Keep on Running

by Phil Hewitt

  I started out with six gels, one in my hand, three wrapped around my arm with a headband and two down my shorts, none of which wanted to stay in place. I dropped two of them at various points and ended up carrying the rest, which wasn't particularly comfortable and meant plenty of fumbling, but at least I kept hold of them. I had the first at about 6 miles. I expect it helped. I had another gel at about the halfway mark and then another at about 20 miles and then most of the fourth at about 24 or 25 miles. Along with the gels, I was sipping water regularly, conscious that it was getting increasingly warm, but only in the sense that the warmth on my skin – after so many big-city soakings – was pleasurable and encouraging. It got hotter and hotter, but my reaction was simply relief that it wasn't cold.

  I was pleased to be inside the hour at the 8-mile mark, which is when I first started looking for Alistair, always a great supporter and always so adept at being in the right place at the right time. Eventually I saw him at about 10 miles, and then just after 11 miles I saw Fiona and Stella, which was great. The Cutty Sark earlier on had been a non-event, nothing visible of the ship behind the hoardings, not even the masts. It was undergoing some heavy restoration. Not long afterwards, it was almost destroyed by fire. So, given that the Cutty Sark had been no lift at all that day, it was great to have some support in the crowd.

  I continued to go well, still not tiring particularly. Mile 12 came in at about 1:27, soon after which we were on Tower Bridge. You turn a corner and there it is – a genuine highlight followed by a slight trough. I had forgotten that mile 13 is still a long way once you leave Tower Bridge. But it was around about here that Rob touched me on the shoulder and said 'Hi!' I replied, but I felt the need to push on. I didn't want to be third out of our little running trio if I could help it, so I gave in to the urge to keep going.

  Looking back, it's clear that just having Rob and Nick there sharpened my competitive edge, but running is like that. If you sense any kind of incentive, you can't resist trying to turn it to your advantage – and Rob's friendly 'Hi!' was effectively a spur at a time of need. I passed the halfway mark at 1:36.

  I had been steeling myself, from past experience, for the fact that the first section after the halfway mark is really boring, but it wasn't too bad at all this time. The uninspiring little alley that they used to take you through is no longer on the course. Instead it is much more major roads all the way through, and soon we were in Docklands. I had put my MP3 player on just after the half, and around mile 14 or 15 I discovered the delights of running to Dire Straits' 'Walk of Life', a terrific song to run to which I played twice, tried to play again and then lost. Instead, I had three-quarters of an hour of Oasis, again terrific running music.

  Docklands is a place where you seem to be weaving in and out and just making up distance, but the support here was strong, almost oppressively so. We were doing it a different way round this time, apparently, all part of the changes brought about by no longer going over the cobbles at the Tower of London, or so a chap had explained to me on the train on the way to the start.

  But still, I was feeling good. I choked a little and coughed painfully on the Lucozade at 15 miles in a little lapse of concentration, but at least the miles were still going up steadily. I was rapidly chipping into the second half, and I was pleased when I crossed 16 miles with something like two or three minutes to go to the two-hour mark – seriously good progress. I was running at more than 8 miles an hour at this point. Ten miles to go and I had about 1 hour 18 minutes to do it in if I was going to do 3:15, 1 hour 23 if I was going to do 3:20. Again, I make no apologies about citing the times. It was the way I motivated myself – however anorak-ish it might seem in the cold light of day.

  For me, all that mattered was that the times were stacking up nicely, and I was becoming increasingly hopeful of achieving a PB. All was going according to plan – so much so that I wasn't actually bothering to look at the 3:20 pace band I was wearing. The novelty of pace bands had worn off by now. In fact, I was starting to dislike using them. If you are going well, you can get by without them. If you're not, the gutter is the only place for them. I don't think they can lift you, but I know they can bring you down.

  I don't remember much about miles 16 to 20. They were uneventfully steady, but I was certainly glad to see mile 20. From about 16, I was imagining running to Wickham and back, a 10-mile route from home. At 20 miles, my mind was on the hill just past McCarthy's, a roadside fruit and veg shop I could picture so well from countless training runs. I was feeling fine, especially when I reached 22, effectively the start of the long home straight. Here the support was amazing. By now it has always built to the deafening crescendo which it stays at until the end of the race. My own personal soundscape at that moment was George Harrison singing 'My Sweet Lord', an inspirational song which it was easy to tap into.

  I was in control, and I was going strong with 3 miles to go. I was looking forward to seeing the Thames, and soon we were running alongside it. It seemed to me that we joined it a little later than in previous years, which probably wasn't the case. I suspect I'd just got it into my head that I mustn't be deceived by my first sight of Big Ben and so started to misjudge distance. In the event, the confusion worked to my advantage. I was further along than I thought – and that in itself helped me to run strongly.

  With the crowds roaring, with the music helping (The Stones, Paul Weller, plus an extended stretch of Bad Company), I kept on keeping on and was staggered at about 24 miles when Nick tapped me on the shoulder and said 'hello'. He looked like he was struggling. It was a big surprise, and just as with Rob at the halfway mark, it was the trigger to a competitiveness I probably hadn't completely unleashed in previous marathons. I had just assumed that Nick would be well ahead by now. And, even after seeing him, I assumed he'd soon pick up pace and pass me by, gliding Nick-like to the finish. He didn't.

  In the event, Nick came in a couple of minutes behind me. But just seeing him was crucial to my finish, opening up the prospect of something I had never dreamt of. Never for a moment had I imagined I could beat Nick. Once he was behind me, it was one hell of a spur to keep going at a point when you need every spur you can get. Nick's struggle helped me surge.

  Twenty-four miles came up in about 3:02, so sadly the big target had slipped. It was clear that 3:15 wasn't on. But – and here's a sign that the marathon was going well – I was sufficiently compos mentis to do some rapid recalculations. I needed to be within nine minutes a mile to come in sub-3:20 – an easy enough calculation to make, of course, but not the kind of number-juggling which is generally within my reach at this stage of a marathon. But this time, the number crunching urged me on. Going along Birdcage Walk, I was still thinking that sub-3:20 was on.

  Sadly, any time in hand I had just wasn't enough in the end. It evaporated. You turn and then you turn again before you reach the home straight, and I guess that's where the time went. I expect I was still just about sub-3:20 when I saw Buckingham Palace, but those precious seconds trickled away from me. I came in at 3:20:25.

  As so often, I wobbled and was supported by a marshal for a while before leaning against some railings. My recovery was rapid. It was the emotion of the moment that caused the wobble, and when it passed, it was clear that I wasn't in bad shape at all. I was wandering around imagining I was worse than I was before I realised that I was actually fine – the point at which I could start beating myself up about the time I had just done.

  My best marathon. But probably the one I was quickest to criticise. Annoyingly, I was just over something rather than just under something, just over 3:20 rather than 3:19 something. Was it good enough? I look back on it now and I am impressed. Seriously impressed. But at the time, the doubts soon set in. Which was probably a good thing. I guess if they hadn't, I wouldn't still be doing marathons now.

  My aim had been to complete the course in under 3:20; the outside hope had been to do under 3:15 and so be 'good for my age'. In the event, I did neither, but there were plent
y of pluses. 3:20:25 was – and remains – my fastest-ever marathon, beating Paris 2006 by nearly a minute and a half. My placing of 2,528th out of more than 36,000 runners was very respectable indeed. By 6.45 p.m., 35,674 runners had crossed the finish in the Mall, a London Marathon record at the time by more than 400 people. And that's a figure that puts me in the top seven per cent on the day – a position reflected in the fact that I really didn't suffer at all, despite having run in very high temperatures at the end of a very hot week.

  On the back of turning it around in La Rochelle, this was the London where it all went right, where none of those last-half agonies dragged me down, where marathon running on one glorious day was the easiest it will ever be. I was only 79 seconds quicker than my previous fastest marathon, and it was hugely annoying not to break 3:20. But even I had to admit that, on the whole, the positives outweighed the negatives. It was boiling hot, the hottest London Marathon ever, and yet I didn't run into any serious discomfort. Instead, I did my best time ever, beat both Nick and Rob and finished 33 minutes quicker than I had ever run London before.

  So what was I complaining about? Nothing really. A healthy dose of discontent is simply the natural state for a runner who hasn't run his final race.

  Chapter Thirteen: 'Paint It Black'

  When You Just Shouldn't Run – Berlin 2007

  Hindsight, great thing that it is, makes me look back moderately fondly on the Amsterdam and Dublin Marathons. However much I love to hate them, I still love them grudgingly, just a little bit. Berlin – in October 2007 – was an altogether different kind of experience, one that makes me shiver even now whenever I think about it.

  My marathon-running career has been remarkably free from injury provided I change my running shoes fairly promptly once my knees start aching. I also have to transfer across to the new shoes the little inserts which correct, to a degree, my bandy legs. Decent shoes and a little bit of in-shoe support have kept me running through the years, for which I am eternally grateful.

  However, it's not just about the aches and the pains, the twists and the stresses. It's also about the sniffs and the snuffles, and when they hit you, there's really not much you can do about it. Marathons are set up to make sure you run only if you are fit; London Marathon places are much prized things, but the organisers really, really, really don't want you to attempt it if you aren't fit, and they will do everything they can to put you off. They don't want you keeling over any more than you want to – and they do all they can to encourage you to be pragmatic in the face of illness. If you're not well, you simply post off your postponement form before the race starts and you get your place back the following year. You shouldn't risk yourself, and the London Marathon organisers don't want you to either. Pulling out couldn't be simpler – and, in the vast majority of cases, effectively it's a decision made for you by the nature of your injury.

  But colds are something else altogether, putting you in the shall-I-shan't-I middle ground where doing the sensible thing isn't always the easiest thing. Well, not if you are me. Berlin was a case in point. After the usual three or four months training, after all those long, tedious, Sunday stamina runs, I succumbed to a heavy cold a week or so before we were due to fly out to Germany. Common-sense runners take their vitamin C all the year round; I never get round to it until two or three weeks before the race, if at all, and then I simply hope for the best.

  However, for my autumn marathon of 2007, hoping wasn't enough. I was a snuffling, hacking wreck; dosed up, spluttering and shivering. Had the marathon been in the UK, I like to think I would have thrown in the towel and never even started. But Berlin had been on the horizon for months. I was to fly out with Michael and with Rob. We were all going to run it. It was our great adventure, three lads together for a weekend away.

  From 2006 to 2007, I was in the running form of my life, consistently pulling off marathons which reflected well on my ability, especially given the fact that I was juggling training with my job and home life. Berlin offered itself as an alluring next chapter. More than ever, by now, running had become a quest for the new, and Berlin, traditionally flat and fast, appealed to all three of us as we contemplated our invasion of Germany.

  Sadly, a few weeks before our departure, the three had been reduced to two when Rob couldn't ignore any longer the serious knee pains which eventually meant surgery. Gamely, though, tickets booked and paid for, he decided to come along anyway. Michael too was suffering. He was recovering from an injured ankle but intended to run just within the time limit, the point at which the organisers reopened the roads. Our trip seemed ill-fated before we even started.

  And then it was my turn. With ten days to go, I started to feel ropey in a different way; heavy, lethargic, dull-headed and snotty. However, bloody-mindedness kicked in. To an extent, I was influenced by Rob's enforced abandonment. As the week of the marathon dawned, I was damned if I was going to allow cascading snot and aching limbs to reduce our gang of three just to one injured septuagenarian. I thought of all the hours spent training and I resolved to run through the pain barrier.

  Oddly, on the Thursday and Friday, my cold lifted, but on arrival in Berlin on the Saturday, I was feeling worse again – worse than I let on. I was coughing; I felt feverish; and I felt the time had come to add another act of gross stupidity to my roll call of marathon debacles. Starting too quickly in Amsterdam had been an error of judgement easily made. Running 20 miles in a bin bag in Dublin had been idiocy on a grand scale. Now it was time to run while palpably unfit – the daftest crime of all.

  Berlin had been a pleasant discovery on the Saturday afternoon, but, as seemed par for the course on my big-city marathons, the weather deteriorated as the day wore on. We explored a super-chic shopping arcade and emerged to discover that the rain which had been threatening all afternoon was now coming down in torrents. Continuing along the road we ran into the crowds gathering along the marathon route, waiting for the late-afternoon roller-skating marathon. It was exhilarating stuff to watch as the skaters sped by, the puddles growing ever greater and the splashes ever higher as the skaters zoomed through them. It was not a particularly good omen, though. Not least, it was unwelcome exposure to the elements in my fragile state, and by now I was feeling decidedly sorry for myself.

  As it happened, the marathon morning dawned bright, but by then the damage had been done – a phrase I know I keep using, but the fact is there are so many points in a marathon from which there's just no coming back, and I had definitely passed one before I even reached the starting line in Berlin. Stubbornness is a vital weapon in the marathon runner's armoury, but there are times when it will count against you. If anyone had said, 'You mustn't run,' I know I would have ignored them.

  As you'd expect – if you like following the stereotypes – the start of the Berlin Marathon was excellently marshalled, and organised with the maximum efficiency to minimise the hassle for everyone concerned. The bag deposit was easy and obvious, and there was plenty of room to hang around in comfort as we waited for the off, just to the west of the Brandenburg Gate, a few hundred metres from the Reichstag – buildings rich in history and, on any other day, doubtless magnificently inspiring.

  We were gathering in the shadow of places which had shaped the destiny of Europe, and the Reichstag was certainly imposing, just to our left – an immense, brooding presence from which so much had so fatefully emanated. We were in the heart of what had once been Third Reich Germany. Now it was the heart of a confident, reunified Germany – a Germany which was in itself an astonishing achievement. In 1986, for my finals in French and German at university, I had been given ten minutes to prepare a speech to a couple of be-gowned dons on whether Wiedervereinigung was possible, let alone desirable; five years later, reunification actually happened. To those of us brought up in an era of cold war, the speed – and indeed the success – was mind-boggling.

  But that counts for little when you are mentally wading through snot.

  Michael and I bade each other
'farewell' and 'good luck' and set off for our respective starting pens, but already I had a bad feeling. After all the rain of the day before, the weather was just perfect for running, fresh and invigorating, but I was starting to sweat and shiver before we had even started – which was all the more galling for the fact that the race offered a splendid opening kilometre or two, straight onto wide roads which allowed us to spread and find our own pace quickly. Within minutes, we were racing through the Tiergarten towards the Siegessäule, one of the city's great landmarks, an impressive column, 69 metres tall, featuring a statue of Berlin's 'golden girl' on top.

  We were on the move, and it was straight, fast running on a course known for its speed. Turning right at Ernst-Reuter-Platz, we headed towards Alt-Moabit for a stretch, which took us deep into the old East Berlin before we headed south again for a huge loop south-west of the city centre, which eventually took us back to the start.

  To begin with, things went well, and I enjoyed that usual off-the-leash sensation of running strongly while the early kilometres slipped past nicely, but all the time I was conscious that I was sweating far too much. I tried to compensate by taking on extra fluid. I knew I absolutely had to, but by about 5 to 6 kilometres, my stomach was sloshing unpleasantly and uncomfortably. I had reached a kind of saturation point, and yet still I sweated. I tried to drink, but it simply made me feel worse, and I started to remember all the tales of the dangers of hyponatremia or 'water intoxication', the potentially fatal condition which can result from the consumption of excess water. Apparently, it's a condition which has become increasingly prevalent as more and more people have taken up endurance sports.