Marathon Morning
It was a Sunday morning on the first day of December. More than 21,000 souls had converged at the iconic Arts and Sciences park in the heart of Valencia to take part in what is generally regarded as the greatest marathon race in Spain, and one of the best in Europe too. While most of the continent shivered under its winter cloak, the mild Mediterranean air greeted the morning here with the promise of a warm day ahead. There was a sense of anticipation all around as the competitors arrived at the marathon village. Among them was runner number 24478, aged 53 from Cornwall, UK. Written beneath his number, clear for all to see was his name. Like almost everyone else, he'd arrived early on the free bus service in order to go through the usual routine of queuing for the bank of portable toilets, finding the bag depository, queuing for the portable toilets again, and then finding his starting pen - one near the back of the field.
I've never been good at doing my homework. Every exam I ever did in my life succeeded or failed based on last minute cramming, and my brief history of marathon running tells a similar tale. My preparation had been especially unimpressive this time. Instead of retiring for an early night with a glass of water I'd jumped aboard a bus to the Mestalla to watch Valencia beat Villareal 2-1 in a local derby the previous evening - I got back to our apartment just before midnight. The truth is I'm not really that keen on running, but having been dragged into a weekly social trot, I soon found myself being coaxed into entering races. Before I knew what had happened, I had done several half marathons - I even got quite good at those, and managed to run the last Plymouth half in one hour and forty-five minutes. So despite knowing there was nothing left after every thirteen mile race I'd ever taken part in, it was inevitable that I'd eventually register for the big one at some point. The trouble was that while I could get through a half fairly comfortably without doing extra training, a full marathon was a different proposition entirely. Without sticking to a plan it was always going to be a case of finishing rather than flourishing, and as I stood on the starting line I knew I was going to be among the last runners to cross the line twenty-six miles later. This was my third (and to date last) marathon and the two previous performances had been unremarkable at best. What made things worse was that this was an "elite" marathon, whose entrance form almost served to discourage anyone who might take longer than five hours. Not long after this time they would start to rip up the beautiful blue carpet that marked the final hundred metres to the finishing line outside the Science Museum and the remaining stragglers would be forced into the ignominy of a diversion in those last moments of glory. I wanted to reach that blue carpet before they rolled it away for another year. My previous times had been five hours and sixteen minutes at Brighton and a slightly better four hours forty-two in Edinburgh. That five hour target seemed important if I wanted to finish the race properly.
I like to break marathons down into segments. When I've done five miles I'll say to myself - "you've only got to do that four more times." This mental arithmetic starts very early and helps me get through the early miles. At some point I'll reach the halfway mark and remind myself that everything is fine. That much distance again and I'll have finished. I like those early miles when nothing hurts and you can enjoy the atmosphere around you. Later on parts of your body are screaming at you and you find yourself saying "never again" over and over, under your breath and then out loud. Why does anyone do this? I wasn't even running for charity this time - I was doing it for fun. Fun? Really?
At first things were fine as I kept to my planned pace. The lovely thing about a big city race is how much encouragement you receive from the thousands of total strangers who line the streets. I don't know whether they realise quite how much they contribute, but when people you'll never see again yell "animo Dom!" as you stagger past in exhaustion it can be one of the most powerful emotions you'll ever know. At one point where the route doubled back on itself I'd seen a cluster of young men, mostly Kenyans and Ethiopians, lithe, strong and agile, racing along towards me on the opposite side of the long and ruler-straight Avinguda dels Tarongers, close to where we were staying. Later the winner would cross the finishing line in a quicker time than it took me to get to the halfway point.
It was at the 26km marker that my right hip began to complain. I'd been running comfortably if slowly up until that moment, but very quickly I was in pain with ten miles to go. From here I had no choice but to alternate walking with running, greeting every kilometre marker with a flush of joy as the remaining distance very gradually dwindled, much of it through the loneliest and emptiest parts of the course on the western outskirts of the city. Through narrow streets flanked by tall buildings on either side I pressed on through the city centre - the left hip now joining its opposite side in protest. At least I was heading back towards the end of the course, and the shadows of the buildings provided shelter from the sunny afternoon that was warmer than most summer days are at home. Further along I noticed two young girls, waiting their moment to find a gap between the runners to cross the marathon course. Each was clothed in old fashioned traditional outfits, and carrying a sort of stick with a wheel at the base and a toy bull's head at the top. To my horror I realised where they were going - the bullring was just across the road. There are many reasons to love Spain, but I just can't get my head around the notion that bullfighting is still considered acceptable by so many people here. I tried to put them out of my mind and pushed on.
From time to time the cheers and support from the crowds spurred me on and I would run a little bit harder through the pain before slowing to a walk again. And then after an age the 40km marker appeared, bringing a huge boost with it. There was only a mile and a quarter to go and an enormous wave of joy swept along behind me, helping me to complete the race without walking again. Finally I was among the stunning buildings of the Arts and Sciences once more, and then at last I could feel that magical beautiful blue carpet beneath my feet and I knew that finisher's medal was mine - along with an ice cold beer. At last I could enjoy that warm sunshine. I'd completed the race in four hours and fifty-six minutes, and I wasn't last to cross the line either. It doesn't matter how long it takes - the sense of elation on the finishing line of a marathon course is like nothing else I've ever felt. Even the memory of it feels quite overwhelming. The pain soon goes, but the medal and that moment on the finishing line are mine forever.
I was hoping to enter another continental marathon in 2020, but of course events in the wider world put paid to that. I took part in a virtual half marathon in March last year, but since then I haven't run much at all. I'd like to think I might do another one yet, but who knows for sure. One thing I do know is that Brighton, Edinburgh and Valencia are three cities that will always hold particularly special memories for me.
I took a few photos during our time in Valencia, but wasn't especially happy with any of them. Then for some reason today I remembered the morning light that day, and the fact that I'd taken a snap of the Hemisferic beneath it on my phone. I decided to see whether I could do anything with it at all, and was surprised to get a result. It's not an image that could be printed on an enormous scale, but for me it calls to mind a very special memory and all of those thoughts that were going through my head as my insides churned on that beautiful Sunday morning. After all, for me at least, collecting memories is what photographs are for.
Have a good weekend everyone.
Marathon Morning
It was a Sunday morning on the first day of December. More than 21,000 souls had converged at the iconic Arts and Sciences park in the heart of Valencia to take part in what is generally regarded as the greatest marathon race in Spain, and one of the best in Europe too. While most of the continent shivered under its winter cloak, the mild Mediterranean air greeted the morning here with the promise of a warm day ahead. There was a sense of anticipation all around as the competitors arrived at the marathon village. Among them was runner number 24478, aged 53 from Cornwall, UK. Written beneath his number, clear for all to see was his name. Like almost everyone else, he'd arrived early on the free bus service in order to go through the usual routine of queuing for the bank of portable toilets, finding the bag depository, queuing for the portable toilets again, and then finding his starting pen - one near the back of the field.
I've never been good at doing my homework. Every exam I ever did in my life succeeded or failed based on last minute cramming, and my brief history of marathon running tells a similar tale. My preparation had been especially unimpressive this time. Instead of retiring for an early night with a glass of water I'd jumped aboard a bus to the Mestalla to watch Valencia beat Villareal 2-1 in a local derby the previous evening - I got back to our apartment just before midnight. The truth is I'm not really that keen on running, but having been dragged into a weekly social trot, I soon found myself being coaxed into entering races. Before I knew what had happened, I had done several half marathons - I even got quite good at those, and managed to run the last Plymouth half in one hour and forty-five minutes. So despite knowing there was nothing left after every thirteen mile race I'd ever taken part in, it was inevitable that I'd eventually register for the big one at some point. The trouble was that while I could get through a half fairly comfortably without doing extra training, a full marathon was a different proposition entirely. Without sticking to a plan it was always going to be a case of finishing rather than flourishing, and as I stood on the starting line I knew I was going to be among the last runners to cross the line twenty-six miles later. This was my third (and to date last) marathon and the two previous performances had been unremarkable at best. What made things worse was that this was an "elite" marathon, whose entrance form almost served to discourage anyone who might take longer than five hours. Not long after this time they would start to rip up the beautiful blue carpet that marked the final hundred metres to the finishing line outside the Science Museum and the remaining stragglers would be forced into the ignominy of a diversion in those last moments of glory. I wanted to reach that blue carpet before they rolled it away for another year. My previous times had been five hours and sixteen minutes at Brighton and a slightly better four hours forty-two in Edinburgh. That five hour target seemed important if I wanted to finish the race properly.
I like to break marathons down into segments. When I've done five miles I'll say to myself - "you've only got to do that four more times." This mental arithmetic starts very early and helps me get through the early miles. At some point I'll reach the halfway mark and remind myself that everything is fine. That much distance again and I'll have finished. I like those early miles when nothing hurts and you can enjoy the atmosphere around you. Later on parts of your body are screaming at you and you find yourself saying "never again" over and over, under your breath and then out loud. Why does anyone do this? I wasn't even running for charity this time - I was doing it for fun. Fun? Really?
At first things were fine as I kept to my planned pace. The lovely thing about a big city race is how much encouragement you receive from the thousands of total strangers who line the streets. I don't know whether they realise quite how much they contribute, but when people you'll never see again yell "animo Dom!" as you stagger past in exhaustion it can be one of the most powerful emotions you'll ever know. At one point where the route doubled back on itself I'd seen a cluster of young men, mostly Kenyans and Ethiopians, lithe, strong and agile, racing along towards me on the opposite side of the long and ruler-straight Avinguda dels Tarongers, close to where we were staying. Later the winner would cross the finishing line in a quicker time than it took me to get to the halfway point.
It was at the 26km marker that my right hip began to complain. I'd been running comfortably if slowly up until that moment, but very quickly I was in pain with ten miles to go. From here I had no choice but to alternate walking with running, greeting every kilometre marker with a flush of joy as the remaining distance very gradually dwindled, much of it through the loneliest and emptiest parts of the course on the western outskirts of the city. Through narrow streets flanked by tall buildings on either side I pressed on through the city centre - the left hip now joining its opposite side in protest. At least I was heading back towards the end of the course, and the shadows of the buildings provided shelter from the sunny afternoon that was warmer than most summer days are at home. Further along I noticed two young girls, waiting their moment to find a gap between the runners to cross the marathon course. Each was clothed in old fashioned traditional outfits, and carrying a sort of stick with a wheel at the base and a toy bull's head at the top. To my horror I realised where they were going - the bullring was just across the road. There are many reasons to love Spain, but I just can't get my head around the notion that bullfighting is still considered acceptable by so many people here. I tried to put them out of my mind and pushed on.
From time to time the cheers and support from the crowds spurred me on and I would run a little bit harder through the pain before slowing to a walk again. And then after an age the 40km marker appeared, bringing a huge boost with it. There was only a mile and a quarter to go and an enormous wave of joy swept along behind me, helping me to complete the race without walking again. Finally I was among the stunning buildings of the Arts and Sciences once more, and then at last I could feel that magical beautiful blue carpet beneath my feet and I knew that finisher's medal was mine - along with an ice cold beer. At last I could enjoy that warm sunshine. I'd completed the race in four hours and fifty-six minutes, and I wasn't last to cross the line either. It doesn't matter how long it takes - the sense of elation on the finishing line of a marathon course is like nothing else I've ever felt. Even the memory of it feels quite overwhelming. The pain soon goes, but the medal and that moment on the finishing line are mine forever.
I was hoping to enter another continental marathon in 2020, but of course events in the wider world put paid to that. I took part in a virtual half marathon in March last year, but since then I haven't run much at all. I'd like to think I might do another one yet, but who knows for sure. One thing I do know is that Brighton, Edinburgh and Valencia are three cities that will always hold particularly special memories for me.
I took a few photos during our time in Valencia, but wasn't especially happy with any of them. Then for some reason today I remembered the morning light that day, and the fact that I'd taken a snap of the Hemisferic beneath it on my phone. I decided to see whether I could do anything with it at all, and was surprised to get a result. It's not an image that could be printed on an enormous scale, but for me it calls to mind a very special memory and all of those thoughts that were going through my head as my insides churned on that beautiful Sunday morning. After all, for me at least, collecting memories is what photographs are for.
Have a good weekend everyone.