Review of the Manchester Half Marathon - 15th October 2017
The night before the Manchester half
marathon, I had dinner with Paula Radcliffe’s parents. For those of you who don’t know who Paula
Radcliffe is (should you, say, have a mother who has no interest in running
whatsoever, for example), she currently holds the female world marathon
record. And has done for 15 years.
I had been invited to the England
Athletics National Sports Awards after winning an award in the North West
Regional Awards for my running club, the #MileShyClub. As if that accolade wasn’t enough, we also
came runners-up in the National Awards, hence how I found myself surrounded by
athletic stars of the past, present and future, at 12am, at the Ricoh Arena. In
Coventry.
Being there was an absolute privilege
and myself and my fiancé sat in awe as we heard about Wendy Sly
running alongside the famous Zola Budd in the 1984 Olympic 3000m final, Reece
Prescod who found himself next to Bolt and Gatlin at THE race of the year at
the IAAF 100m finals and applauded as the down-to-earth Darren Campbell and the
Men’s 4x100m relay team were inducted into the Hall of Fame. They were just like you and me, ordinary
people, but with really, really good legs.
For those of you who know me, you know
I like a good photo, and there was ample opportunity to take some with those
fabulous athletes. Thing is, it was
close to 12am when the night ended, and I had already spent the day feeling
pretty poorly
due-to-that-son-of-a-b*tch-thing-you-guys-have-never-experienced-and-which-just-had-to-happen-the-day-before-a-big-race.
But trust me, if you ask my mate John what happened with the Bobby Charlton
incident and the hurdles impression over the musical stands at that Christmas
concert we went to years ago then you’ll appreciate just how much I like my
photos.
My other half and I got home at 2am.
Not so many hours later, I was awake
and forcing porridge down. The nerves
had well and truly kicked in. I put my race number on using my branded
#MileShyClub event clips but only managed to secure two of them because my hands
were unsteady so I resorted to safety pins for the bottom half of my number. I did my usual thing of questioning my sanity
and why I put myself through such torture.
Then I was out the door for a short walk to the tram stop where I saw a
guy wearing race gear, running to the tram station. It was only 7.45am in the morning, and the
race wasn’t due to start until 9am, but clearly he thought he was late for
something so I tried to ignore him FREAKING OUT AHEAD OF ME and kept on
walking.
I got on the tram and made idle
chatter whilst eating bits of toast. Talking whilst eating distracts my mind so
I don’t feel as sick. I was still
feeling pretty wiped out from the GOD-D*MN-MONTHLY-VISITOR but consoled myself
with the fact I was running to raise money and awareness about mental health. A
subject we all feel much more comfortable talking about (you see what I did
there hey?)
After attempting to drop my bag at the
baggage area, I then went back to exchange the number on my bag. The wristband given to me had been secured on
my wrist far too tightly and I worried it might become a problem later on in
the race, should my arms swell up like the Michelin Man. With no issues at all, the lovely baggage
people swapped my wristband for a new number.
Making my way to the start, I bumped
into a few friends and exchanged pleasantries before they laughed at me making my
way to the green section, section C.
“That’s the elite section!” they
cried.
Turns out it was a couple of sections
below the elites, for those who think they may get between a 1 hour 40 minutes
to 1 hour 50 minutes finish time. My PB
from two years ago was 1 hour 51 minutes.
Had my training gone to plan? Sort of.
A 2-week holiday back in August had interfered with training
substantially on account of there being nowhere to run where I was staying. On top of that, given that I have a place on
the London Marathon next year, there was no desperate need to try and train for
an GFA (good for age) place to automatically qualify so my training hadn’t been
too intense. I had beaten my body into
submission on the return from holiday to try and put the miles back into the
legs but it hadn’t been easy – to put the mileage in or get rid of the excess
holiday weight. Still, I felt a sub 1 hour 50-minute finish could be on the
cards, but told myself that if I didn’t get there, it was ok, on account of the
late night I had had the night before and the fact that woman thing had kicked
in.
I began a little jog with short bursts
of speed to warm up the legs, followed by squats and lunges to get the glutes
and hip flexors fired up. I had received
a sports massage four days previously and was a little anxious to “try out the
legs”. Sounds crazy I know. My massage
had been carried out by one of those big, sturdy types who had been a sports
masseuse for nearly 20 years. She had
spoken to me in a calm motherly voice, telling me to breathe, all the while coaxing
my legs to return to the bottom of the bed (she had to actually pull me down
the bed at one point because I’d subconsciously crawled too far up it). There had been a lot of torn paper tissue
flying around the room, and my legs felt like they had been in a car crash the
day after. BUT… for race day, the agony
had been worth it. My legs felt
absolutely amazing.
The race organisers had arranged
pacers for the event. A pacer is someone
who runs with a predicated finish time strapped to their back, in the hope that
if you follow them, you will finish in that time too. Thing is, I don’t like pacers. I have my Garmin watch which tells me how I’m
doing, and to be honest, during the race, I don’t want to KNOW exactly how well
I’m doing, I want to be in the ballpark area give or take a few minutes. I know that if I stick to a certain pace I
will do well. There is nothing worse
than having a pacer pass you by when you’re at a low ebb. I don’t need a number flashing up in front of
me effectively saying, “Bye bye, LOOOSSEEEERRRRR!”
The organisers started the count
down. Wheelchair racers went off with a cheer. I plugged in one of my headphones. Although I have started to listen less to
music now, I like to have it with me as a comfort during the later stretches or
for when things are getting tough. At
that point, my nerves were haywire, one of the worst feelings in the world, but
I knew that everyone else around me was in the same position. Plus, when I looked to my left, there was a
guy with a picture of a baby in hospital on his back and I tried to take the
perspective from that.
Then the gun went and we were off!
Slowly walking to the start, I could see the runners over the start line
rushing ahead. And then my feet were
moving along with everyone else and we were running!
Oh gosh how I love to run.
My nerves started to disappear. It was like a cloud had been lifted. Everyone around me was doing the same
thing. Running together in unity, it is
so magnificent. When you’re looking to your left and right and you’re surrounded
by everyone else doing that same basic action it is so comforting.
The initial mile of the race was
downhill and then uphill and I took it with ease. I checked my watch and it said 7.45-minute
mile. Slightly fast, but it felt good
and I was on a level with the 1 hour 45-minute marker. Unlike in a marathon where I would be telling
myself to go slow at this point, I know that for a half marathon it comes down
to sheer brutal guts in the later stages to get through the race. There is no let-up in half marathons. You don’t get to take it easy. It’s hardcore.
I was keen to get the first 6 miles
out the way. The first 4/5 miles were
around streets in Stretford I didn’t know really well. I wanted to get into Sale where my people
were (my family, friends and runners). I took joy out of watching other runners
being recognised and cheered. I kept
telling myself I was doing great, staying with the 1 hour 45-minute marker was
awesome and I had to keep going.
At mile 3, a water station appeared
and although I hadn’t planned to take water at this stage the sun was starting
to come out and I anticipated it might be warm later. There was a scramble; at those minute per
mile speeds it’s certainly a lot more dangerous trying to get to water and I
soon learned to get in and get out as quickly as I could during the latter
stages of the race. I took a few sips
and ploughed on.
I still had my headphone in one ear,
but without warning my arm caught a loose wire hanging from my shorts and ripped
the lead out of my pocket. I couldn’t
afford to waste time trying to fix the issue but luckily It didn’t hamper my
progression.
Tiredness hit at about the 3.5 miles
mark. Not physical tiredness, but mental
tiredness from the night before. Despite
my best efforts to factor in rest ahead of the race, it had also ended up being
a busy week and I could feel the fuzziness in my head and eyes. I tried to ignore it, and relished the fact
that my legs felt absolutely amazing.
At mile 5 I could see the road
starting to curve into Sale and my heart leapt.
I was approaching close to the 1 hour 45-minute marker and those who
knew me and were watching would see how great I was doing!
“GO ON JANE!” Natalie was the first
person I saw from the #MileShyClub.
At 5.5 miles I saw my other half.
“How are you doing?” he asked as I
whizzed by.
“I’m ok!” I said, sounding surprised
at my words. I checked my watch, and it
said 8-minute mile.
The race continued up Washway Road and
I focused hard on getting to 6 miles. 6
miles meant halfway (more or less). It
felt like we were all going really slow at this point, the road started to
drag, and I could see the first few runners starting to flag.
Clare, another one of my runners gave
me a cheer. The sun came out and I
grabbed a gel on offer. We were fortunate that there was a lot of cover from
the sun on the route.
Approaching mile 7, we turned into
Eastway and I felt this was a “turning point” (excuse the pun) given it
signalled our return to the start (and to the finish). The sun was out full belt here and everyone
dived for the water stations. The young
lads manning the station were brilliant, not only giving us water but also cheering
us on by name!
It was at this point, I started to
feel pain in my feet and I cursed. I
have the worst feet. Think of a 15-year-old
girl going to her first ever concert and wearing 3-inch heels because the Spice
Girls were the fashionable thing. Then
add to that a 3 mile walk to the concert venue because said 15-year-old girl
didn’t figure out how to get there. Add a few hours standing on the front row,
still wearing 3-inch heels, in Summer (and include a dance there to Peter
Andre’s ‘Mysterious Girl). Now think, St John’s Ambulance, scissors (not for
plasters), bandages, infection, wheelchair, 2 weeks. That girl became a
marathon runner. That girl is me.
After the Manchester marathon this
year I embarrassingly ended up in A&E and had my big toenails trephined (just google it,
I’m not explaining, you might be eating).
In June this year, I did my first trail half marathon which ended up
with toes being bandaged again by a paramedic immediately at the finish. I felt the blisters for this race pop just
after the 7-mile mark. I thanked my
lucky stars I was not running a marathon and zoned out from the pain.
Then it was down Walton Road where the
support was fantastic. Jelly babies,
orange pieces and lots of cheers. I lost
the 1 hour 45-minute marker at this point but I wasn’t too concerned about this.
I was pleased to have stayed with it for so long and it meant the “danger zone”
of coming in over 2 hours was out the way.
I could deal with not getting a PB, but would not have been happy with a
time over 2 hours.
I took on the hill at Brooklands tram
station, a route I know well because I make my club runners do it, and was delighted
to see a motivating and energetic band performing next to the Brooklands Tap
pub! Then it was straight down Hope Road and toward the centre of Sale.
At this point in the race, for no
reason whatsoever, I started to panic.
There was a fear deep set inside my chest, and I realised, for the first
time ever in a race, I could actually really feel my heart pounding against my
chest. It was so forceful, I even looked
down at my chest expecting to see it.
The steady thud unsettled me. I
wondered if I was having a panic attack and I started to mentally talk myself
down from the panic tightening my chest.
“You’re
fine. You can do this. Listen to your breathing, it’s steady. You’re doing really great. Just keep going.”
A guy runner went past me.
“Great charity,” he said, after
spotting my Mental Health Foundation vest.
Seeing the large crowd up ahead, I had
thought I would be very excited by this point to see the lovely people of Sale,
but to be honest, I was tired and wanted it over. There was a KitKat at home with my name on it
for the finish.
Speeding down past the Leisure Centre,
I spotted my swim coach out the corner of my eye walking his dog.
“BOB!”
He didn’t hear me, but luckily his
wife Jo did and she thankfully gave me a wave! (I couldn’t shout again!)
Then I saw Kath, another one of my
#MileShyClub runners who very calmly told me in her steady and level voice to
keep going and that I was doing well.
Dane Road was my next focus
point.
I got to Dane Road in what felt like
record time, after having covered the route in an earlier training session.
Then the crowd started to deepen
around me and I knew what that meant.
One of the pacers was closing in. And no sooner than I had thought it, I
watched as the 1 hour 50-minute marker went past.
My calm voice said, “It’s ok. You know that PB’ing in this race was going
to be a tough one.”
The invisible man sat on top of the
pacer looked at me and said, “LOOOOOOSSSSEEERRRRR!”
I checked my Garmin – I had gone down
to a 9 minute 30 second mile.
I watched the marker disappear on Dane
Road. And that’s when I gave myself a
good talking to.
“Get to 10 miles
Jane. 10 miles means one ParkRun left.”
I nodded to myself.
“JANE. PAY
ATTENTION. 3 MILES LEFT AT THE 10 MILE MARKER. GET TO IT!”
Seeing the 10-mile marker, I got past
it and groaned. Time to dig deep.
“You can. You can you can you can you
can you can you can you can.”
I started to pick runners and overtook
them.
There were a couple of guys slightly
ahead. One of them turned to his friend.
“Look mate you can’t quit now! Look!
The 2 hour 10 minute pacer is closing in!
It’s nearly here!”
His exhausted friend turned around to
look. I wasn’t that stupid, I knew it
wasn’t that close, but the thought of the 2-hour marker catching me spurred me
on.
I sped up. This is the part of the
race where the mental strength really kicks in and I am proud that my Garmin
results show that I increased speed after mile 9.
We turned a corner onto the long 2-mile
home straight. My wonderful, beautiful, fiancé
stepped out from the crowd.
“Go on Jane, you can do it!”
“I LOVE YOU!”
My feet were sliding in my trainers, a
reminder that my toes were a mess. I
zoned out.
“Dig deep. Run
hard. DO IT. NOW.”
I continued with the speed, picking
off runners.
Carol, one of my #MileShyClub runners
stood taking a photo.
“GO ON JANE! YOU’RE AMAZING!” (author
note: you’re amazing Carol too!)
I gave her a thumbs up for the photo.
Then to my left, I heard a noise that
sounded half between a dog being strangled and a moan that you give when waking
up after the most drunk night of your life.
I spotted a girl flailing.
“Don’t quit.”
Sounds simple doesn’t it. But at that time, this is what that girl
needed to hear.
“I mean it, don’t quit now.”
“I want to!” she gushed. “I’ve wanted
to stop like 15 times already!”
“Me too. Honest. I’ve wanted to stop at every point on this
frickin’ course but you can’t stop now.
You can’t. You’re so close. We’re so close.”
Then I remembered something. The previous weekend, the #MileShyClub had
been visited by a speaker called Paddy.
He had come to talk to us about mental strength, after completing 10
Iron Mans, 36 marathons and training with the SAS and navy seals.
“It is better to try and fail than to
try and quit.”
We paused for a minute, listening to
the sweaty throng of runners pounding against tarmac.
“I like that… no I really, really like
that”.
“Even if you’ve not got your PB today,
do not quit.” I looked at my watch. I knew my PB was off the cards but it didn’t matter.
We approached the finish, which was
half a mile ahead and surrounded by spectators.
It seemed such a long way off.
“Where are you?!” I heard a panicked
voice but we found each other. There
were a lot of people pushing for the finish.
The crowd cheered as a guy from behind
us put in his last effort and sprinted toward the finish.
People started yelling our names. I was amazed by all the tall, stocky guys
surrounding us, struggling just like us to get to the finish. We were one of them.
“Come on Vicky, let’s sprint finish!”
I didn’t have to look at her to know
she thought I’d gone mad.
“COME ON VICKY!” I yelled, and with
every ounce of our SOULS we ploughed to the finish.
We grabbed each other’s hands with
what remaining ounce of being we had and crossed the finish.
A guy behind us collapsed.
Marshals ushered us forward away from
the finish, when all we wanted to do was stop.
We hugged, departed… knowing we’d been there for each other when it counted. Maybe we’ll see each other at a finish line
again in the future, maybe we won’t, that’s the beauty of being a runner. It’s
like life.
My finish time was 1 hour 52 minutes. One minute off my PB but I am pleased with
that. I got my celebratory non-alcoholic
beer, smiled for a photo with my medal and revelled in the fact that apart from
my blistered feet, everything else felt completely fine. It was in fact so fine that I went home and
did a 5-mile bike ride. Maybe my body
has finally realised what I’m trying to do to it, and has given up complaining?
Maybe…?
___
Other running related articles:
Review of the Greater Manchester Marathon - 2nd April 2017
Review of the Yorkshire Marathon - 9th October 2016
Review of the Greater Manchester Marathon - 2nd April 2017
Review of the Yorkshire Marathon - 9th October 2016
Comments
Post a Comment