Marathon Man

by Rob Young

  By 8am I was up again and dressed, with super-sweet coffee in my belly and a briefing ringing in my ears. The directors doubted my ability to run this race and wondered whether I should be allowed to run. Fortunately, I managed to persuade them I was up to the task. Somehow I got distracted and ended up totally unprepared by the time the race started. I was pretty much still in my underwear when the klaxon sounded, so I spent the first mile or so busily getting my kilt on properly and pinning my number on while everyone else disappeared ahead of me.

  It was the perfect day for a long run, cool but sunny, with some cloud cover. Once we got out of the village, the views of this special part of Britain were exceptional. I was tired but wide awake at the same time. It was very calming running through that kind of country. The greens and browns and greys of the hills had a soothing effect on my mind.

  I put in a big effort to catch up with the leading pack and gradually moved up the field. There were some really tough hills and it was horrendous at times. The race boasted about 13,200 feet of climbing in all, so I knew how it was going to be, but it was worse than I had imagined. Maybe running through the night a few hours earlier wasn’t the best way to prepare, after all.

  When the fog came in, things got even harder; I couldn’t see more than about 20m ahead of me. One second the front runners were just ahead where I could see them, but then they were gone. After that, I just had to do my best to stay on the route on my own. I’d left my compass and map behind at the race HQ, so it was a case of relying on my instincts. I never like reading maps much (though I recommend you learn to!).

  My Achilles had been an issue over the previous week or so, and early on it flared up again, which was a worry. I had some ibuprofen with me, which I stopped to take. I don’t usually take painkillers, and you shouldn’t when you run, but this was one of those times when I felt I needed them.

  At one point, the trail went in different directions and I had to guess which way to go. I opted for straight on. Soon after that some of the descents got so steep I was sliding on rocks and having to dig my heels in just to stay on the hill. I bounced off a rock at one point and managed to stop myself falling. Then it got almost vertical and I knew something was seriously wrong. They’d have supplied us with ropes and crampons if this had been the route.

  I realised I was in danger at this point. I was lying on my belly on this incredibly steep hillside, holding on, hoping the loose rocks beneath me wouldn’t start slipping. I started inching myself back up in the direction I had come. Then I stopped; there was an eerie silence all around. I felt like I was all alone. How far off course had I gone? I was starting to get a little worried.

  Eventually I clambered back up and was able to get back on my feet again. Using nothing more than guesswork I tried to find my way back on to the route. I kept calling out for help, hoping someone would hear me, but it seemed I had managed to find myself all alone on some remote corner of the hill, cut off from all the others. Then someone’s voice called back out of the fog. What a relief! I followed the voice and met up with a whole group of runners, which was great news, though I was disappointed to learn that they were lost as well. Shit! You know you’re in trouble when the search party is lost, too.

  Everyone had a different theory about how we would get back on the route. We ended up splitting up and agreeing that whoever found the route would have to make a whole lot of noise to let the rest of us know which way to go. It worked and eventually we had all found our way onto the course again. That little detour had taken a good 45 minutes from start to finish, but at least I was where I needed to be now.

  We reached the first checkpoint, at which stage some of that group had had enough and dropped out. I knew how they felt, I have to admit. I could easily have joined them. That big detour, coupled with the nagging pain in my Achilles, had me feeling pretty low. I thought about giving up, but I carried on and just slowed down to a gentler pace. I chatted with some of the other runners who were struggling too and tried to encourage them. It always helps to focus on others, to try to help them out. Then the sky cleared a little and there were rainbows and amazing scenery to see, which lifted my mood. I was suffering but I was in one piece.

  I came across a grand hall at one point and wandered in. They seemed to be preparing for a big party and there was loads of food around. I was starving and they let me have a few bits to eat. I felt better after that and continued on, only to get lost one more time, in the second half of the race.

  Some 15 hours 17 minutes after starting out, I dragged myself over the finish line. According to my GPS, all those off-route detours I’d taken had added an extra 12 miles to the 48 miles I was supposed to be running. Nothing like doing things the easy way, then.

  Ben Thornton was waiting for me at the finish to give me a lift to the next race. He looked concerned. He wasn’t the only one – my leg was hurting really badly and I couldn’t disguise my limp.

  ‘What took you so long?’ he asked.

  ‘We can talk on the way,’ I said.

  I said my goodbyes and we got in the car to head off. It was around midnight and we had a seven-hour road and ferry trip ahead of us to get to the Isle of Wight. I got into the back of the car and curled up under a blanket to get warm. My leg was in agony, but I chatted to Ben for a while. After an hour or so, I drifted off into some kind of sleep. It wasn’t very comfy back there, but I was tired enough to sleep on the roof rack by then.

  That road trip ended up taking almost eight hours in the end, what with waiting for a ferry at Southampton. We stopped off at a McDonald’s at one point to get some burgers, fries and chips, with lots of extra mayonnaise – and a chocolate milkshake. I’d been drinking energy drinks in the car, too, so I thought I was pretty well replenished.

  We arrived at the Isle of Wight marathon just in time to register with the other runners. We got underway and, though I was tired and in pain, I’d eaten enough to have some energy. I ended up finishing in a little under five hours, which wasn’t bad considering I had a limp in my stride. It was one of those just-get-through-it marathons that was difficult to enjoy, but I coped OK. A guy called Ian Culton went past me at mile 17 and then doubled back to see how I was. I must have looked a mess, because he was concerned enough to stay with me for the last nine miles to help me get around. So he sacrificed his race for me as we took 90 minutes to complete the course after reaching the 20-mile mark. What can I say about that? Except thanks, though it barely seems enough, but his gesture was typical of what you see all the time in marathons.

  I was grateful to have survived another busy weekend. I was still in the game, though I knew my body wasn’t in the best of shapes. I didn’t let on to anyone just how tough it had been, and kept up the pretence that everything was fine. I was probably trying to convince myself as much as anyone else. I went to bed many nights certain that would be it, and I wouldn’t want to carry on the next morning, but every time I awoke, I felt more encouraged. I knew if I could just get myself to that start line then I would make it around. So I kept going, wondering deep down how long I could keep this up. It went on like that for a while.

  And on and on. Especially as another major problem was about to strike us.

  The following week was perhaps the hardest I’d faced to that point. Luckily, I had physio and massage to help me recover from the weekend’s exertions, and I had the time to get some rest now I wasn’t working. But that wasn’t the problem. It was my finances. Without an income, I just couldn’t afford to keep paying the bills and rent on our flat in Isleworth.

  Graciously, Ali and Lorna invited us to stay with them. Indefinitely, Ali had said. I was incredibly grateful, but I didn’t like it at the same time. Joanna and Buddy needed a home of their own, and I was supposed to provide that. Initially, I didn’t want us to leave our home, but Joanna and Ali were convinced it was the right thing to do and persuaded me. I felt like I was letting them down, but I couldn’t see another solution other than to accept the Parkeses’ gene
rous offer. Joanna got on with it, thankfully. She could have kicked up a fuss, but she didn’t. I hoped Ali and Lorna and their kids, Shaun, Sophie and Calum, wouldn’t mind having another family in their midst for a while.

  On a brighter note, that week also led up to my 200th marathon/ultra on 17 October, followed by my birthday the next day. Finishing my 200th marathon on the Friday morning was a big moment for me. I was over halfway there now and, apart from a sore leg, I was in good shape. What I hadn’t counted on, though, was the birthday party at Ali’s house that night.

  I’d never had a birthday party before. Ali knew that from previous conversations, so it was touching of him to organise one for me. There were loads of people there, most of the MMUK team of willing volunteers, physios, masseuses, web designers, taxi drivers and so on – the list is long and distinguished. They were good friends and the sort of people you’d want on your side in a crisis – or at a party for that matter. I don’t really enjoy situations where the attention is on me, so it was a bit of a strange night, but I was really touched by all the kindness people were showing me and I hoped I looked like I was having a good time, at least.

  I had a couple of tough runs in the schedule for that weekend: the Trailscape North race in Essex on the Saturday and the Ennerdale 50km race in Cumbria on the Sunday. After the dramas the previous week in the Lake District, the one thing I knew I didn’t want to do was get lost again. But, soon after the klaxon sounded for the beginning of the race, that was exactly what I did.

  It was a really tough diehard trail marathon in challenging conditions, even without making things worse. The course was soaked through from the heavy rainfall of the previous week and it took us through never-ending muddy fields that were like treacle, while massive puddles dotted the course. We were all filthy and in need of a change of clothes after the first couple of miles. Then everyone started getting lost. I was in a big group and we all managed to go in the wrong direction, somehow. I think someone must have turned one of the signposts around, otherwise I don’t see how it could have happened.

  We were lost in an isolated part of Essex. It took an age for us to find our way back to the course. By now I recognised that I wasn’t very useful at the navigation, so I left that to the rest of the group and just stood there laughing about it. I couldn’t help it, and I’m not sure everyone felt the same as me. Eventually, we did find the course again. After that it was OK; my leg wasn’t too bad and I finished in a little under five-and-a-half hours. Considering my GPS said I had run as far as 33 miles, I was quite pleased, but I really needed to ensure I wasn’t making things even harder for myself.

  Then I headed up to the Lake District again for the Ennerdale 50k ultra race. A couple of trains later, I was in a Chinese takeaway getting some food before my last connection, a train to Whitehaven. I took the chance to post a silly message on Facebook to say I was heading to the Ennerdale campsite and if you were up there and saw someone putting up a tent very badly, not to worry as that would be me.

  On the train, a group of about seven women got on and sat in the seats around me. Maybe they could smell my food, but they all started talking about how hungry they all were. I’d planned to eat my takeaway in my tent in Ennerdale but, of course, I offered to share my food with the hungry girls, and we were soon chatting away and munching down on my chow mein and special fried rice.

  It was late now and the carriage became increasingly packed with people who’d had a few drinks on their Saturday night out. There was singing and people falling over and laughing. Fortunately, I was surrounded by these women, who appeared to be the most sober ones on there, apart from me (and hopefully the driver). I wanted to keep to myself as I was tired, but someone recognised me, and soon I was being interrogated about my running.

  When I got off at Whitehaven, I heard a woman calling out my name and feared it might be one of the girls asking me to join them, but it turned out to be Barbara Nelson. She and her husband Pete were followers of mine on Facebook and Pete was running at Ennerdale too, in the 25km event. Barbara had messaged me a few days earlier to offer me a place to stay before the race. I hadn’t replied because I was a bit shy, but they had seen my post earlier that evening and they knew I’d be on that train, so they came down to fetch me. Of course, I accepted their offer. I was really grateful to spend a night in the warm, in their beautiful home. It was yet another moment of kindness from the marathon-running community.

  The next day came and the race itself was spectacular. I got around the 50km course in a little over five hours, finishing tenth overall, so I was pleased at how my battered and bruised body was holding up. I had the feeling things were getting better again, and that I had got past a difficult patch and I was back on track.

  I was given a lift back to a train station, but by now I was really hungry, so I went to a McDonald’s and got 12 hamburgers and two apple pies. On the train home, I started going through the burgers one by one. I ate ten of them! I couldn’t manage the last two, so I gave them away, but I still made room for those apple pies. I was in agony for the rest of the trip, but at least I felt full.

  The following week went smoothly. Living with Ali and his family was working out OK. They seemed happy enough having us to stay, and Joanna and Buddy were enjoying themselves. It was nice for Buddy to have other children around, and Joanna had some willing babysitters on hand, which gave her a break now and again. From my perspective, I was relieved I didn’t have to worry about them, as I didn’t have the energy for it at that stage. Despite my ten burgers, I was noticeably leaner by this stage, as my body had become honed by all the races I’d run, so my times were a bit quicker than usual too that week.

  For the final weekend in October, I was booked to run three official races, starting with the Beachy Head marathon on the south coast on the Saturday. On Sunday I would run the Leicester marathon before catching a flight to Ireland for the Dublin marathon on the Monday. It was going to be a long weekend of planes, trains and automobiles.

  The Beachy Head marathon has a reputation as a very hilly and challenging course. They were very clear it was not one for first timers. My friend Johnny, who had dragged me out of bed and taken me to the Enigma marathon back in August, had agreed to drive me there. He planned to spend the time with his wife and two children at the beach while I was running the race.

  Both Johnny and his wife, Ceri, had been inspired enough by me to begin training for a marathon, but it was still early days for them. The furthest they had run at that point was a 10km race, and they planned to gradually build up to a full marathon by the end of the year. It was a sensible plan, but I did not think it was very ambitious. All that week, I had tried to persuade Johnny to run the Beachy Head marathon with me. I was sure he could do it, but he didn’t agree. So instead I worked on Ceri and managed to persuade her to run the 10km event that day.

  When we got to the race HQ, I told Ceri I would go in and register her for her race, and get her number, but they had no more places left for that event. However, there were a few places for the full marathon, so I registered her for that instead. When I gave Ceri her race number, she asked if it was definitely for the 10km race.

  ‘For a short run, yes,’ I said.

  So she went off to get changed. While she was away, I told Johnny what I’d done; he was certain I was for it when she found out. ‘You’d better watch it,’ he warned me. ‘She’s not going to be happy.’

  By the time Ceri returned from changing, she’d worked out what I’d done. She looked really flustered and not at all amused. ‘You’ve entered me for the bloody full marathon, Rob!’

  Ceri was adamant that she wouldn’t run it. I told her she’d be fine, that she could always drop out if it got too nasty, and how she might be surprised by how fit she was. Full credit to her, she decided to give it a go. I ran the first 10km with her and she was moving well. I left her at that stage and hoped she’d manage to get all the way round.

  They weren’t wrong in warning us about
the event – it was a tough race all right, around the clifftops, with lots of hills to get over. When I finished I was concerned about what I’d got her into, and realised it had probably been a bit irresponsible of me to push her into it. Eventually though, a little over six hours after starting, Ceri came into view. What a moment! She was dead on her feet when she crossed the line, but she had done it.

  It just goes to show that we are capable of so much more

  than we think. If we will only push ourselves, we might be surprised by what’s there. Completing a marathon for the first time can give someone so much confidence. Admittedly, Ceri did give me a hefty punch on the arm at the end of the race, which wasn’t very nice, but maybe I deserved it.

  I said my goodbyes and left them so I could catch a train up to Leicester, where I stayed with one of my best mates, John. It was good to unwind at his home that evening before running the Leicester marathon the next day. I ran quite well there. After that it was off to Birmingham to catch a flight to Dublin. I had arranged to meet up with some top ultra runners when I arrived. They had found me a place to stay that evening, so I was fully organised, which felt strange.

  The Dublin marathon was a good race for me personally, but many of the competitors struggled with it. I don’t know if they had been drinking the night before or if there was some bug going about, but a lot of people were violently sick and looked very ill at that event. It made me realise yet again what a big deal a marathon can be, and how it tests people to the limits.

  I’d become blasé about it all. By that stage, I’ll admit that usually when I finished a marathon I tended to think it was just another race completed, no big deal, but it’s clearly a huge thing to most, something they aspire to and celebrate like mad when they finish. I think I regained some respect for the distance after seeing the suffering people were going through that day to get over the line.