My legs were in a
fiery state, but that was to be expected.
Twenty miles in to the Clarendon Marathon and I was tired, but going
well. I had set off at a brisk pace from
the start and I was confident of a good result.
In to Farleigh Wood,
and I started to find each step more of a n effort. No more than I expected; the last six miles
of a marathon is always the toughest, and on this route this particular wood is
a psychological low-point on the course, particularly as you are hemmed by trees
and the loop throws your sense of direction.
I felt the energy in my body ebbing my the minute. By the time I saw Sue and Lucas at the usual
waving point (about 22 miles in) I was feeling pretty dreadful and I was
running a lot more more slowly. 'I'm
struggling' I gasped as I passed.
From then on it
started to get weird. I started to feel
a buzzy tingling sensation over my body, most strongly in my hands and
arms. I started to shuffle. My legs just wouldn't lift properly off the ground.
By the time I reached 24 miles I really was in a state. Runners started to overtake me; some were
doing the relay and some the half marathon, which I didn't mind too much, but
it was galling to have marathon runners whom I'd passed ages before coming
breezing past me.
It became harder
and harder to keep going and the urge to stop became all-encompassing. 'Keep running, just keep running', I urged
myself. The path hit an incline, and I
really wondered if I was going to fall over.
I walked. It was the first time
I've walked – apart from when ascending very steep slopes – in nearly 20 years
of competitive racing. I felt
awful. But the brief respite did me some
good, the tingling subsided and I carried on.
I knew there
wasn't that far to go, but time and space felt suspended. I was aware of the buzzy tingling coming back
but all my senses started to close down.
I plodded, my head down.
Suddenly, it dawned on me that I was just a few metres from the finish
and I could hear crowds. I ran for the
finish as best as I could, was handed various bags of stuff at the finish line,
got clear of the marshalling area and wobbled into a heap on the grass.
Sue came to me,
all concern. I told her I was OK, but my
voice was thick and slurred, as if I was coming out of anaesthetic. I started eating a banana. Wow!
It was absolutely the best banana I've ever had. Within seconds, my senses and speech started
returning.
So that was it;
my first proper marathon 'wall'. It was
such an achingly simple error – I was taking plenty of water but no food at all
during the race. The year before I had
swapped the carbo supplement in my Camelbak for electrolytes. Last year, I had eaten three sachets of gel on
the route; this year, nothing. I had
eaten well the day before and at breakfast, but in the end my body had simply
succumbed to the laws of physics, chemistry and biology. I had run out of fuel. My blood sugar was on the floor, my liver
stores were empty and there was nothing left.
It was a lesson very well
learned. I had hit the wall, for the
first and – I intend – for the last time.
I had been doing twenty-mile training runs quite happily, but I've
learned that those last six miles need extra respect.
