Third time's the charm?
Yesterday I had my third attempt at running the Brighton Marathon. The first attempt, in 2018, saw me eschew any form of training and quickly regret it about 10km into the 42km distance. The second try a year later I course-corrected, over-trained, injured my IT band (down the outside of the thigh from hip to knee), didn't rest, made it worse, tried to push through on the day, and tapped out just after halfway round, at the 24km mark. This year, I trained properly, didn't push myself too much, and rested when I had problems. I was confident that I could finally nail it this time!
Up at the usual time for a Sunday run, but I'd been awake for two hours previously, wracked with nerves and fitfully dozing. We got to the Preston Park start area with plenty of time, milling around trying to stay warm. At 9:30 I bade goodbye to Dana who went to get a good spot for photos, had a final wee then entered the starting chute. I did my best to get myself psyched up for the run, but not too much that I'd shoot off too quickly and burn myself out - it was a marathon, not a sprint after all! The first km was a slow amble back on ourselves up a slope behind Preston Park - the road wasn't particularly wide, everyone was still bunched up, so I didn't feel too bad about being slower than my planned race pace.
That picked up around the north edge of the park, as the route headed downhill to the main road into town from the north. Unlike the last two times we swung left, heading up the London road and back for a 3km stretch. This, as well as a couple of other additions to the route from my last attempt, meant that the soul-destroying stretch past the sewage works to the power station and back wouldn't be included any longer, so I didn't mind the leafy Withdean area being added! Back down past Preston Park, 5km done, a parkrun under my belt already and I was going faster than intended. I'd stuck to the centre of the road to try and avoid cheers, I wanted to focus on the task at hand.
Down into central Brighton and the sun had come out! I was glad I chose not to go for my tights, but was still starting to feel warm, and at the first water stop of the day outside the library, I grabbed a bottle and doused my head with it. Thanks to the supplied water being in bottles rather than cups I could close it and keep it in my pocket for later, spraying myself whenever it became necessary. Round the front of the Pavilion and back up I spotted Dana twice, posing for photos. I was still feeling good, but not as tip-top as I would've liked.
An icon, and a Pavilion
Back up through Brighton, around the top of the Level, and I realised that the route didn't exactly match the one of the Half Marathon around this bit. We'd need to head up Lewes Road, then climb the steep slope of Franklin Road. With this bit under my belt I'd done 10k already, roughly a quarter of the way done, and it was downhill towards the sea for a bit. The breeze picked up, cooling me down, and it was reassuring being on my 12th km and seeing people just on their 8th going the other way. The course took a turn up another slope, this time along St James's Street, and a cunningly positioned photographer near the top.
Not a fan of where they were placed
Back to the sea, turning back on myself for a short spell to the aquarium roundabout and back, and the first supply drop of the day. I swapped my water bottle, got some more energy gels, and a protein bar as I was starting to feel it a bit. Back up the slope and I trotted along scoffing the protein bar, refuelling, as well as picking up some more water and a spare gel from the stand. The more fuel the better, right? A great pace along Marine Parade, the sun high in the sky above the sea somewhere off to my right, and the crowds thinned out as we left the residential area. I knew that there was a fairly aggressive slope by the marina so kept my music on until after I'd reached the top. Over the 16km mark and I could focus on a podcast, so swapped out my audio. I knew that there were two smaller hills before the Ovingdean roundabout so chuntered on, keeping my pace up.
At the roundabout we veered left into the village of Ovingdean and I hit a bit of a wobble. I was terrifyingly aware of the size of the task ahead and needed to slow to a walk. The length I'd gone and the distance ahead - I wasn't even at halfway yet - got on top of me. I didn't want to quit there and then, as I was in the middle of nowhere, so I got on with it. Switching my podcast back to music helped, and I picked up the pace on the way out of Ovingdean. I knew that there was a horrible hill coming up, on the road towards Rottingdean, but from past experience we'd only be going halfway up before coming back down, so I could cope.
One of the additional bits added to the route to make up for the power station/sewage works loop that was no longer in place meant that not only did we go to the top of that hill, we carried on nearly into Rottingdean itself, so the climb wasn't immediately rewarded with the gravity-assisted trot back down. The windmill looked nice in the sunshine, though.
Down past the roundabout and I was halfway done! Unlike times past, where the halfway marker was on Brighton seafront thronged with crowds and with a big banner arch, this was marked by a single forlorn mile totem. Still, from there I'd done more than I had ahead of me, and that was a mental relief. I had less than 21km ahead of me, then it would be less than a ten miler, then less than a 10k, then less than a parkrun.
It was at this point that my tummy rumbled intriguingly. I wasn't hungry - the opposite, I was digesting in a way that I wasn't entirely comfortable with. I plunged on, aware of the grass verge to the left where - if needed - I could sink to my knees and vomit. I had water to rinse my mouth out with if it came to that, and the St Johns Ambulance people were dotted regularly along the course. I took things slower, increasing the blood flow to my digestive organs to get them to settle. I saw the tail end of the course heading the opposite way, a good 6km behind me. I also saw a man running with a washing machine on his back, and decided that I should use some of the water to cool off, concerned about heatstroke.
Twenty four and a half kilometres down I saw a portapotty on the other side of the road and decided that as my stomach hadn't settled, I'd pay it a visit. This toilet had been sitting in direct sunlight for the last five hours, so was stinking hot - and I mean that in both senses - as I settled in. I checked the football score and saw that less than five minutes into the game Arsenal were already 1-0 down against Man City. Things were not going well, although this did reduce my chances for sacking off the rest of the run and watching the match in a pub instead! Five futile minutes later I needed some fresh air, so rejoined the course. It was around this distance that my knee gave out on me last time, so I was pleased that this year it didn't have a peep of a complaint!
The course headed down the slope of Duke's Mound to the seafront road. I picked up speed for a bit, until my stomach gurgled threateningly. I slowed back down to a quick trot, which was all I could manage, lest I suffer the trots. The crowds lining the road cheered me on, mistaking my slow pace for mental fatigue, and I didn't have the heart to explain. I picked up my final supply drop from Dana outside the Haunt and explained the situation. I told Dana I was going to continue - people had sponsored me to finish this after all, and I was still confident that my stomach would settle down shortly. My 5 hour target was still feasible! A few hundred metres further along I spotted some more St Johns Ambulance volunteers and had a quick chat. I explained my situation and asked if they had anything that would help - advice, medication, a large cork - but sadly no dice. The volunteer suggested that I lay off the gels and limit my drink intake to small but regular sips, so I carried on.
For a few hundred metres, anyway. Then I heard a gleeful "James!" from the crowd and realised that Ellie and Jasmine, the colleagues who came to support me for the half, had given up their Sunday again to cheer me on! This quick chat with them lightened my spirits and I pushed on, heading into Hove.
Sign of the weekend
By now I was averaging around 9:30 a kilometre, well below my projected race pace, and the time I'd banked by my earlier swiftness was nearly out. I turned away from the seafront and pushed into Hove, past work, and past the Tesco traffic lights. This was the point where I'd thrown in the towel on my last attempt. Due to the course changes I knew I'd already surpassed it in distance, but it was motivating to leave it in the dust, albeit at a slower pace than I would've liked. Ten metres further on I passed the library, relieved that it was closed on a Sunday and that I wouldn't be tempted to go inside, and kept going west towards Portslade. New Church Road is a familiar one, from commutes to previous jobs, and I was intrigued to see what had changed. Not much, it turns out, but the resurfaced tarmac was at least gentle.
The turn down Boundary Road took me metres from one of those old jobs, and the devil on my shoulder whispered that their doorway would be an ideal place to relieve my ongoing stomach issues, until the angel on the other side pointed out that I would be easily identified as I'm wearing my name across my chest, so I carried on. My watch beeped 32km along Seaford Road, showing I had roughly 10km left. The signs for every 5km had not matched my watch - being as different as 500m at one point - so I had a vague idea of the remaining distance but nothing concrete.
Back along New Church Road, and a turn to take us around the border of Wish Park. I checked the football score and saw that Arsenal had come back to win 2-1! Pleased, I spotted the toilets in the park and took another break. Five minutes in a cooler, less grotty loo - my local knowledge really helped with this, as I don't think many runners used it - and I was back on my way. I saw the 5 hour 30 pacer amble past and pushed ahead to try and keep him behind me.
This lasted until I got back into Hove before I realised I couldn't keep up the pace. My stomach had mostly settled down now, though, so I made a deal with myself. I was at 36km. If I didn't hear any gurgles, grumbles or squeaks throughout the next 2k, I'd risk another gel and go from there. By this time I was on the Kingsway, the course narrowed to allow traffic to pass, and the water stalls had run out of bottles. I was beginning to get dismayed. I knew I had less than a parkrun left - how much less I wasn't sure of, but definitely less - and just wanted to get it over with now. I ingested a gel, scared and slightly intrigued about what it would do to me, and carried on past the Lagoon. Thunder Road came on my playlist and I made a little bargain with myself - I'd alternate between running for one song, then walking the next. This lasted all of about 3 pairs of songs, before not even Britney Spears' Work Bitch could rouse me. I had turned the final corner and was heading towards the finish. The ending to Stephen King's short story The Long Walk, about a young man who outlasts his competitors to win the eponymous walk, but ends up hallucinating and dying, kept returning unbidden to my mind.
Forty one kilometres down. One and a bit left. Up the slope to the promenade, past Fatboy Slim's house, and I get a congratulation text from my mum. This was rather confusing. I knew my watch and the course distances hadn't often synced up, but that was usually showing I'd gone further, not less. Had I passed the finish line already? Was it over? Was I hallucinating? The tracking app had already alerted them to my finish, but I still had to pass the beach huts and Dave Gilmour's place to get to the end. I plodded on, dodging crowds enjoying the sunshine on the beach, knowing that I just had to make it to Hove Lawns to finish.
Past the King Alfred. Along a path I've run so often before, albeit usually only 1km in rather than 41km in. A sign alerted me to 500m to go and a perfect finishing song came on my playlist. I sped up, just wanting it to be over with. People called my name, spurring me on faster and faster. My vision narrowed to the finishing line alone. The crowds blurred in my peripheral vision. Kylie Minogue herself could've been cheering for me and I wouldn't have known. Faster I sprinted, passing other runners on their last legs. I leapt over the finishing line, punching the air in delight, nearly taking out the timer, and landed on legs that really didn't need to be dealing with a jump after five and three quarter hours of persistent movement. My right leg locked and I stumbled forward, nearly face-planting the ground but retaining my balance.
I'd done it! I'd got a new personal best time, six months after I'd resigned myself to never getting one again. I'd killed the demons from the last attempt. And I'd proven to myself I could do it, which meant I could retire from marathon running.
It's just too damn long. For someone who never really exercised at all before turning 30, to be in the position where I've run three marathons, completing two, is astounding. I've nothing else to prove in terms of races this length any more, so I'm going to stick to half marathons going forward. A decent training plan ahead of the Brighton Half next February, though, and I might very well crack the sub 2 hour mark!
