Marathon Memories: Part One

You might want to stick around for part two.

Watching the Seville marathon last weekend, as perfect strangers carried a stricken runner over the finish line and children breached lax security to see their parents home arm-in-arm, you couldn’t help but be stirred, and one’s throat a little lumpy. 

Such events can do that to you, and Sunday was no exception.

From the concerned mother who ran alongside her son for as long her jeans would allow, reassuring him that only a few kilometres remained and how proud she, and his watching friends and family, were of him. Or the shared concern — and I must confess, suppressed amusement — at watching a middle-aged man who had tried to rouse the crowd by holding his arms aloft slowly stumble forward, his jellified legs finally giving way from under him, falling face first onto the road. He was okay; I’m sure the unalloyed glee of finishing moments later helped to temper any residual embarrassment or regret, if not the minor cuts and grazes to his body.  

Twelve thousand people took part in the Seville marathon on Sunday, each with their own story. Maybe some were running for charity, others competitively. Perhaps they were motivated by a person no longer with us, someone going through illness, or maybe they wanted to prove something to themselves — to show they’ve still got it or do it while they still can. Many would have experienced complications during training. Plenty, I’ve no doubt, would have been carrying injuries or picked up new ones. For some, it would have been their first marathon; for a few, their first in years. 

The Pareja de Hecho and I took part in a 5km breakfast run the day before the marathon, the first running event I’ve done since 2019. There are a couple of reasons why I’ve left it so long. The first is because I have arthritic hips and really shouldn’t; the second… well, let’s just say the last one didn’t quite go to plan. 

The atmosphere naturally brought to life memories of days gone by, and late Saturday afternoon, the Pareja de Hecho kindly tracked down the official photographs from the two biggest events in which I’ve taken part. The first was one of the best days of my life — the second was, quite literally, a bloody disaster. But more on that next week. 

For now, I thought I’d take you to Paris on the morning of the 8th of April 2018.

My ‘Oh Shit’ face, in selfie form.

Walking to the start line, it finally hit me. Forty-two kilometres would have to pass before I could claim to have run a marathon. How many body parts would I lose en route? Squint, and you can spot the freshly-applied Vaseline on my right nipple.

More than 42,000 people lined up for the start on the Champs-Élysées. You can probably see me sticking out; I’m in there somewhere (and no, this is not a photo taken from my perspective). That’s the thing; I made life easy for my family and friends to spot me as I went around while acting as a point of reference for others, too. “The Eiffel Tower’s doing well,” I heard someone comment.*

This man has literally no idea of the pain that is coming. Note the intact blue tape and gallant stride of the ignorant fast starter (both feet in the air!) who thinks he deserves an Olympic call-up. I did 5km in 24.26 minutes and 10km in 50.26. Who did I think I was? We were about three minutes slower on Saturday, and I was done. Muppet.

I should mention that it was twenty-two degrees in Paris. Twenty-two degrees might not seem that hot, but I can assure you, it feels positively oven-esque while running 42 kilometres. Seville was twenty degrees on Sunday, and I got sunburnt just watching.

Also, for context, that winter had brought with it the Beast from the East, which made training a little more… icy. I did my final long run, twenty-two miles (I had meant to do twenty, but I miscalculated), in the midst of a blizzard. A week of flu followed.

If I could read my mind here, I’m pretty sure I was thinking, ‘Thank God I didn’t buy the black running top last week.’ A clutch move. Matt also looks like he’s struggling (I don’t know Matt).

Believe it or not, this isn’t one of the official photographs taken by a professional.

It’s the only picture I took during the run, and it made me laugh so much when I saw it that evening. The intention was there — this was a particularly inspiring part of the course that I felt compelled to capture for posterity — I just so happened to time the photo perfectly so that the Eiffel Tower was more or less covered up by this rather thin, inconsequential tree.

I absolutely relish this photo. This guy, humbled and soaked in his own juices, is in a world of pain, desperately squeezing a gel pack to replenish the salts oozing out of his body. The gazel-like form has been replaced by heavy, flat, cumbersome strides. I expect I’m playing a voicenote I asked my family to leave periodically for motivation.

This stretch was tough; we ran along the River Seine between miles 13 and about 18-19, some of which took part in cobbled streets — others in claustrophobic and airless tunnels — while the sun grew stronger and stronger. Once you hit halfway, knowing you have to do the same distance all over again, the mental aspect really kicks in.

The sticky tape, as you can see, is disintegrating. Runner’s knee — which usually appeared at 10km for me — is doing its thing (which is why I have the black straps and tape on each knee). What’s Runner’s Knee? It’s a dull ache, as though someone is repeatedly poking you on the inside or outside of your knee, slowly restricting movement.

My hips, meanwhile, are losing cartilage stride by stride, never to be the same again. My big toenail is peeling away from my left foot.

This wasn’t the hardest part of the course — that, for me, came roughly between miles 21 and 24. We entered a park, and though the road gave way to a nice, more joint-friendly path, the vista remained the same, as though we were running on the spot, passing the same tree repeatedly for thirty minutes. It was here that people were collapsed and collapsing all over the place, some screaming for help. Arguments broke out at water stations as people tripped up over one another.

That’s the thing; you're properly on edge by the end of these events. I was tripped a lot in this race. When it happened towards the beginning, I was like, ‘No worries, my man! Have a great day!’ By the end, ‘Touch me and die.’**

Frustration washes away as the finish line nears. I'd love to relive some moments in my life, and this is one of them. Honestly, the rush of seeing the 25-mile marker (I’d lost which mile we were on amid the warzone around me), realising that bar some unforeseen event, I had enough in the tank to finish and do so within my target time. Holy smokes, that last 1.2 miles was the highest of natural highs. I took off my headphones to take in the atmosphere, gurning at the crowd with pleasure.

If you’re considering running a marathon, I’d thoroughly recommend signing up with a friend or partner. Pete and I had twice tried to enter the London marathon, opting instead for Paris, where our entry was all but guaranteed. Pete is and always has been way faster than me, so we didn’t run it together, but our families and friends met up for dinner that evening. It's special to do something like this with a close pal.

It’s funny looking at this because I’ve always told people I finished in three hours and fifty-six minutes, whereas in reality, I’ve basically knocked a full minute off there.

Sue me.

All in all, a 10/10 day. So good, in fact, that when two close friends of mine suggested we do a marathon together a year later, I thought, ‘Yeah, why not?’

What could go wrong?

See you next week, folks!

xx

*I didn’t really.

**:)