Dubai Marathon 25th January 2013 - Race Day

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...

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.