guzzling from a bottle.
4 minute pace is too much; five seconds over a kilometre makes a
difference. I ease slightly. It is beginning to hurt. But not yet – I’ll decide when. Push on.
Relax. Remain steady; breathe
steady; stay with the rhythm.
5km to go. Still three minutes to spare but I’m aware
they could evaporate quickly. Then I
remember the 195 metres to add to the 42km.
That will use up over a minute.
Now less than two minutes to spare.
It is going to be close.
Then I hear my
name and a shout: “Go! Go, Go!!” That picks me up. It is a long time waiting on the pavement as
a spectator and it will be a long wait for the others from the sandpit to come
past, but they are doing it and will appreciate the cheer and support as much
as I do.
This really is
going to be close. My pace drops to
4min15. There goes the two minutes if it
stays like this. I know I am going to be
pissed off if the clock says 03.00 and then a handful of seconds. There is no way I am wasting the effort of
the last eight kilometres of hard running.
I will not betray that effort now.
I dig deep.
The twists and
turns as I approach the Dubai Mall ruin my rhythm. Relax.
Calm. Clear my mind. Keep the rhythm. Breathe steady. I’m at my limit and wonder how much I have
left for the last 2km as the sub three hour looms precariously close. No need for water at the last aid station –
dehydration won’t be a factor now, only my resolve.
I decide it can
hurt now.
This is going to
be very close. Dig deep again,
deeper. 3min50 pace.
Last
kilometre. Single-minded, focussed
vision. The fog has cleared but I am not
looking up, not to the side, not acknowledging the claps and cheers from the
spectators waiting for those behind; straight ahead only. Fuck – this is going to be close. I decide it can hurt a little more.
The last minute,
the last bend; it straightens out and I see the finish. Nearly there but still too close to
call. Bollocks. Fuck. I’m shagged. 02.59.35. I need a beer. Then I start thinking if I can take another fifteen minutes off in Paris... That will surely hurt.
