I consider myself a reasonably experienced marathon runner at this point. I’ve run marathons since my mid-twenties, and although it took me until the last few years to actually get serious about all of this, I felt like I had a pretty good handle on most of what the marathon could throw at you.
That was my first mistake.
My second mistake was an easy one. I simply didn’t fuel enough. As my friend Yael said to me afterwards, “You get caught in the moment, and the adrenaline powers you… until it doesn’t.” Bang on. I’d had a really solid training block, thanks to my coach Colin’s diligent and generous work planning my schedule and keeping tabs on me. I’ve met some great new people and learned to run in a group for the first time, which I’ve loved. At the race itself I copied last year’s routine down to the same hotel, the same timings, the same food. But for some reason, I decided that three gels was going to be enough to get me around the marathon at the fastest pace I’d ever run. Wrong!
The race
I love the Málaga Marathon. I love Málaga. I have a lot of memories of the place from living here and it’s very friendly. I enjoy the course, running through old haunts, and the parts that other people say can be gruelling I have a grudging respect for. But this year, quite quickly, I realised it was going to be harder than before. The sub-three hour pace of around 4:11 per kilometre which I’d set myself seemed harder than I felt it should, and by halfway I knew I was going to have to dig deeper than ever.
Somehow, despite every kilometre dragging and every stride feeling harder than the last, I more or less held my pace. Although I was in a lot of pain and certainly not calm about things entering the final two kilometres, I knew that one push would get me to the sub-three hour marathon I’ve dreamed of for years now and before recently would have never thought possible for me.
The collapse
So it was that I rounded the final corner with the finish line now in sight, knowing that all this pain was going to end in merely seconds. But the only thing that did end was any power in my legs. They literally collapsed under me. The crowds were thick on both sides screaming everyone on, but my legs just wouldn’t run. I don’t know if I actually collapsed to the floor, because I was a bit delirious by this point - I think I must have done.
But what I do know is that two wonderful people jumped over the barrier to check I was all right first, then to stop me trying to run off on my own when I tried and realised my legs just wouldn’t work, and then to flat refuse me when I said I just wanted to leave the course. “No, you’re finishing this marathon,” they said. Grabbing me on each side like you’d grab someone with a broken leg, they started to march me towards the finish line. I kept trying to move without them, testing myself, but every time they gave me a little bit of weight on my legs, I collapsed again. In the end, that final 200 yards took about five minutes.
My official time - I was at 2:58:17 and 4:14/km pace just 200 yards before the end…
The aftermath
Next thing I know, I was being handed over to two medics, profusely thanking everyone around me. And lying on a physio’s bed in a tent, a nurse pricking my finger to give me intravenous sugar solution. I was sweating profusely, flat out. My head was pounding, and I felt sick every time I tried to lift it.
I knew I wanted to phone Faye and let her know I was all right, although I wasn’t thinking straight. (She would have seen me cross the finish line on the app, and knew I didn’t have my phone on me, so she wouldn’t be expecting to hear from me anytime soon.) But in my head, I hadn’t crossed that finish line. She would have seen it all go wrong on the tracking, I was thinking, and I needed to talk to her.
A wonderful nurse found her phone, and I told her the number. Only in my delirium, I told her my own number and was then surprised that no one was answering, as my phone rang out on my hotel room bed! Eventually, I realised my mistake and we finally rang the right number for Faye. I explained quickly what had happened, then over the next half hour I was able to drink a couple of bottles of water and eat a banana. Finally, I could sit and then stand, and they let me go.
The reckoning
It was only when I got back to the hotel and phoned home that I finally burst into tears and let all the emotion out. Ultimately, I’d done it. I’d run a sub-three hour marathon in all but the last 200 yards. Along the way, I’d bagged my fastest half marathon too. I’d proved I could do it and I gave it my all. I’m proud of myself for pushing so hard that I literally couldn’t push anymore, but also annoyed with myself for being stupid enough to just simply not take enough gels, which I knew I should have done. I’ll never be able to explain why I made that decision or why I ran past the isotonic drinks. But that’s my story.
The thing I carry away more than anything is how wonderful everyone was. The Spanish couple who jumped over the fence to help me and made all the right decisions for me. The nursing staff who were both matter-of-fact and proficient, but at the same time very human. Because the nurse had tried to reach Faye with my phone number due to my inability to think straight, I realised I had her number, so I could send her a thank you message later, which I was grateful to be able to do. I wish I could thank the couple who helped me, too.
It would be foolish to say for sure now, but the way I feel, I do hope I can go back next time and finish what I started. Because while my watch says I’ve completed the distance, I know there were 200 yards left. And while I’ve now proved that I can run at that pace, I want the official finishing time. Ultimately, this is one I’ll never forget, and one I hope to never repeat. But I’ve learned so much from it. I love running and I love runners, it’s a wonderful sport and community. I feel lucky to be able to take part. And I’m coming back stronger…