Intestinal Issues, Intestinal Fortitude - the Brighton Marathon write-up

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!

Brighton half

Yesterday my training plan took a more social turn, as I ran the planned half marathon with around 10,000 others. Thankfully I didn't need to talk to all of them!

Oddly, despite living in the city for 13 years, and this being my fourth time running a half marathon, this was the first time I'd run the one in Brighton. My first half, in 2017, was in Worthing, purely because a friend had suggested I do it and I couldn't think of a reason not to. 2018 and 2019 were focusing on marathon attempts of various degrees of success, and 2020 was hastily moved to Eastbourne after the Worthing one was called off due to a storm. The late notice of that postponement meant that Brighton was fully booked, so further along the coast I went. 2021 didn't have many races for some reason, and 2022 saw me finally cashing in the literal rain check at Worthing. 

The marathon training plan I've been using called for a half marathon on the 26th of February, the same date as Brighton's half was on, so it made sense to go to the one I could catch a bus to. I'd rested and stretched, and stretched and rested, and was 98% confident that my body could hold up. 

The day was intended as a trial run for the full marathon five weeks hence, and started well with a bus trip into town. I'd packed everything I needed for during the run (drinks, gels, protein bar) and after (deodorant, change of clothes, phone charger, more deodorant) in a handy cool bag and lumbered Dana with it, who dragged herself out early on a Sunday morning on support duties despite being unwell. I ran through the spots with her for where I could see her, and get a supply drop, and posed for photos by the pier before we parted. 

James, look at the birds!

I waded through the crowds and found my starting pen. My estimated time of 2 hours to 2 hours 15 was inaccurate - I intended to run at race pace for the full marathon, 7:07 per km, which would see a finish of around 2 hours 30. I tucked myself away near the back of the pen, getting warm in the sun that had broken through the clouds. I mulled over whether sunglasses would have been better, but decided against it - I would only have a short time running east with the sun in my eyes, as the final return to the finish line would be around midday and the sun would be higher (if it reappeared). I overheard other runners discussing their targets, and chuckled to myself. I wasn't running for a particular time - in fact, I emphatically didn't want a new personal best, as this would involve running a full minute and a half faster than my intended pace per km. Instead my goals were trying to stick to race pace, not injuring myself further and hatching as many eggs as I could in Pokemon Go!

The race started and we shuffled forward the 450m to the timing mats at the start line. I played a familiar psych-up tune, focusing on the run ahead. I ambled round the front of the aquarium and up the only real incline of the run - or so I thought. I knew Dana would be on the inside just past the bus stop so positioned myself to pose for photos. 

I look happier than the two chaps flanking me.

The route along Marine Parade is one I'd done regularly on my Sunday runs, but usually a) on the pavement and b) running west, so this was a pleasant change. I was a bit miffed to not hear my name called out - I'd had it emblazoned on my chest for a reason (attention), was it all for nothing? The crowd thinned out and I switched to a podcast episode for the out and back to Roedean. Round by the cafe, and to distract myself from the smell of bacon sandwiches I checked my pace to find that I was running at 1:50 minutes per kilometre! If I kept this pace up I'd obliterate the half marathon world record by around 15 minutes! This was obviously a GPS glitch and I paid it avid attention for the next few minutes until it settled down to something more sensible, glad that I wouldn't need to replace my watch. 

I scoffed my first energy gel on the slope down to the first water station, finding a bin to dispose of my litter and using the supplied water to cool myself down. I'd got enough drinks with me to stay hydrated, so the water was just about reducing my body temperature. I chuntered along back towards town, being passed by people running their own race, keeping an eye out for Dana and thanking the volunteers who had given up their morning to enable the race to go ahead. By scanning the crowd and making eye-contact with more people I got more cheers and shout-outs from the watching public, so that's clearly where I was going wrong during the first few km when I was largely ignored. Down the initial incline and I spotted Dana, so posed again. 

I never outgrow my MySpace camwhore phase

The route swung away from the seafront and up through Brighton, along a route I'll take in the full marathon. My pace wasn't too taxing so I had a nice time taking in the architectural delights. I passed a runner from a local running club called The Eagles - even though, on this long run, I was taking it easy. I amused myself thinking of more Eagles song titles I could cram into this report, which you'll be pleased to know I managed to forget. One of these nights I'll remember them. Back down towards the sea and I had my second energy gel, diverting from the course across a cycle lane to a nearby bin, much to the amusement of a nearby runner who thought I'd just given up and dashed off to the pub! Passing the Pavilion I hit the halfway mark, and got a surge of speed. Whether that was from the gel kicking in, or Carly Rae Jepsen's Run Away With Me playing on my headphones, I'll let you decide. I was going at a comfortable enough pace to sing along, regardless! 

An iconic sight, with the Pavilion as my backdrop

I saw Dana for the last time, and swapped out my empty water bottle for a cool, full one, then headed into Hove. This was a fairly straight run along the seafront, familiar territory, and I kept an eye out for friends I thought might be cheering. I motored along the Kingsway, enjoying a steady pace, smiling and waving, and almost soaking the poor woman behind me at the water station. We passed the King Alfred Leisure Centre and I was on familiar turf, the route of my regular flat 10k to the power station (albeit we'd be turning by the Lagoon instead). The last time I ran this route my Achilles protested - but that was after 3km, and by now I'd racked up five times that distance. 

Coping better with the distance than others

Around this time I felt a familiar wobble. A bit of a dizzy spell, but no matter, I was prepared for this. I slowed down on the approach to the Lagoon and scarfed down a protein bar. A few spectators mistook this as me struggling and shouted out cheers of encouragement - to which I rebutted that I was fine, just having my tea break! Not thirty seconds after I picked up my pace again I heard my name being called out with far more enthusiasm, and spotted Adam and Simone from my parkrun cheering me on. This helped spur me on, and I turned back towards the finish line, 5k away. 

Five kilometres. It's a parkrun, it's nothing. It's a fifth of my run the week before, I'd already covered three times that. I eventually got my head to think of the remaining distance as that, a much more digestible term than running from Portslade, across most of Hove and Brighton to the Volk's railway. I took my final energy gel, a more water based one which immediately coated both hands in stickiness the instant I opened it, and soldiered on. The beachfront promenade between the Lagoon and the leisure centre is quite narrow so I don't usually run along it, so had no real concept of how well I was doing. It opened out on familiar terrain and I picked up, aided by the sight of two colleagues who had given up their Sunday to come out and cheer for me. 

The final water station, and I stopped to wash my hands and soak my head. Three kilometres to go, and barring a brief top up of my bottle from a water fountain I've used many times before, it was all go from here. There wouldn't be any more wasted time, I'd take it to the limit. I didn't realise at the time, but I was in a much better mental state than those around me. 

I swear I've not been photoshopped into this picture.

The course swung back from the prom to the Kingsway by the Angel Of Peace statue, giving me a fresh view on things, as I normally run alongside the beach from there. The crowds thickened and I sauntered towards the finish line, responding to supportive comments in kind. My watch bleeped 20km done as I passed the cinema and I let Dana know that I was around five minutes away. I fought the urge to speed up for a sprint finish - I didn't know how much I had left in the tank and didn't want to blow up too early. We passed the pier and I was dismayed to see the finish line wasn't as close as I remembered - still 500m away. Passing several runners being attended to by medical personnel, I saw a line opening up ahead of me and positioned myself to practice my planned finish line pose for the full marathon.

Five seconds before finishing

I crossed the timing mats again, leaping up and punching the air in delight. "This will make a cracking photo" I thought, as the MC gave me a shout-out for my spectacular finish. 

There was a man running a minute or so ahead with me carrying a 25kg fridge on his back. Fair play to him for doing it, and breaking a world record in the process, but his finish drew a lot of attention, and the crowd around him meant that my finish line photo wasn't quite as cool as I would have liked. 

About to lay the smack down on this volunteer

I found Dana, then decided to stop clogging up the finish chute. We sat on the beach and I used the ice packs which had been cooling my drinks to ice my Achilles as recommended. (I'm not gonna lie, I'm pretty chuffed with the dual purpose to these.) Were it not for that I felt fine, well enough to find food, but I figured the person with a degree in Sports Science knows more than someone who eschewed exercise for the first thirty years of his life, so I sat and chilled. After rehydrating, and posing for more photos, we went off in search of food, walking without issue. 

A proud finisher

A proud finisher, six years previously. 

Compare and contrast.

After a few days rest, the training plan resumes at the weekend with the longest run in the schedule - 32k/20 miles, and I'm gonna throw in some hills too! 

 

Third time's the charm?

 Attempt one: 15th April 2018

Attempt two: 14th April 2019

Attempt three?

After a break from attempting Brighton marathon - partly to build up my strength, partly enforced by a global pandemic - I'm having a third bite at the cherry. I'm aiming to do better than 2019's attempt, when I tapped out just past halfway, after my IT band issues flared up again. I'm also aiming to do better than 2018's completion, which took me over a quarter of a day to do. Sub 5 hours is the goal this time. 

So, my training plan started in earnest on new year's day. The plan called for me to run 16k/10 miles in just under two hours - I managed it, but didn't stick remotely to race pace. No matter, that's what training plans are for. It's practice to get me in the habit of it, so that I can nail it come race day three months later. Two days later came a sterner test. The plan called for 10k, with a 1.5k warm up/warm down jog, and the middle 7k at 5 minutes 41 seconds per kilometre. I've managed that at parkruns without issue, but they're when I'm fresh on a Saturday morning. This was after my first day back at work for nearly a fortnight, still feeling the effects of quitting caffeine for January, in the dark, and with it bucketing down. It was also in the dark, so I couldn't make out my pace on my watch and dodge both tree branches and uneven pavements. While I managed the distance, the timings were nowhere near where they needed to be. An utterly dismal day on Thursday saw me eschew the planned slow 8k and regroup. 

Saturday 7th saw an early start to see Dana off to the airport, before returning home to breakfast before knocking out a slow 5k (albeit still 2 minutes faster than planned). The following morning had an 11k in the calendar, to be completed in just under two hours. I managed it at 1 hour 15. Going slow was proving to be an issue. I know that it'll serve me well going forward in building up a good stamina base, but I can't adjust my mindset well enough to slow down. 

Tuesday brought on some interval training. Again, after work, but this time around Hove park. Six pairs of 2 minutes at 5 min/k pace and 2 minutes jogging to recover. Managed it, mostly, but I realised that Hove park isn't terribly well lit, and neither are a lot of people walking round it in the dark. The number of runners dressed all in black, or dog walkers with LED collars on their pooches but not making themselves visible and leaving the leads stretched across the path like tripwires made this a frustrating and dangerous run. I decided to invest in a chest light - while people might see me and think I look like a prat, at least they'll see me, and I can see them in turn. I took it out for a test on the Thursday night slow run to the pier and back and it paid dividends straight away. The run was 8k, in 55 minutes - closer to the 57 minute target.

These evening runs midweek were out of my normal, early morning running comfort zone, but they had a benefit that I didn't realise until the above run. By running at the end of a day of work, past several chippies before dinner, I was slowly getting myself used to running while tired and hungry - two states I'll probably be in towards the end of the marathon. It'll help my mindset knowing that I've completed runs at race pace on tired legs and an empty stomach. 

The following Sunday I loaded up a playlist of podcast episodes, pointed myself east and ran to Rottingdean and back. It was a glorious sunny morning, hindered only by the strong east wind and the Indian takeaway the night before that necessitated a brief stop at the public toilets 4k in. Again, good training for race day. The pace didn't drop much after I turned into the wind and going up and down hills, only the last two kilometres being an utter slog when I ran out of fuel. Half baked plans to nudge the distance up to half marathon length were out the window, I circled the nearby co-op until my watch bleeped 20 and I could stop and shovel food into my mouth. 

Another Tuesday interval run, five lots of 4 minutes at 5:30 min/km pace, with 400m recovery jogging in between. I had fewer obstacles around Hove park now that I was lit up like a Christmas tree. I didn't quite manage the distance of 8k, but a slight detour on the way home saw the purchase of a pair of flip-flops ahead of April's holiday - ideal for wearing around the flat and protecting my feet. Thursday came, with ice on the ground despite a sunny day. 

I made several mistakes for this run. First of all I needed to do 10k in 69 minutes (nice) - I did 11 in 72 instead, so longer and faster than planned. Secondly the speedy pace was necessary - at the halfway point of an out-and-back I realised that the digestive issues weren't going away, and had a hurried, frantic run home. This would've been alright, except about half an hour after I got home, I felt like somebody had stabbed my right heel with a hot poker. The pain lingered for the rest of the evening, and the following day I could barely hobble around the flat, let alone walk the 15 minutes to the office. Working from home was on the cards, resting my leg as much as possible. 

A Google suggested that it was my Achilles tendon causing me issues. I had to be careful about how I posted about this on social media - the opportunity for a pun was ripe, but then everyone would assume I'm just making a joke and I wouldn't get the sympathy and attention I so desperately craved. The resting, and the ankle brace, helped ease the pain and by Sunday I felt ok walking around a boot fair - still wearing the ankle brace, but able to cope with the steps. Walking back to the bus stop to leave I noticed the inside of the ankle aching a bit, but assumed that it was rubbing on the inside of my boots. 

I felt well enough to walk to work and back on the Monday, but decided not to run the speed session on the Tuesday night, thinking that the slower 11k on the Thursday would be good to ease myself back into a run. I worked from home that day too, to ensure maximum rest, and headed out before dinner. 

Three kilometres in, and my Achilles went "nope, we're not ready yet". I slowed down, slower than race pace, and the pain eased but didn't fully fade. A gentle jog home, finishing the run at 7k, and I knew then I shouldn't run without seeing a physio. A notification popped up after I finished my run congratulating me for reaching 100km for the month - a nice round number to end January on. For context, this is the same distance I ran from 9th October to 31st December 2022 - compressed into a much shorter time span. No wonder my legs were complaining!

My first physio appointment went well. It was my Achilles, but I was right to stop when I did rather than run through the pain - I've learnt lessons from four years ago!

I was given a plan of stretches which I kept up with, until real life slammed itself in the way. A test 5k run on Monday 6th February stuck to roughly race pace, but with my Achilles grousing - not painful, but I was aware of it more than I should've been. In addition, I noticed the pain on the inside of the ankle returning, and a bonus swelling beneath it too! A return to the physio gave me more stretches, and was immediately followed by a day of laser tag, a gig in Brighton, a trip to Kent and back to see my family and watch Gillingham play surprisingly well (eventually), then a gig in London. It's fair to say that stretching - and indeed, resting - weren't high on my list of priorities, but my feet didn't complain. 

So, I decided to test them. Back during my last marathon training, I got the train to Littlehampton with the goal of running back home, around 32k/20 miles. I didn't want to go quite as far this time, so caught the train to Angmering, a few stops closer. This had another bonus too - in the village there's a lovingly restored 1930s petrol station, which I passed on my way to the sea. 

Angmering and East Preston are very odd, full of private roads that aren't technically a public right of way, and so locals will look at you weirdly because you're not from round there. I made my way to the sea and picked up the route from four years ago. I chuntered east, trying to stick to race pace, fully aware of where the nearest railway station was at all times. Unsure of how long my ankle would last I had purchased a return ticket and at the slighest hint of an issue I'd stop running and hobble, Paul Shelton style, to get a train home. Into Ferring and a slight kilometre long detour along the river and back, after I followed the public footpath signs rather than running 100m through a car park. Back by the sea and the route opened out to the western part of the Worthing Half Marathon course, so I was on familiar ground. I could stop paying so much attention to navigation now, it was all coastal paths the rest of the way home. Through Worthing and out the other side, I approached Lancing - the rough halfway mark, and the place I'd planned to get a water top up.

Unfortunately the Brooklands area saw a hitch. A faint, light-headed feeling came over me and I slowed to walk several times. No problems with my injuries, this time it was a lack of fuelling that hindered me. I knew the Lancing area well enough, so stopped off at a local corner shop to pick up and gobble down a protein bar. This helped, and I decided to carry on. The water fountain at the Green was broken, so a partial top up of water from the cafe was better than nothing. Refreshed and replenished, with 15k down and no hint of pain from my feet, I decided to run the 3k to the end of Widewater Lagoon, along the Lancing Beach Green parkrun course. I'd decide there whether to cut inland and take the shorter route to Shoreham station, or carry along the seafront a bit further and take the scenic route. 

At the eastern end of the lagoon is a toilet block. This was where my knee gave up four years ago. This time, no toilet break, but I crouched down to what I hope was a freshwater tap to top up my bottle, and carried on without a peep of complaint from my legs. A psychological barrier smashed through I stayed along the coast, taking the longer route to Shoreham. As I crossed the Adur my watch beeped 19km. I was feeling fine, and the stations between Shoreham and home are numerous, so I elected to see how far I could get. A run to Southwick - the next stop - would see me get a half marathon distance covered, so I wanted to see if my legs would hold up to it. Along past the industrial estates, and weird to be going in this direction along my normal route to parkrun. I ticked off the half marathon distance by Shoreham lighthouse, still a good kilometre from the next station, so carried on running. 

At this point I was checking past runs to see how long the runs I'd managed over the last few years were. I tapped out of the Brighton marathon in 2019 at 24km; my longest training run came to 25km. Both of which were halted due to knee pain. Passing Southwick station I'd hit 22km and decided to push on further, to see how far I could get. 800m later I chose not to swerve inland to Fishersgate station, carrying along past Shoreham harbour, the day by now a lot warmer than I'd dressed for when leaving the house all those hours before! At the 24km mark I'd entered the residential areas and, knowing that it would be busier (and that there was a sizeable Tesco nearby), didn't push further home. Instead I ran around Portslade, ticking over more distance until my watch beeped 25km. 

I'd run the furthest distance since my marathon in 2018. My legs hadn't given me any issues. I'd had a wobble halfway - but this is what training is for, to diagnose potential problems and sort them before race day. Tomorrow, when I run the Brighton Half Marathon, I'll take my gels sooner and carry some spare fuel with me. I don't know how far along this journey my body will take me, but I can't wait to find out!

A Christmas Karol Poborsky

 ‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the club, not a player was roaming, they were all in the pub

Christmas Eve. A pause for breath before a run of three games in a week, then four days off before a tricky FA Cup 3rd round tie away at Chelsea. After a strong season vying for a European spot last year, we’d regressed to our mean and were now scrapping against relegation. Our usual spot, true, but after last year the fans were upset. Pride of Kent? We’d struggle to be called the Pride of Medway. 

I was frustrated and angry. After all I’d done for this club, dragging them up from the doldrums of League 2 to give Premier League football to the masses, and this is how I get repaid? Talking heads talking utter nonsense on tv about how I was nothing without my old assistant manager. A new consortium, demanding to know why I wasn’t winning games 6-0 while blooding five new youth players a match. Fans banging on the dugout - MY DUGOUT - after a late equaliser got us a point at home to Fulham, calling for my head. 

I’ve turned a profit in every season! Buying cheap, selling high, finding diamonds in the rough. Always sticking to my wage budget, and why spend money on transfers when free agents are just as good? Record transfer fee? Much good may it do them! 

I flung a stapler across my office in frustration, narrowly missing my new assistant manager as he barged in.

“Oh, what do you want, Robert?” I sneered at him. I’d brought him in to inject some fresh blood to the side, in the hopes that we could push on and take the club into Europe - not that being in Europe appeals to the Kentish masses - but instead we’d butted heads on almost every decision.

“News from the board, boss. They said you’ve got three games to turn it around or you’re out.” 

“Right then! Those defensive drills I told you to run are going to come in handy! Two banks of four, a low block, stick Murray and Allen up front for any loose balls. Defend defend defend! We can’t lose if we don’t concede, and they won’t sack me if I’m undefeated after those three games!”

“Alright, ok.” We’d had discussions before about tactics, Cratchy and I. He had a “revolutionary new formation” that would get the best out of Murray, but I’d always shouted it down (sometimes literally) as it left us too open at the back. “They also wanted to remind you - again - to bring through more players from the youth side.”

“That’s it!” I roared. “I’ve had quite enough of their ‘children are the future’ rubbish. Contact every single player on the U-23 and U-18 teams, tell them their contracts are cancelled, we’re closing the academy. They can’t make me bring through players from the youth side if we don’t have a youth side!”

“Boss, it’s Christmas Eve!”

“Good, then try their landline numbers first, they’ll probably be at home with their families!” I allowed myself a brief smile. While it wouldn't do to show emotion in front of my lessers, it felt good to get one over those busybodies from CJHD. There’s no place in football for investment firms!

“What’ll happen to the players?”

“Are there no Swindons? No Maidstones? Smaller clubs will be happy to pick up our rejects!” I quickly considered a different approach. Could we offer the players on a free with a sell-on clause? No, there’s no money down in the Football League. It’s not worth it.

“But boss, my boy’s in the Under-18 squad, he’s done his ACL, nobody’ll take him!”

“Nobody would take him anyway you muppet, he’s only here as a favour to you! Hopefully he’s got his mother’s brains so he’ll have a prospering career outside of football, at least! Now, show yourself out, you’ve got calls to make!”

No sooner had Cratchy left than I departed as well, with a growl. My hopes for a pub dinner were dashed by the oiks that frequented the local taverns, so I sat with a microwave meal in front of the tv. A peaceful evening, ruined when my door slammed open.

“Ebby! Me old mucker, can’t believe you’re still hanging on at that club!” 

Robert Marlborough - a right geezer, proper football man, and my former assistant manager up until his retirement seven months ago this very night - had dropped by.

“Marley! I thought you’d moved to the Canary Islands! What brings you back?”

“Nah, couldn’t stand it there, too many Norwich fans! Had to come by, see me old mate, didn’t I? ‘Ere, what time is it? One? Stick Sky Sports News on, they’re running an interview with a familiar face on the hour!”

I changed the channel to be confronted with Dan “Danny” White, former club captain now playing in the Bundesliga, talking about the relegation battle.

“Useless workshy sod, ‘e only went to Germany because of the winter break, the lazy git!”

I hushed Marley, and paid attention to the interview.

“...such a sad sight, y’know, to see a once proud club down fighting to stay in this league, y’know? When I were there like, before I left for Hamburg…”

“Bah! Hamburg!” I shouted at the TV.

“...we were on the cusp of Europe, y’know, things was looking up, but me old gaffer’s holding them back! They need someone more forward thinking, y’know, like Erik van Schmidt!”

I turned off the TV in disgust. Marley looked up at me from the sofa.

“I ‘ate to say it, but the boy’s right. Remember our League One campaign? Putting all them sides to the sword? Remember when you lost that drinking competition and had to play a 2-3-5 formation at ‘ome to Mansfield? That 10-4 win’s the stuff of legends! That’s the Ebby that people should remember, not this “quick on the draw” merchant! My history’s already been written, but you, Ebby, you can change yours!”

“Oh, what is this, Marley? Get out, and take your KFC with your optimism! There’s more gravy than grave about you, what’s happened? You’ve gone soft!”

“You still have a chance, Ebby. A chance and hope of escaping my fate. But you need to change, mate.” 

At that, Marley left, slamming my door behind him. I turned the TV back on. Danny White was still spitting pearls of wisdom. 

“Really, y’know, me old gaffer’s lost the dressing room. ‘E’s got no control there any more.”

“I bloody haven’t! I have the power to make those lazy sods happy or unhappy! To make their training light or heavy! A pleasure or a toil!” I roared, not caring that he couldn’t hear me, and forgetting that I’d long since delegated the training duties to my assistant. 

Danny turned to the camera, his eyes burning deep within my soul, and somehow becoming more eloquent. “He's scared, that's what it is. All his other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of the sack. His nobler aspirations have gently dropped off, and now all he cares about is hoarding points, not entertaining football.”

I turned the TV back off. What did he know? 

“Bah, Hamburg” I repeated, as I went to bed.

After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, I was still no closer to dropping off. I was interrupted at the stroke of midnight by the grand sonorous bells of St Martin’s church ringing out - I’d set them as my ringtone, and they were chiming out the sound of a video call from Cratchy. 

“Ah, Cratchy! Finally seen the light and come to terms with my low block, have we?” I greeted my assistant.

“No-o, not that boss. We’re letting the kids open a present early, then they’re going to bed to wait for Santa. Just thought with you being all alone you might want a bit of familial Christmas joy!”

“Christmas joy?! Have you learned nothing over the last seven months?! And Santa? Cratchy, your youngest child is the 17-year-old giant with one leg stinking up my youth academy! Aren’t they a little too old to be believing in Santa?”

“But boss, just you wait until you see the childlike wonder on their faces! I’m just hiding my phone in the tree, they won’t know you’re there.”

I tutted while he positioned me near the top of the tree, where my club will be once the defensive drills are in place. His family filed in, with the youngest, Timmy, hobbling in on crutches. Heh, I chuckled to myself, Cratchit’s Crutches would be a good name for a business, maybe there’s hope for them yet. They exchanged gifts, but before opening them, Robbie stood up to say a few words.

“Now, I know we all had high hopes when I took on this assistant manager position. A Premier League club, my first proper coaching role, it’s not going well but I’m confident that we can turn this around, avoid relegation, and then I can start earning a proper wage. A toast! To the man who gave me my start in football!”

“Oh, I’d give him a start alright!” his wife piped up. “You’ve been nothing but unhappy ever since you started working for him! All he cares about is clean sheets and long balls, nothing good in life!”

“Honey, please, not in front of-” a glance towards my vantage point in the tree “not in front of the children.” 

I was distracted by an email from the club doctor. By sheer chance, it had the results of the younger Cratchit’s latest scan, and insomuch as I could understand the medical gobbledegook, it didn’t look good for his future career. I returned to the call, and it seemed like he knew it too, as his toast was half-hearted and distracted. I didn’t want to be watching any longer.

Two hours later. Normally two paragraphs of a puff-piece on The Athletic about Pep Guardiola’s revolutionary tactics would be enough to send me to sleep, but I’d read three full articles - including comments! - and was no closer to slumber. I turned on the radio app on my phone, to hear the latest attempts at punditry from ex-players trying to earn a quick coin.

“And what of the battle at the bottom, what do we think there?” 

“Well, it’s not looking good for the bottom club. You know what they say, bottom at Christmas, almost certain to go down! They’ve held on to that Scrooge fella for far too long.”

I was shocked. I’d brought them up from League Two, is there no loyalty in the modern game?

“But he brought them up from League Two,” the host continued, “is there no loyalty in the modern game?”

“Welllll, there’s loyalty, and there’s loyalty. If they want to stay up, they need to pay him up, and get someone new and forward thinking in place! They did the right thing, forcing him to get a dynamic young assistant when his old mate retired in the summer, maybe it’s time to let Cratchit take the reins completely? Otherwise, they’ll get stuck in their ways, and regress to bouncing around between League One and Two like they usually do. And with those bank loans they’ve taken out to pay for the new stadium, eesh, it’s not looking good. This could be the peak. A tumble down the league, successive relegations, administration and bankruptcy aren’t out of the picture for them. They need a change of ways, and fast!”

"Spirit FM!" I cried, tight clutching at the phone, "hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for these nightmares. Why show me this, if I am past all hope? I will honour attacking football in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The ideas of entertaining football shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that it teaches!”

A jolt of electricity from the phone, and I dropped it, smashing it on my cold wooden floors. Finally I felt like I could rest. 

I awoke with a start, on a cold crisp morning. Hurtling open my bedroom window I gazed down on a snow-laden street. I felt elated, joyous, like I could skip down the touchline. A new man! It wasn’t over yet, and I decided if these were my last three games, I’d go out in a blaze of glory! But I felt so rested, had I missed the Boxing Day game? A young urchin in club colours was rolling a snowman on the street below.

“You there, boy! What day is it?”

“Fuck off out my club you useless waste of space! Let someone else take over for the derby tomorrow!”

Tomorrow. The match was tomorrow! It was still Christmas Day! That foulmouthed little brat was right! 

With a covering of snow on the pitches, there was no hope for training. I reached for my phone to let the players know, only to find the shattered remains beneath my bed. No matter! I dressed in my best club tracksuit, and strode towards the Cratchits, jovially greeting the few runners that passed me. No sooner had I begun to hammer on Cratchy’s door than it opened, and I was greeted by my assistant.

“Boss! I was just leaving for training, I swear!”

“No, no need for that Cratchy, you’re not taking training today!”

“What? If you’ve turned up at my house to fire me on Christmas morning, that’s low, even by your standards! Heck, that’s low even by Crystal-Palace-firing-Trevor-Francis-on-his-birthday standards!”

“No, no, don’t worry, I’m not firing you! Why would I fire the man who has such revolutionary ideas about ginger-pressing!”

“Um, boss, I think you mean gegenpressing, and that’s not my idea…”

“Well, whatever, I need you to tell me all of your wonderful ideas! But please, surely you can let me in? I come bearing good news - we’re signing that attacking midfielder from Turkey that I kept telling you we didn’t have the funds for!”

Cratchy let me in, reluctantly, and I burst into the warm front room - which rapidly became colder than the outside when the family Cratchit saw it was me. Understandable, I did sign their patriarch to a contract slightly under a living wage. But that was going to change.

“Good news, everyone! I’m not stealing your father from you today - training is cancelled, so you can keep him all day!”

“How generous of you,” Mrs Cratchit muttered, with a possible hint of sarcasm.

“And that’s not all! I’m going to start listening to him more, and try the Diamond Destroyer (ZaZ - Blue DM - Martin Snoop 433 Hybrid) tactic he’s been recommending! While my time at the club may be drawing to a close, at least we’ll have some fun!”

Their faces brightened. I had one more card to play, to show that I really was a changed man.

“And what’s this? Santa seems to have dropped a present at my place by mistake! Open this, will you, young Timmy?”

The young man hobbled over to take an envelope from my outstretched hand. I probably should have not made the kid with the ACL injury move about, but this whole “being good” thing is a work in progress.

“Well, young man, what is it?”

He ran his finger along the text on the front, mouthing the words as he read them.

“It’s…it’s a new three year contract!”

“Yes, we’ve seen your potential, and want to nurture it. I know we’re waiting for the result of your scans to come back, but I wanted to give you a guaranteed income, just in case the worst happens.” 

“Wow! Thanks Mr Scrooge!”

From that day, I was a changed man. Each game was approached with the principle of out-scoring our opponents, putting them to the sword with wave after wave of attack. Sure, we lost a few, but with Cratchy by my side, we clawed our way into Europe. I didn’t even consider packing the defence, and even spent some of my transfer war-chest. The younger Cratchit even returned to playing, making a last ditch tackle in the Europa Conference final to win us our first proper trophy. As the final whistle blew, we locked eyes, and I swear he said “God bless us, every one!”

“What was that, Timmy?”

“I said, ‘Get in! It’s gonna be a messy one!”