Send in the Clowns - BAC 10K Challenge

So.. I’ve been here a few times before. The marathon is nearly a week old and there’s a certain reluctance to start typing up this race report. Part of it is catching up on work, shopping, clothes washing and the other results of taking 4 days out of your normal life. But there’s something else there too - a reluctance to scratch under the surface, just in case I won’t like what I see. Without this significant level of scrutiny, the prevailing emotion isn’t joy, a sense of satisfaction or disappointment - but rather, a huge sense of relief. Running has become such a huge part of my life and for the last 6 weeks, this one race has completely dominated all thoughts. Well, the writing of this race report marks the beginning of that scrutiny and hopefully by the time it’s finished, I’ll have a better understanding of how I feel about the outcome.

Without wanting to sound too over-dramatic - there was a huge amount riding on this race. With the massive disappointment and frustration of getting injured just two weeks from Berlin marathon, the anxiety that the injury might repeat itself at any moment, and the investment in two complete marathon cycles, If I didn’t get a satisfactory result, it would have been crushing. It’s hard to predict without being in the situation, but I feared that if it didn’t go well, I just might not come back from it. It might mean an end to something that has become such a huge part of my life. So yeah, certainly over-dramatic, but that was the frame of mind in the final few weeks before the race and as a consequence, my family, friends and colleagues had to put up with a rather terse, volatile, edgy, individual. Thankfully, most knew how much I had committed and gave me a little bit of leniency and breathing space!

So what was the goal? I remember a snippet of a conversation from some years ago, where someone rather incredulously defined a sub 2:30 marathon as being ‘a decent club runner standard’. Yeah, I’m with you on that one. That’s some pretty tough criteria. Nonetheless, it stuck with me. On another occasion I was out having dinner with donothoponpop and the Dublin Marathon organizing committee, and was blown away by the tales of 2:28s and 2:29s, bandied about as casually as if they were tempo runs in the park. These things stayed buried deep, bubbling away, while year on year I scratched away at the minutes and seconds that lay between the runner I was back then and the runner I needed to be in order to just talk out loud about legitimately targeting a time like that. In Frankfurt in 2015, I felt I was close - and even arrived at the start-line with thoughts of throwing caution to the wind and giving it a pop. But I ran such a poor race that rather than targeting a time, I was essentially just doing everything I could to get to the finish line. I have no doubt I left some time on the course that day - which meant that I would have some ‘free time’ in my next marathon attempt. Did I do enough to run sub 2:30 in Berlin? We’ll never know, but as I stood on the sideline watching Jebus and the other Leevale runners giving it everything they had, I’d have given anything* to be among them.

*Anything legitimate. With the disturbing increasing trend in stories of drug-taking in amateur level sport, sadly I probably need to state that I do not and have not ever taken anything that would aid or boost my performance or recovery. In fact, I am the complete opposite - as my commitment to running has increased, I have moved further and further away from any form of medication (hay-fever, asthma, pain-killers etc). I have been an asthma sufferer since I was 5 years old, and have the accompanying blue and brown inhalers, but the use of such has decreased in inverse proportion to my running commitment and now they are reserved for times of chest infections, colds, and very rarely, those cold, damp winter races and sessions to prevent adverse breathing reactions. If I recover fast from a hard session and go out and run 15-20 miles easy the next day, it is because I have invested thousands and thousand of miles of foundation and ground-work in order to be able to do so. Marathon gains for me are measured, not in sessions, but in months and years of hundred mile weeks.

So, back to Rotterdam. Training went really well, and through constant administering of pilates and stretching, the back held up. My daughter had developed a chest infection and soon, Emer had developed the same symptoms. By Thursday I was developing a sore throat, and knew it was pretty inevitable - I just hoped it wouldn’t bed in until after the race. Met up with Dom on the Friday for an easy 5 miles that became 6.5 and I failed to pay attention to any of the landmarks as he guided me around the city sections. On Saturday a fantastic run over the bridge section and around some of the local canals. Spent the rest of the day exploring and grazing on foods that I wouldn’t have dreamed of eating over the previous 2-3 months.
On the morning of the race, I got up to the sound of my alarm at 6am, after a pretty sleepless night, and ate the cold porridge I had soaked overnight (I leave nothing to chance!), before falling back to sleep for a rare stolen hour. I headed out for a two mile run, knowing that a warm-up before the race would be next to impossible. The pace was easy, but my HR was surprisingly high, and I feared that the chest-infection had already bedded in and breathing (and as a consequence HR) would be an issue during the race. Too late for compromise now though. Mentally committed, I headed off in the bright sunshine in the direction of the start line, just after 9am.

The weather was a much debated subject in the days leading up to the race. The final outcome was a clear sunny day, with temperatures starting at 10-12’C at 10am, rising to 16-17’C by the time I hoped to be finishing. The hard sessions in the gym had in many ways provided adaptation to the heat, but I really struggle in warm sunshine (I’m a hairy animal - obviously built for running in colder climates!). I expected the sunshine and rising temperatures to be a problem, but like the growing chest infection, these were variables outside of my control, and I was committed to a course of action, so nothing for it but to forge onward. I did decide to carry a 500ml drink with me in my hand from the start of the race, which I’m sure many will find incredulous, but you don’t run 100 miles a week without learning a few things about yourself. I completed an 11 mile run the week before the marathon which included 6 miles at marathon pace in similar conditions to Rotterdam and lost 4-5 pounds of weight during that run. Carrying the drink was less about rehydration, but more about getting electrolytes into the system. If it had been a cool overcast day, I wouldn’t have bothered, but it was a compromise I was willing to make, given the conditions. Asimonov’s brother had kindly offered to provide me with a drink just after the 30k mark, so I hoped this bottle would take me that far, without any need to rely on course provisions.

I hit a near-empty pen B, at around 9:20am and was glad of the opportunity to be able to grab a portaloo with some convenience. No sign of DR or Zico, but I soon spotted some Crusaders singlets and shortly afterwards, there was a group of 5-6 Irish runners assembled, chatting before the race. Eventually, I spotted someone who could only have been Zico entering the pen, and the relaxed conversation went on, until, without any great level of signalling, we turned to the task at hand, huddling forward and waiting for the gun. I was pretty far back in the pen, but it was a sub 2:45 pen, so I wasn’t outwardly worried.

The gun turned out to be a cannon, and soon we were off. It took me about 14-17 seconds to cross the start-line (there’ll be more on this later ) and without the normal pre-race warm-up, I was willing to accept a slow mile to get into the marathon groove. It was obvious that there were a large number of runners for whom sub 2:45 would be a distant and perhaps unrealistic dream, and it was at times quite frustrating to have your progress impeded by runners who should know better, but I didn’t let it bother me. This is sadly just a by-product of the ‘entitlement’ mentality that plagues most races, be they local parkruns or Gold-label IAAF events. I had a pace-band on my wrist, which I had collected in an act of defiance at the Berlin marathon expo the previous year. I wore it more for sentimental value and inspiration, as I hoped to run faster splits than the prescribed 2:29:30 target, and truth be told, the font was so small my ageing eyes struggled to make out the numbers even without the glaring sun and consequential sunglasses. My best marathons have come from occasions where I wasn’t watching splits, focusing rather on running a comfortable fast pace and that was the plan for this outing.

The first mile beeped up on my watch in 5:50 (for a target pace of around 5:40/mile). A momentary cause for alarm - already down 10 seconds, but this is where I do my best running. Catch a group; settle in, recover, push past, catch a group….. until you find yourself in a group that is holding a consistent pace with no signs of slowing. Miles 2 and 3 are a wonderful long straight, which at this hour of the morning, were largely in the shade. I made really solid progress passing runners in dozens, with the watch ticking off miles in 5:28 and 5:36. Passing the 5km mark (couldn’t read my pace band!), my watch was showing an average pace of 5:38. A little bit hot, but I knew the average pace data was flaky at best. I felt extremely comfortable and that was all that mattered. I arrived at the back of a large group, and it felt great to cruise to the front, despite a mild head-wind. Unfortunately the next group lay some 80-100m ahead, which was a fairly significant gap to cross, but I knew success lay in continuing to make progress rather than settling into the current group. I broke away and one runner stepped in behind me, with the rest of the group streamlined behind us. Another beep - mile 4: 5:36. We stayed in this formation for some time, until eventually, I got a bit cheesed-off with doing the heavy lifting. Thankfully my Austrian looking companion took the hint and moved a metre ahead allowing me to jump in behind him and let him take on the effort, while I took a mental break. We exchanged position a couple of times (5:37, 5:34), until eventually we latched onto the back of the larger group, which I estimated must be targeting sub 2:30.

This larger group included what could only have been the leading Dutch/non-African women, distinguishable by the burly bouncer/pacer types surrounding them, and the camera-equipped motorcycle, nearly-permanently attached to the group. For a long spell this motorbike lay strangely alongside me (mile 6: 5:34) with the camera firmly pointed in my direction, and I awkwardly hoped that at that point, the focus was on the front of the field (didn’t stop me from giving the occasional sheepish wave to my family back home). Eventually we hit the canal (mile 7: 5:40), where the path narrowed significantly, but still the motorcycle camera crew remained, forcing the runners to cluster more tightly. Suddenly I got a shove from a runner to my right. It was the big burly bouncer-pacer. He pushed my shoulder, hurling some words in Dutch, and nearly forced me into the path of another runner. I glared angrily and whispered a few choice curse words. I totally get that he has a job to do pacing the leading national contenders, but you can’t intentionally interfere with another runner to achieve that goal.

We continued on the canal path, with me taking an occasional front-running position in the group, sometimes dropping back to take break in the rearguard. I wasn’t watching the splits any longer, having settled into what felt like a steady achievable pace. Next few splits were: 5:36, 5:35. I was glad when we eventually turned off the canal, and got a little more breathing-space. Then we had a rather tight u-turn, which would be perfectly acceptable in a local county race, but struck me as a little absurd in a big city marathon. I was very jealous of their dedicated drink stations, while the rest of us had to make do with what we could carry or cajole along the course.

Temperatures were rising, but I was able to skip the busy drink stations, occasionally taking a sip from my bottle (50% sports drink, 50% water+electrolytes). Eventually though, I started to feel the heat, so started grabbing the occasional sponge, squeezing the welcome cold water down my back. Miles 11 and 12 passed in an unknown 5:39, 5:42. Hitting the 20k mark, I reached for a sponge and dropped my bottle. Sh1te-bags. With 10k until I hoped to bump into Asimonov’s brother, I’d have to start using the aid stations. Arriving at the half-way mark, I got the first accurate barometer reading of where I was. The clock read 1:14:47 or something similar. I checked the watch - average pace 5:38. Crap - I was about 30 seconds behind where I thought I was, and realized at that point that if I was going to break 2:30, I could only afford to drop a handful of seconds over the second half of the race, which promised to be a lot warmer than the first half. The first pessimistic note had firmly sounded. Next minute, I’m shoved again. The same prick has done it again, with the same hurled Dutch abuse. That was enough motivation for me. I pushed past the group and didn’t see them again. I just checked the results and take some satisfaction from reading that the big baldy bollix ran a 6 minute positive split. Some pacer…

The miles were ticking off nicely. The best thing about being a high mileage runner is that you become less concerned about the distance, and more focused on your effort levels at a particular point in time. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to see those kilometer signs finally start ticking down, but you’re not waiting for them, anticipating the arrival of each tick mark to the finish. Still it was a welcome sight when we turned finally back towards the city. I took a moment to enjoy the incredible Rotterdam skyline, as we headed for the bridge. I was now part of a group of 5 strong runners, all clearly chasing that sub 2:30 mark. The lead was swapped around, based on who was feeling strongest at a particular point in time. There was that brief but unique bond of runners working together towards a common goal. Words of encouragement were occasionally exchanged in French, Norwegian, German and Portuguese - a motley group! The journey up over the bridge was indeed tough, but having run it twice in the previous two days, I knew that it lasted less than 800m, so I was happy to keep the pace up, knowing that recovery lay just over the crest, with the group chasing in my wake. After hitting the peak, the guys literally hammered the pace, and I was left chasing in their shadows. They wanted to squeeze out every available second from that downhill, and suddenly I was getting dropped off the pace. I knew I had to close the distance on the group, as to fall behind at this stage of the race (around 26kms), would mean certain failure. I worked hard and eventually closed back on them and the pace settled back down.

I hit the 30km mark, and there was Fergal with my bottle. While I had been taking advantage of the regular aid stations, Fergal was such a welcome sight and getting those electrolytes was a race-saver. The bottle was nice and cold too. I could’a hugged him but that would have to wait for another time.

Soon after, we hit the park - an area I’d been warned would be fast but very tough. With few spectators to offer encouragement,very rare shade from the sun, and not much by way of distraction, you can’t help but start looking inwards, and this definitely affected the group. We started to stretch out - the invisible cords holding us together as a group beginning to fray. Mile by mile the group lengthened and first one runner dropped off, then another. As we rounded the South-East corner, it was my turn. We hit around the 36km mark, and the remaining two runners ahead of me seemed to be opening a gap on me. I couldn’t understand how they had the strength to start picking up the pace at this stage of the race, in this heat. Glancing at my watch when it beeped, it all became clear. 5:51 for mile 22… They weren’t accelerating, I was slowing down. Despair as the realization hit me, that I was gradually falling off the pace. In that mile alone I had just lost 10 seconds, and based on my half-way split, I only had 10-20 seconds to play with. How much time had I lost on the preceding miles?

While there was no way I could regroup with the remaining two runners who had disappeared around a corner 100m ahead, I knew I was still on for a good PB, and I was determined to minimize the damage and stop leaking vital seconds. The pace increase was near imperceptible, but the effort involved in picking up the pace was significant. Finally I left the park and the city once again offered crowds with magnificent levels of encouragement, but it also brought long stretches of unbroken sunshine and corresponding long stretches of welcome shade. I hit the 40km mark and spotted a split-clock. A quick calculation - I had about 7 1/2 minutes to cover the remaining 2 kilometers (I had forgotten the remaining 200m). Suddenly I had new hope. The sub 2:30 was still achievable, if not on the gun time, then perhaps on my chip-time. I picked up my pace as much as I dared, knowing that over-cooking it at this point could still lead to disaster. In reality, my pace wasn’t increasing dramatically - I was simply increasing effort levels to maintain the same pace. The crowds were urging me forward, and I took some strength from the fact that with no runners in sight in front or behind me, the chants and encouragement of thousands of spectators were directed at me.

Finally I was running down a street against the crowd running in the other direction. Funny - I didn’t remember running in the other direction earlier, but then it dawned on me that when I went through, the leading runners wouldn’t have passed yet. It felt eerily strange to be running a big city marathon effectively on my own, while thousands of runners forged ahead in the other direction. Finally the 41km mark I can still do this. I knew at that point nothing would stop me from making the finish line and running a PB I could be happy with, but still that sub 2:30 was worth fighting for. I guessed that it wasn’t within reach on the gun, but there was still the chip. Started the final process of picking up the pace to squeeze out every last drops of effort. I couldn’t really appreciate the big city marathon finish, as the pain and suffering had taken over. I was grabbing cups of water and squashing them down my back as often as I could as the heat felt stifling.

Eventually I rounded a corner to the street I recognized as the marathon’s main avenue. Squinting into the distance I could make out the finishing gantry some 600m ahead, but I couldn’t make out the clock. Nonetheless, the finish was in sight. Time to give it everything as I wound up the pace. Eventually, I could make it out. 2:29:38. Fooooook…. I wound it up even more, but it was just too far away.. Run - fooking run… I didn’t have time to be disappointed as the clock ticked off 2:29:59 to 2:30:00. I knew I still had the chip time to fight for. Run - fooking run….Passed under the clock with the digits showing 2:30:10…

I stumbled a few steps forward, and I was swept up with raw emotion. Joy.. Sadness. Relief. Grief. Euphoria.. All hitting me in waves at the same time. Immediately my thoughts went to my bro as they inevitably do every time I cross a marathon finish line. The disappointment, stress and self-imposed pressure of the last 6 months hit me a sweeping blow, and I could do little but bury my face in my hands and wait for it to pass. I heard Emer calling me from the other side of the railings and that was all I needed to pull myself together. We hugged briefly through the wire fence, before I started the long stumble out of the finish area. Had I made it? I didn’t know. No Idea. Not a clue. My watch showed me 2:30:11, but I had started it with the cannon, rather than when I crossed the starting gantry, so only recorded my gun time.

Eventually, I was reunited with Emer, and managed to manoeuvre my phone out of my bag, and squinting in the sunlight, the first message I read was from Neil my training buddy: 2:29:59 from the live tracker. I was euphoric. I let out a few yells and shouts. For a time, short of having my entire family around me to celebrate, I was as happy as I could possibly be. To have achieved the time by such a fine margin simply added to the sense of achievement. It was only some hours later as I settled into a bath in the hotel (after spending several hours in the Irish bar) that some of the strands started to unravel. While the tracker will forever record that I passed between the posts under the 2:30 mark, history, based on the official published records, will not. Looking at the evidence I have assembled (GPS tracklogs, photos from the finish, start/finish timestamps), there’s little doubt in my mind that I just squeaked under, but rules are rules, and any advantages that a sub 2:30 time has to offer will just have to wait until another day. So, some small amount of regret, but so much for me to be very happy about. A three minute PB is a wonderful result from all of that training, and while I don’t attach too much value to age-based categories, I’m willing to make a small concession for taking home the M45 title in Rotterdam marathon. 41st position overall is something I can take a little pride in, but mostly I’m just happy that I struck the right chords in my training, and by in large ran a very solid race. As others have pointed out, 2:30:01 may ultimately work out a better result than 2:29:59, as already the fire has been stoked and I have a new imagined adversary. Plans are being formulated. I now know what it takes to run a sub 2:30 marathon. The road to Berlin begins.