Brighton Marathon

Well… where to start…

I had booked the Brighton Marathon in the post- marathon euphoria after London. With the London Marathon medal still hanging from my neck and my legs still showcasing the ‘hobble down stairs’ strut, I eagerly booked up marathon number three, dreaming of finish lines, crowds cheering me on and times smashed…

I have a real ‘love/hate’ relationship with marathon running… I absolutely despise marathon running for a large chunk of the run- usually miles 17-23… but the feeling after soon makes me forget the pain, mental torture and tears…I vowed that this would be the marathon to really prove to myself that I can ‘run’ a marathon. In both my previous efforts I’ve struggled to keep running and had to walk at times to get through it, last year was due to injury… Not my fault but still left me with unfinished marathon business. This would be the event that I could finally smash my marathon demons.

Training proved to be tricky, my husband had bagged himself a place in the London Marathon running for Children with Cancer UK and juggling both our plans around work and a three and a five year old proved to be a marathon challenge in itself. Still, I felt I was consistent… a few missed runs here and there but nothing too major. Yet, I just didn’t feel as mentally strong, as confident as the previous two years. I made mistakes during my later training, overloading with cross and strength training that left me feeling weak and tired before my longest runs. I started to doubt whether the Brighton Marathon was doable and very nearly deferred.

I managed to injure my hamstring the first day of the taper and suddenly all of those niggling doubts came rushing to the front of my mind. Lots of physio got me to the start line but I’d have to get myself across the finish somehow… But knowing the aim was just to finish at this point, I started to get excited. I was going to earn my third marathon medal. Me!

On the morning of the run, I met my sister in law and her niece who declared that we were going to aim for four and a half hours… Wow. Could I do that? Gulp. Ok, let’s do this… Nerves bubbled away. I tried to push them back down. Reminded myself of my speedier times since last year. This could be achievable. We were bouncing with energy and excitement as we finally got across the start line. Goodbye marathon demons!

Except that I’d tied my lace too tight. The right lace. Oh, it was bothering me… and is that a hill already? I thought Brighton was supposed to be flat. And why is my running belt bouncing around like that? Everything was annoying me. I told my brain to shut up and started to enjoy the run, looking at my running companions. Today is the day. We are going to do this! Quick adjustment to the laces at mile three and a twist and a tie to the running belt and I was getting into a nice little rhythm. Today was going to be my day. Water? At mile three… yes please, best to stay really hydrated even though I’m not at all thirsty and never drink on training runs before mile 10… Doh, first big mistake right there. Second at mile 5 when I gulped down a gel- I rarely use gels in training and definitely not within an hour of running. Still, better to be on top of my energy levels right? Mile 6 came…. Is that a stitch? Yes, that’s right, a stitch… That stuck around for the next five miles. I started to panic then. I’d suffered from stitches before of course, but had always stopped to walk through them. With both my running companions in a steady pace I didn’t want to hold them back, besides if I stopped to walk now how would I get through the rest of the run? I felt a lump in my throat. The first time that day I felt myself start to cry… I would eventually break down into tears multiple times but we’ll get to that.

Then I started to feel sick, really sick. “I’m going to throw up.” I had to walk then- we were only at mile 15, I think… And so from there began my real trauma. Into a run/walk strategy again. I immediately felt like a failure. My mind began unravelling. Who was I kidding? I’m not a marathon runner… What am I doing here? Retching, we tried to run as much as possible. Eventually telling my sister in law’s niece to run on ahead. “I don’t want to hold you back.” I said, stifling back tears. This was hard. The crowds were amazing but there were chunks when there weren’t many spectators at all, I had been spoilt in London. The loop of the course was also unsettling, seeing how far ahead other runners were, added to my self-loathing at this point. I threw up at around mile 17 and got sick all over my trainers. Now I really was upset. The miles began to blur… I now felt desperately sick and just wanted it to all be over. Spotting a woman at around mile 19 with a flask of tea I begged her for some, explaining that I couldn’t keep the water down. “Of course.” She rubbed my arm as I sobbed about how ill I felt. I don’t know why but in my hysterical state a cup of tea just seemed to make everything feel better. We carried on. I still felt sick but realising I wouldn’t be anywhere near our aims of 4 hours 30 took pressure off. Let’s just finish it. With that pressure lifted, I started to enjoy the run, plodding along, holding back vomit…

In the pub- with 6 miles still to go!

 Heading towards mile 20 we passed a pub. “I’d give anything for a coke.” I sighed, feeling like it might alleviate the nausea. “Well let’s get one then.” Replied my sister-in-law. We laughed as we strolled into the pub, to some very odd looks. That coke was heaven sent! “We’ve still got 6 miles to go!” Out we went to join the other runners on what I’d heard was the hardest part of the course, entering the industrial estate. But it wasn’t… The run had already broken me. Now I was in a place of mad hysteria, able to laugh at my misfortune. Well aware that we would make it to the finish line and get our medal, this was not about time now, it was about survival- of course we would survive! My sister-in-law started to cramp, and all her injury woes returned. “We’ll power walk it!” We began overtaking other runners with our power walking dash. Here goes. I called my husband, turns out he was close by. “Come on, you’re coming with us.” He took my hand and we strutted our way towards the end- it was in sight. With a couple of miles to go we started to jog again, painfully… we were moving forwards. With one mile to go we picked back up into a run. It was almost over! “I’ll meet you soon.” I kissed my husband and off we went. The pain of this last mile was almost unbearable. “We are running this!” Crossing the finish line took everything I had… and that was it. It was over. Medal won. Marathon over. Demons still not quite overcome.

Marathon medals

I have so much to ponder over. And a lot of hard thinking to do. Am I capable? I thought I was… I know that physically I have it in me… But the mind… I truly believe a huge part of marathon running is down to your mental capacity, to keep running through that uncomfortable place, to be able to push away doubts, to soak in the surroundings without being overcome by them… I want to be strong enough to run the marathon I dream of… And I will be, one day somehow. It’s that how that I need to work out. But this much is certain… despite swearing to myself over and over that I will never enter another marathon ever again, I will be back.