One of the hard and fast rules of marathon running is not to eat anything you’ve never tried before on the night before a big race, just in case your stomach has trouble digesting it and it adversely affects your performance the next day. You don’t want to run 26.2 miles with a dicky tummy.
Well in our case, on the night before the big race, we didn’t actually eat anything we had tried before. The supper we enjoyed that night was strange, rich, enormous and delicious. We enjoyed the meal so much, it founded a tradition – since then, every time my cousin and I have travelled abroad for a marathon (which we’ve done a lot), the evening before the race we find the most eclectic local restaurant we can and gorge ourselves on huge quantities of food, the more bizarre the better. We know that one day we might live to regret it – but we haven’t yet. And more to the point, we don’t particularly care; these suppers are outlandish, outrageous – and the risk only adds to the enjoyment.
Sleep proved problematic that night in Barcelona. Nothing to do with the meal; partly to do with the bed; and mostly to do with nerves. Maranoia, they call it. By any standards, the amount of training I’d completed was inadequate. Plus I was worrying about all my aches, pains and various injuries. If only I’d known it at the time that many of the problems I’d been complaining about were directly down to taper fever – that strange, hypochondriacal madness that affects most marathon runners, and drives their friends and family round the bend. On one occasion shortly before Barcelona, I remember being unable to walk without limping during a family weekend in Bath, and being so cross and irritable about it that even my son, then aged four, told me off for spoiling the holiday.
If I’d known that I was merely being a hypochondriac, perhaps I’d have slept in that tiny Barcelona bed. And perhaps I wouldn’t have been so racked with anxiety on the start line. I genuinely believed as I lined up to begin my first marathon that I would be forced to pull out at some point before the finishing line. Then, with one minute to go until the start, I’m hit with a tremendous urge to wee. This I do recognise as psychosomatic, and before I have time to add this new issue to my exhaustive list of worries, all of a sudden we’re under way.
I’ve installed myself in the group aiming to finish in around 3:30, and for the first few kilometres I simply enjoy the fact that I’m not being constantly overtaken. The atmosphere on the streets as we run round towards and then around the famous Camp Nou, home to Barcelona FC, is a little more subdued than it was in the north east of England. I say a little more subdued: actually there’s hardly anyone there – it’s early on Sunday morning and Catalans apparently prefer to stay at home and sleep than join in what can be – if it’s organised right – a mass party. There are a few, small pockets of people dotted thinly along the route – but they seem to look at us runners with a mixture of pity (why would you want to do that?) and irritation (it’s your fault they’ve closed the roads).
For me, everything goes smoothly for the first 29km (or if you prefer, as I do, 18 miles – though of course here in Spain all the markers are in kilometres). I pass that point, realise I have just 13km (8 miles) left to run, and marvel at how comfortable it all feels. But at that very moment, someone directly in front of me pulls up and stops running, flamboyantly clutching his right hamstring and hobbling ostentatiously to the side of the road.
Something inside me breaks. I spend one second feeling real sympathy for a man who’s completed 70% of a marathon only to have to pull out, another debating whether to stop and help, and a third secretly smirking at the extravagant manner of his withdrawal, comparing it to a Fernando Torres dive for a penalty. But from then on, those seconds just seem to grow longer and longer. Every one feels like a minute, and every minute like an hour as my lack of training catches up with me.
As I’ve mentioned, I’m not an especially quick runner, though these days I can complete a marathon in well under three hours if you ask politely. Neither am I particularly elegant. And despite the fact that I like to think I’m enjoying myself, it turns out I don’t smile much when I run. So, I’m slow, ungainly and grumpy. But I do pride myself on one thing, which is this: if the question is Can you keep going? my answer, every time and without fail, is a resounding Yes.
I learn that about myself over the following 13 painful, picturesque kilometres in Barcelona. As you pass the 29km marker, the marathon route takes you south towards the sea, away from the gherkin-like Torre Agbar. That’s where Fernando theatrically strains his hamstring and where I really start to slow down. However hard I try to persuade my legs to move faster, they simply refuse to.
So I dig in, and access a survival mode I never knew I possessed. Just keep going. The trick is not to look too far ahead, or the task seems too daunting. Forget the finishing line, simply try to complete twenty more paces, however painful or laboured they may be. And then, once you’ve done that, twenty more. Or get to the next lamppost. And then the next. To the next kilometre post. And then the next. Just keep going.
At 30km we reach the coast and turn sharp right past the triangular Fórum. I seem to be going so slowly as to be hardly moving forwards. People are streaming past me. Spirits are low. 12km on legs that feel like over-ripe bananas? Surely impossible. But if I’m going to have to give up, it’s not going to be right now. Just keep going.
Every footstep of the long run by the seaside feels like an event. But I determinedly continue running, on past the Olympic Port, my legs still wailing ‘stop!’ as they turn right, away from the sea and out of the headwind, up past the zoological gardens towards and, fleeting thrill, through the Arc de Triomf. Still more than 5km left, still can’t imagine finishing, but still refusing to stop, still continuing on, now through the Plaça de Catalunya and agonisingly catching sight of my hotel on the other side of the road and knowing that all of the pain, all of it, can end right there if I simply obey my legs and stop running. Knowing that I could be lying in a warm bath with a cold beer within minutes if I wanted to, and wanting to very badly, and most tempting of all knowing that nobody would really care if I did decide to quit right here...
Nobody, that is, except me.
So I wrench my gaze away from the open lobby doorway and renew my resolve to just keep going. On past the Picasso Museum, past the cathedral, and suddenly past a marker saying 40km, and dimly grasping the fact that I’m close enough now to sense for the first time that I might actually finish this thing. I realise I would crawl the remaining 2.2km if needs be. I am about to join the marathon club. I am about to become Pheidippides.
Newly energised, I decide to see how fast (or slowly) I’m actually running. I make a mental note of the time on my stopwatch as I pass 40km, and shuffle onwards to the next distance marker. But it doesn’t exist. However far I run, the 41km post simply isn’t there. I start to believe that I must have missed it, either that or they don’t bother with markers so close to the finish. But just then the number 41 looms into view appallingly far ahead. Eventually I reach it and look again at my watch. It’s taken me over six minutes to travel one kilometre.
Another loud thud of realisation inside my head: if I don’t get a move on, I won’t break four hours. I get a move on. I’m drawn towards the distant sound of cheering in what has now become a crowded start/finish area, soon I can also hear an excitable Spanish commentator jibber-jabbering on the tannoy, then I see the red roof of the inflatable arch that I ran through at the start early this morning, and before I know it, after almost four hours of constant running, I’m back underneath it and crossing the finishing line.
I’ve just completed my first marathon.
I frequently hear people in the same situation categorically say ‘never again’. Well if you’d told me at that moment that this marathon would be the first of many, that I would spend the next few years allowing long-distance running to define me in many respects, I honestly would have been thrilled.
Don’t tell Pheidippides, but finishing a marathon gives you a sumptuous sense of achievement.
&nbs
p; Angi Copson
Only started running aged 59, but has since won many age group titles and set many world records, including in the 1500m, 3000m and 5000m Over-65 category. Her marathon world record is a staggering 3 hours and 17 minutes.
People often ask me why I started running late in life. I felt a little bit embarrassed when I started to run, I live in a small village and everyone knows what you are doing. They know exactly when you go out and exactly when you come back. It seemed strange to them all to see a 60-year-old woman going out running and even my family thought I was a little bit crazy. Sometimes I’d even run at night so no one could see me! I guess I’m still the only one around here my age that goes out and runs but now it’s getting better and better because age doesn’t seem to matter; anyone can pick up a pair of trainers and give it a go.
My father died of cancer when I was young, so my sisters and I were raised by my mother alone. When I started school I was such a sickly child I was never encouraged to do sport, which probably would have done me good, but years ago it was all so different. By the time I was doing my own thing I had a love for horse riding, and when my son and daughter came along they had a pony, so running was never thought of. But then a few years back my husband Harry had to have heart surgery. Afterwards he was told to do more exercise so he bought a bike and I would jog along with him to keep him company.
In 2006 we went to the London Marathon to support my friend’s daughter. The atmosphere was amazing and suddenly I knew I wanted to be part of the 2007 Marathon. Eventually I got a place with Heart Research. I had just six months to get fit and raise lots of money! My first run was just along to the next village and back. I was absolutely exhausted by the time I had done one mile and probably only ran two miles that day and then three miles the next. It’s slow when you start running and aren’t too fit but I stuck with it over the next months.
22 April 2007 was one of the hottest ever days for the London Marathon. It was also one day after my 60th birthday; running under four hours and raising £3,500 was the best birthday present ever!
After the marathon, encouraged by a friend of mine, I joined Rugby and Northampton Running Club. I loved the club competitions, and it was a new experience training with others. There was a great mix of people, all young, active and laughing. I’m still keeping up with them each Sunday on a long run, which is good. I know when the time comes and I can’t stay with the pace, they won’t just ditch me, they’ll run on and run back to me – that’s the type of people they are. Running with them gave me strength and confidence.
In 2008 I was back to run London again in 3 hours 15 minutes, which gave me a place on the elite start in 2009. The competitions and races are great; 2012 was an amazing year for me, as I was thrilled to be awarded the European Masters Woman Athlete of the Year.
I love running with other people but I also enjoy running on my own. You can actually put things together when you’re on your own. You don’t feel unsociable. I love my thinking and sorting out, and probably next week’s menu is done on my runs on my own.
Since I have become a runner I am a much stronger person in many ways. I have three grandchildren, two of them still toddlers and they are very active to be with, probably the next runners in our family. Recently I came across an old photo of my grandfather, dressed in running kit, standing by a table full of trophies; I must have got the genes from him.
Running has turned my life around and I have met some great people as well as great athletes. If you’re thinking of running, don’t be worried; just go slow, take it slow. Whatever your age, you can run.
7
Paul McCartney, Band on the Run
‘Outlaw’ Ironman Triathlon, Mile 7
Right then, time to focus on my right calf.
I’ve been concerned since the start of the bike ride that it might not get me through to the finish line. But perhaps I should be worrying more long term. The ache from this morning has become a searing pain, and I’m fairly sure that I’m doing the poor muscle some lasting damage by carrying on regardless. I’m no stranger to injuries, and still wince when I remember the two extended, enforced breaks from running I was forced to endure with dodgy knees. These harrowing run-free periods were both before I learned to improve my gait, but as I hobble into mile seven, I begin to contemplate a short- to medium-term future without running in it. Doesn’t bear thinking about.
Equally unpalatable is the prospect of having to give up my cycle commute. I treasure the 30 pre-dawn minutes alone on the bike on the way to Radio 2. Gets the heart going, wakes me up (crucially), gives me time to think and generally sets me up for the day. But given that the calf started hurting today while I was in the saddle, I begin to consider that I may well have to give my trusty bike a rest too. What a horrible prospect – starting every day pushing an ignition button, not down on a pedal. Long weeks without my BFG (stands for Big Friendly Giant – my kids named the now slightly shabby utility bike, a Giant Rapid, when she was all white and shiny and new, and the name has sort of stuck in my head).
So at this rate, I’ll simply be swimming for the rest of the summer. Nothing against swimming – it’s the big revelation of this triathlon, how much I’ve enjoyed my swimming. But indoors every day? Up and down the same 20m pool in my local gym? Up and down... Up, turn. Back, turn... No running, no cycling, no enjoying the sunshine. And not just for a week. For months on end potentially... Up, turn… Back, turn… All. Summer. Long.
Put it like that, and I should definitely stop. There’d be absolutely no disgrace in simply slowing down to a walk (there wouldn’t be much slowing down involved) and retiring hurt. People have been dropping out all over the place, especially in this heat. And this is a proper, grown-up muscle injury we’re talking about.
So should I stop now? Obviously, yes I should. Unquestionably. Undeniably.
Will I stop? Not a chance in hell. Just keep going.
Scott Mitchell has the calming, efficient air of someone who’s seen it all before. On the day I first met him, he welcomed me affably into his physiotherapy clinic, and listened with a warm smile as I outlined my symptoms – I had what I described as a hurty knee. This gentle, slender Australian was about to inflict all manner of agony upon me, but to look at him you’d never have known it. The problem turned out to be ITBS, Iliotibial Band Syndrome, or just plain old Runner’s Knee. It’s a classic novice’s injury.
By this time, I’d been running for a few months, and was starting to enjoy it. Starting to experiment a little too. How far could I go? How fast could I go? And could I keep running even though the outside of my left knee had just started hurting?
The answer to this last question, surprisingly, was yes. When it first strikes, ITBS tends to start aching around five minutes into a run, a mildly grating, gnawing sort of pain which hangs around for a while without really seeming to be doing much damage, then disappears for the rest of the run, only to reappear again five minutes into tomorrow’s run.
So I of course, had made the classic beginner’s error and ignored the pain until my knee was hurting permanently. Only then did I belatedly seek medical attention, and lucked out with my choice of physio.
‘The issue is not your knee,’ he told me, and explained that the problem lay with something called an iliotibial band which, I learned, is the ligament that runs down the outside of the thigh from the hip and attaches to the knee. And even though it was my knee that hurt, the source was further up the leg in my glutes. Which, I further discovered, is physio-speak for ‘bottom’.
I lay on my front and prepared to be made better. I was actually quite looking forward to it, expecting a kind of medical massage. What happened next made me jump off the table in agony.
Scott started to try and unknot some especially tight muscles in my bum (gluteal trigger points, he called them) and basically elbowed me hard in the outside of the hip. It felt like he’d just electrocuted my skeleton. He persuaded me to man up and lie back down. The rest of the hour was spent w
ith me screwing up my face against what felt like bright red pain whilst Scott calmly and casually continued with his elbow torture like some kind of sadistic antipodean Bond villain.
But the thing is, it worked. I can’t think of many examples of ‘good pain’ but this definitely counts. Usually when you’re hurting, it’s your body’s way of telling you that something’s not right. But this elbow-induced agony made me feel generally looser from the hips down and miraculously removed the cause of the Runner’s Knee (though Mike from The Running School would doubtless tell you that the actual cause was a flaw in my technique). I also learned that it can be a good idea to use a foam roller or sit on a tennis ball from time to time – if it hurts, it’s doing you good. Painful, but beneficial-painful. Like the week-long headache I’m told comes on when you give up caffeine, though quite honestly I’m unlikely to ever find that one out.
Anyway, going to a physio was a revelation, and allowed me to take my running up a few gears. I did become a bit of a regular in Scott’s clinic but his expert diagnosis helped me through pretty much all of my first half-dozen marathons.
In the first few years of running, as well as the Runner’s Knee, I managed to stockpile quite a collection of injuries. Before my unwieldy octopus-gait was fixed, I picked up shin splints, the odd hamstring strain, an achy Achilles and several variations on the hurty knee theme. Dr Internet, I found, was generally terrible at diagnosing my injuries, so mostly I went to Scott – and mostly he made it better. On the eve of one marathon, almost unable to walk without pain, he put strapping all over my lower leg to hold the muscles and joints in place and remarkably it worked (I’d had my doubts). I got through 26.2 miles without making anything worse – and was OK to resume running within days.
Don't Stop Me Now Page 6
