Joining the back of the Lisbon Marathon start line at 8:30 am after not running for 3 whole weeks, taking the equivalent of 6 Immodiums and still with a bit of a sniffle from that stupid cold was not exactly ideal.  But damned if I wasn’t going to run it anyway.

I had been training for this for months.  Thinking about it for longer.  Talking about it frequently and to anyone who was in my general vicinity for long enough.  Hell, I even started this blog about it.  My Mum and friend Andy had flown over to support us.  I had coerced my loving and supportive boyfriend through miles of Oxfordshire countryside.  I had put hours into planning routes, nutrition, recovery, the whole trip.  I had missed meet-ups and events and weekend LAY INS to fit the training in. So yes.  Barring a natural disaster, kidnapping or being dead – I was running this damned thing.  Even if I had to drag myself on hands and knees across that finish line – though of course I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

I was originally hoping to run it in about 5 hours and 15 minutes.  In my more optimistic moods I was secretly hoping for less than 5 hours.  Today I held no such illusions.  Today I just wanted finish before the roads were reopened.  That meant I had to run 42 K, 26.2 miles, in 6 hours.  Barely more than a Londoners brisk walk – and yet – somehow a lot more painful.

I was not in a good mood.  I was not in a bad mood either, just feeling a bit nauseous with a bubbly tummy and resigned to my fate.  I wish I could write that I loved every second of it.  That it was a joyous experience but that wasn’t true.  I was in a kind of stoic running bubble – set, determined, yes, but also not really connecting with the moment.  I passed beautiful Portuguese coastline and quaint fishing villages and sometimes dramatic castles and old town fortifications without as much as a glance.  I just kept thinking of how much further I had to go.  Of how unprepared I was.  Of how much this was going to hurt.

Andreas’ attempts to lighten the spirit fell on deaf ears.  At 5 K in Andreas asked if I could go a little bit faster, which earnt him a glare and a stroppy ‘no!’ At 10 K in Andreas tried to make small talk about the view which earnt him a grunt.  At 14 K in I was hoping to see my Mum and Andy who were going to catch us up by car but I didn’t see them and my mood fell darker still.  At 18 K Andreas saw a dog with shaggy long ears perched on a doorstep next to a beer bottle that gave the illusion of a dreadlocked guy totally chilling out and Andreas wanted to tell me about it – but he never got the chance because when he tapped me on the shoulder I barked ‘What!?!’ at him.  I didn’t know what was wrong with me.  And Andreas decided – wisely – to give me some space by accelerating off.  Of course as soon as he was out of shouting distance I missed him immensely.  As he bounced elegantly away I don’t know how to say, but, I imagined our whole relationship unravelling and began to sob uncontrollably.  For 3 kilometres.  Even after catching up with him.

Don’t get me wrong – I was prepared for the marathon to be emotional, I had after all got all choked up towards the end of the Liverpool Half – but I wasn’t expecting to get upset at only 18 K in!  In retrospect I think I was overwhelmed.  18 K wasn’t even HALF WAY.  18 K was like, the warm up, and there were MILES to go before we were even CLOSE to finishing.  Okay, my legs didn’t hurt.  And despite crying for 3 kilometres I still didn’t feel particularly tired – although boy did it hurt later!  In the end it was a stranger who cheered me up.  An elderly Portuguese lady who (I kid you not) had spent the first 10 K chatting on the phone.  She grabbed my hand demanding in emphatic foreign “força força”.  The message was clear, no need to cry, just get on with it, you’ll be alright, let’s go!  And so I did.

By the time I met up with my Mum and Andy at 25 K I was back to feeling normal and emotionally balanced.  I could appreciate the views and the fact that the weather was co-operating and the warmth and support of all the people who had turned up to spectate.  Life was good.  And I felt great…

I suppose it is not without a strong sense of irony that as soon as I got my shit together mentally my body started falling apart.  28 K in and my calves – usually the first spot to go – started to ache.  Not too bad you might think – but there is still 14 K to go.  I try stretching.  I gobble energy gels.  I swish water about.  But, nope, that pain is not going.  Andreas isn’t looking much better.  He makes a speech “Kerry, I had a good run.” (He is Greek so it hard to tell if he meant this pun or not).  “But I am not going to make it back alive.  Tell my parents I loved them, that it wasn’t their fault.  Take care of my niece.  Tell my brother… I blame him for everything.”  It is good to joke again.

We reach Lisbon (30 K in) and the city is a nice change from the view of the river.  Cobbled streets.  Endearing architecture.  People cheering you on.  The gentle rain that starts to fall is a welcome relief, a cooling mist on our faces.  I was actually enjoying myself.  A bit cautious of slipping and of getting lost – because we were obviously the dregs of the race and the path wasn’t so clear without someone to follow around the town square – but nonetheless I felt good.  If I could just keep this up I might even make it before 6 hours have passed.  Of course then I notice the rumble of a motorised vehicle and risk a look behind to see a race marshal on a scooter behind us.  I look at Andreas, Andreas looks at me.  The thought passes between us that this guy – Mr Scooter – might actually be The End.  Like – The End, The End and if we fall behind him, it might be game over.  “Sorry kids, but better luck next year.  Go directly to Jail.  Do not pass Go.”  Andreas jokes but the humour doesn’t quite reach his eyes and the engine noise remains ominously close, like the worlds slowest (and most pathetic) getaway chase.  It turns out I could run faster after all!  Eventually we overtake some other runners and Mr Scooter fades away.

The last 10 K was by far the bleakest section.  Not just physically, as you might have predicted, but also in terms of surroundings.  Lisbon had obviously run out of convenient pretty places and so we were now running along the main road of an endless industrial estate.  You couldn’t see the river anymore for shipping crates and dismal warehouses.  And whilst I was grateful for the overcast sky it wasn’t doing any favours for the abandoned dystopian town we now found ourselves in.  The only people were waiting forlornly at bus stops impatiently checking their watches and clearly hoping for the roads to reopen soon.  However, since I had done my crying earlier, I was looking at the positives.  For example; one benefit of coming through so late was that the water stations were now giving out entire Powerade bottles.  Cool I thought, I’ll distract my calves with that.

We were progressing okay, even overtaking people but we were suffering with an ongoing problem.  Namely that Andreas and I run naturally at different speeds.  At my slowest I am only barely faster than Andreas’ walk (he works in London after all).  Which means he was continually pulling ahead and having to wait for me because running at my pace is hard on his knees.  I’ve known about this problem before – everybody comments when they see us running together.  Andreas has long bouncing strides whereas I take many shorter steps to cover the same ground.  Imagine a penguin attempting to keep up with an ostrich and you will have something similar to our current predicament.  Over short distances it’s not a problem but today we are running a marathon and our differences in running style are only exaggerated.  So when Andreas finally tries walking next to me at 38 K and actually, he is kind of keeping up – I am so disheartened my motivation fails me and I end up walking too.  My calves are on fire.  My feet are beyond sore.  My arms ache.  I have run out of Powerade and to be honest I am feeling a little nauseous from the high amount of sugar I have consumed to get here.  My knees are throbbing.  I am 4 K from the end, if I have to, I can walk to the finish.

Time passes and some of the people we had previously overtaken are now claiming their places back.  Andreas is looking like hell next to me and I am feeling guilty for holding him back.  If he was running alone he could have finished hours ago.  I am feeling sorry for myself in a big way and walking is so slow and still incredibly painful.  Eventually, about 800 m down the road, I think Hell with this.  It’s about 3 K to the end and if we run we actually stand a chance of finishing within the 6 hours.  So basically I suck it up and plod on.  No, it didn’t get any easier, yes it was still painful but I wasn’t going to walk across the finish line – or be dragged across face first by Andreas – I was here to run, so in the words of an awesome Portuguese seniorita, força força!

Eventually, grudgingly it seems, the finish line comes into sight.  Spectators have been growing in number and whilst most are people just generally milling about they do perk up as we near, clapping, cheering, snapping photos and so it’s not so terrible these final miles after all. Andreas holds my hand, I pick out Mum and Andy in the crowd (cheering ten times more enthusiastically than the rest), I can see that yes, we will be less than 6 hours after all and I try to smile though at this point it may be more like a grimace.  All that is left of these 26.2 miles is a few meters, a few steps and at last the suffering is over, our reluctant bodies successfully cross the line and we can stop!

05:54:06 – not a great time.  I can’t say I felt elated at finishing – I am dazed and quite possibly dehydrated.  We are handed magnum ice creams and our medals and goodie bags.  We pose for some pictures and it is kind of a blur.  I don’t have this feeling that I can’t believe I just did that – it’s not confidence or arrogance – it’s because my body won’t let me forgot.  I am a wreck of sore everything so there is no room to doubt that I just (mostly) ran a marathon.  And worse is the feeling that I already want to run another one – because I can do better than just shy of 6 hours.

Of course all things considered, 6 hours or not, it is still no small achievement just to finish the damned thing. 42.2 K, 26.2 miles – that is no light jog – it is a significant feat of endurance which few people attempt and not everyone finishes – so we can be proud on that.  Still, there is a bitterness too, I let the pressure at the beginning take my enjoyment out of it, I didn’t train as much as I wanted and my time suffered – hence why, even though I won’t be able to walk properly for the next week and my whole body aches like nothing I have felt before, I already have the burning desire to run it again.

Week 16: Total Run Distance: 42.2 K (26.2 miles). Total Running Time 5:54:06

It turns out that if you have a cold – like the kind that comes on suddenly, gives you fever, terrible headaches and tremendous pain upon swallowing so bad that you end up shoving a tea towel under your face to catch your drool so you can actually get some sleep – then you should probably not run a half marathon.

Alas, this was not advice I had received before The Nottingham Half Marathon that I ran with my brother.  Of course I am stubborn enough that honestly you probably could not have imparted that wisdom on me anyway.  I had paid my entry fee (not cheap) and I already had the merchandise (t-shirts) and I wanted to be there with my brother.  Google said that so long as I didn’t push it and remained well hydrated – I would probably be fine.  And that is what I did.  I took it easy.  I wasn’t out of breath once.  My legs didn’t hurt at all.  The whole thing was a breeze.  Totally nailed it.  Only my body, surprisingly, didn’t thank me.

The following day my legs hurt.  And the day after.  And the day after.  And the day after that.  Basically the following week my legs still hurt from that half marathon.  To put in perspective, my legs were perfectly fine the day after I ran 20 miles.  20 miles!  Clearly energy was being diverted elsewhere.

In a scientific way, I can appreciate the human body’s prioritisation of tasks.  We’ll repair these damaged muscles later once we’ve contained that damned virus.  I can even be a little bit impressed by it – biology in action so to speak.  Of course that doesn’t make my suffering any easier.  And in the meantime my throat is raw from the persistent cough I have developed.  And my nose is flaky and red from constantly having to blow it.  And my face is probably stuffed full of cotton wool which is the only way to explain this sodden, bunged up feeling and pressure behind my eyes.  And my ears have a permanent ringing noise for background accompaniment.  And who knew one person could generate so much mucus?  And what kind of moron runs a half marathon whilst being sick?

Yep, that would be me.

So in summary I have not run in a while.

And I am a bit worried about the Marathon.

Weeks 14 & 15: Total Run Distance: 0, zero, zip, none at all!