The Post-Run Rundown

As the time listed officially on the website and the time I got from my Garmin are four minutes apart, I don’t want to even hazard a guess to the ACTUAL time it took me to run the marathon, but I’m going to err on the conservative side and use my gun time of 4:52:50.

I wasn’t aiming for any particular time, and at times during the race I doubted that a finish was even possible, but I’ve gotta say that I’m relieved I got in under 5 hours. That summarises my mental state, ever since i crossed the finish line.

RELIEF.

I am so glad that it’s over. I’ve never encountered anything as difficult or emotional in my entire life.

I started the race nervous and not particularly warmed up, pulling out my iPod pretty much the moment I crossed the start line to provide some necessary distraction. As usual, I found myself pulled along by the crowd for the first couple of kilometres before I reined myself in, realising that a large proportion of the crowd was running at their half marathon pace, not their marathon pace. I settled for a 6:30km pace, as it seemed comfortable to me (but not too comfortable). For the first 21 km, I continued in this manner, pretty strong, pretty confident. I chatted to some other people, surprisingly. I enjoyed the scenery. And then, things got hard.

My left leg started to niggle at me at the halfway point, and I started to feel a little iffy despite having already consumed two gels (one at 10k, another at 18k or thereabouts). I had stopped at a public toilet somewhere along the way, but even that short respite hadn’t perked me up at all. I found myself counting down kilometre to kilometre, which is a bad habit to get into too early. The rain was relentless, and it was cold. More than anything, I wanted to stop and go home. I made it to the 28 km mark, where slower runners would be diverted along the bike paths after 3 hours. I missed the cut-off by less than 2 minutes. I was devastated. On the bike path along the lakeside, with minimal signage and a drastically reduced crowd, I felt like I was the only marathon runner left on the road. It was a dismal and depressing feeling.

At 31 km, I lost all the energy in my legs. My speed had been flagging for a couple of kilometres, increasing from 6:30 to 6:45, to 7:20. I hit the wall. I ran out of energy. I started crying, pulled out my phone. I wailed at Simon that I was done, I couldn’t run anymore, I had failed. He asked me if I was going to finish. I said I would try, but I couldn’t run. He told me he was proud of me, he told me he knew I could do it.

Somehow, I kept going. I had to walk, in short spurts, and when I ran my legs were like lead. But I kept going. When I made it to the final turn-around point, I could barely believe it. Somewhere along the way, another runner going in the other direction told me not to run again if I’d started walking, or at least that’s what it sounded like. But I couldn’t give up. I ran, then I walked, then when I got to the 41 km mark, I just ran.

Nothing can beat the feeling when I approached the finish line and I saw Simon, and my mum, and I knew it was over.

Even now, two days after finishing the race, everything hurts. This is a testament to how much strain my body was under. My legs scream at me every time I stand up, and the pain radiates from my neck, all the way down my body. Mystery bruises are everywhere. My right hip clicks when I move, my left knee does the same.

I’m heading out to get my marathon tattoo tomorrow. Hopefully my legs will be recovered enough by then that it’s not an unpleasant experience.

Then, I need to figure out what to aim for next. A triathlon? Another half? Another full? An ultra? Nah. Not an ultra. I’ll need to give it some thought.