The Clarendon Wall

Here's a retrospective report of the Clarendon Marathon 2010, a race which didn't go entirely to plan...

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.