We’re on the plane to Limassol. We are supposed to be running the Limassol half marathon on Sunday – but we’re not. Because I can’t run.
Last week, we emailed the organisers and asked if we could swap events to the 10k race. In this ever-changing sea of ‘revising my expectations’ (the word ‘revising’ being a handy euphemism for ‘lowering’), our thinking is that there is infinitely more likelihood of my running 10k (6.2 miles) than 21k (13.1 of the bastards.) This seems to be a reasonable conclusion to make, and, in line with the constant requirement for me to ‘revise my expectations’*, notice that the simple completion of said distance would be some achievement at this moment in time. We’re no longer discussing ‘going for a time’ (it was only 3 months ago that I achieved my 10k PB of 42.11. A lot can happen in 12 weeks.)
I’ve already processed as many thoughts as it’s possible to process around the why’s and how’s and the other myriad questions I have surrounding my inescapable and irrefutable loss of running. I’ve asked all the questions, and I’ve cried in frustration at the apparent lack of answers. I have none.
Did I push myself too hard, too soon, for too long? Yes, I did.
Did I balance my running with other activities to strengthen and support my body in allowing progressive overreaching, and yet prevent overtraining? No. Not really. Or at all, actually.
Did I rest adequately, making an effort to refuel properly after hard training sessions and races? No. I didn’t.
Did I race too much? Yes, I did.
Did running feed my demanding and incessant egotistical bastard inner chimp as it bounced up and down in front of me shouting “You’re still not good enough, or fast enough, or just… enough! TRY HARDER,” Yes. It did.
Did I manage to tame the bastard chimp as it bullied me into bashing out more miles and races than my body wanted to run? No. I didn’t.
The chimp won.
Is this the result? Yes. I’m pretty sure that it is.
So now, as I sit here in my airplane seat, my legs fizzing with unexplained, endless aches, I am on my way to a race that I can’t run.
Two guys sitting behind us are (purportedly) discussing all things running / training related. They’ve been talking shit whilst barely pausing for breath for the best part of two hours. Me and Gav sit with our headphone on. We’re not arsed about listening to music, only drowning out the dulcet Mancunian tones of Arsewipe in the row behind who’s intent on telling the entire plane about his *expert tips* for treadmill running. Except no one – including his poor travelling companion I would hazard a guess – gives even a tiny bit of a shit. I feel like telling him.
As we walked through the airport earlier today, I had flashbacks to some of our previous running adventures.
- Exploring Barcelona on broken legs the week after the Yorkshire Marathon in 2014 after a dream race and probably my greatest ever personal running achievement (after achieving a marathon PB of 3:16, we ran over 50 miles across Barcelona in the subsequent days. I ran on legs made of glass. How did I do that? I have no idea.)
- Running up hills in Font Romeu with ease on the best birthday I’ve ever had; discovering the Paula Radcliffe trail, and exploring 5k flat routes around Lake Matemale; spotting Mo Farah and watching him fly round the otherwise empty track at the Altitude Training Centre; Sitting down to watch him chat to Gav whilst inhaling an obscene Danish pastry (we had just run 12 miles…)
- Our 6 x half mile nauseating speed sets along the sea front in Mallorca, and the time Gav took the girls on a bus whilst I set off running alongside like a bat out of hell, to the fascination / amusement of the other passengers. “Is she really running into Porta Pollenca?” A mystified lady asked Gav. “ Yes she is,” he replied. It wasn’t a big deal at the time – only a part of mine – and our – normality. We just run: we just ran.
- Taking on the Dubai Marathon last January, and its endless highways. Still precisely how we managed it after a long-haul flight and a 2.30am get-up escapes me, but we did, and we emerged victorious over the 26.2 miles, whilst running under what felt like a repressive heat lamp with a dodgy thermostat.
They have all been a part of our running adventures. And yet, here we are on the plane to Limassol and I don’t even know if I can run anywhere, over any distance. Let alone enjoy it. And I continue to ask myself, how? And why? The tape begins to whirr yet again with the questions listed above. It’s on ‘random shuffle’ at least, which makes it marginally less mind numbing than it would otherwise be.
How will I cope? What will I do? How will I feel? What will this next few days be like? Why am I so melodramatic and egotistical? But why does it feel so real, and like something has been taken from me that I want back? How will Gav put up with me? Will I ruin his break? Will he wish we were running when I can only walk along like some youthful pensioner, ambling along the front without purpose? What about the hotel? Will it be swarming with keen, excitable marathon runners? Will they ask if we’re running on Sunday, and how can I respond without emotional trauma or flat-lining as though I’m a shell of a person who should have been there at the party, but wasn’t invited to this one?
Will we walk for miles? Will we cross train? Will the gym feel like some soulless pit that I have to crawl in to execute my cardiovascular training, whilst my heart pines to be outside, running by the sea? Will I spontaneously combust into frustrated tears on the sad recumbent bike, or will I feel happy that I’ve done SOME training, at least?
I simply don’t know. I’m becoming increasingly familiar with not knowing…
WE’VE WOKEN UP IN 1985. WHERE’S DOC? MARTY?
The place is a shit hole – I won’t lie. We discuss how it feels like we’re on board The Love Boat from 1988. People are wearing shell suits. I look up and see what I believe to be ‘Minge Topless Bar’ across the street, but the swirly, neon letters don’t quite work and it actually says ‘Mirage.’ Minge works far better.
We set off walking, and chatting. ‘Let’s walk a mile, then run a mile,’ Gav sensibly suggests, after we’ve allowed our eyes to adjust from BEIGE BLINDNESS.
‘Ok, but I can’t promise I can even ‘run’ for a mile,’ I respond, like a broken record. Every time I’ve tried to run over the past eight weeks it’s felt like my legs could burst into flames, my Achilles pop, and both calf muscles roll up to my knees like overly-keen kitchen blinds. ‘But I’ll try…’ I say, DESPERATE not to be in this state.
After a mile of walking and talking (mainly about the Minge bar), and having counted at least 35 diseased cats all slinking around the 1980s Love Boat set, we begin to jog. Not run – that’s too strong a word. We jog. I’m talking ten-minute-miles *no offence intended. It’s all relative…
One mile comes to an end, and I am a) (relatively) pleased to have completed one single, measly mile; and b) even more pleased to have stopped jogging.
We walk and talk again. ‘Why does the sand look like a badly tarmacked car-park?’ we ponder. A second mile commences, and – again – we jog. At the very least my legs will allow me this concession. They wouldn’t let me run 50 metres only a few weeks ago, at the sea front in St. Anne’s. Maybe they feel happier out here in the 80s?
This time, they feel slightly free-er, as though some clamp has been marginally loosened. For the first time in eight weeks I feel as though my body isn’t battling with me. GAV! MY LEGS ARE FEELING A BIT… LIGHTER… THEY’RE LETTING ME RUN! I shout to him, as I feel my pace pick up to more of a trot and less of a hobble.
‘That’s ACE, Rach!’ He shouts back, ‘But you’re still stopping after this mile.’
He’s right. I can’t get giddy about it.
When will I be back? I simply don’t know. I’m becoming increasingly familiar with not knowing…
*and in line with my constant revising of expectations, I decide I’m unable to put myself in to Sunday’s 10k race without risking further injury.
So, we’ve walked over 25 miles over the past two days, mainly tracksuit-spotting instead. It’s been ace.
It’s race day. Real-life heroes will be waking up offensively early in this 1980s Minge Topless Bar sunshine resort to carb-load before their monumental efforts. We’ve had a lovely few days, and my inner bastard chimp has finally been put in his box. I’m now excited at the prospect of going and supporting the runners racing today.
Feeling eternally grateful that our alarms didn’t need to be set for a 5:30am start, we head out onto the course. There is no sign of any marathon happening from where we are, only a distinct absence of the usual stream of endless traffic, and a few water stations dotted around with enough water to supply, well, perhaps thirteen runners, not the 13,000 as it’s claimed are in today’s race. ‘Have we got the right day, Gav?’ I ask him, as we begin to walk away from our hotel and in the direction of the race epicentre. To be fair, we are located some distance from the hub of the action, but still – where is everybody?
A few miles of ambling along, past the jubilant youths manning the pop-up mini water stations, and we see the turnaround point for the half marathon. Brilliant! Here’s where the action is! There are runners! It’s all happening down here! But this is also the place where those tackling the full marathon break away and head out along the long, lonely road to a place where the only supporters will be… themselves – and me & Gav, apparently.
We stand at the half-marathon turnaround point and WHOOP! as the first two men approach the clumsily-placed cones. They shout and hold their hands up at the officials, clearly unsure where to go. Have these two elite Kenyan men really just had to weave their way through the packed field of half marathon runners? They are LEADING in a full marathon race!
We can’t believe it.
The marshalls are just standing around. They don’t clap, or cheer, or whoop! They are about to move the cones and allow a small car to drive through the half marathon course full of runners just because they shouted enough obscenities.
We can’t believe it.
A third male runner approaches and we WHOOP! again. He is not a Kenyan, and is some way behind the leading two men. He motors on at a terrifying pace and out to the lonely part of the marathon course. He is very much on his own. Some while later he is still in THIRD PLACE as he returns to the marshalled area on his way back in. We whoop! again. But wait! One of the marshalls shouts at him, angrily. He stupidly thinks this guy is a very average marathon runner who has turned at the cones by mistake (taking the half-marathon route, when in fact he should have continued on the full marathon course.) He shouts back to the ignorant official. THIS GUY IS IN THIRD PLACE IN A FULL MARATHON! Me and Gav are speechless.
We can’t believe what we’ve just seen.
We see some runners we kind-of recognise from the virtual world of Twitter. My hands ache from clapping, but I don’t want to stop. Every single runner deserves those claps and whoops! For some, unknown reason, I have been hollering ‘Allez, ALLEZ!’ to runners as they go past. I have no idea why. Gav laughs at me. I can tell that for some folk, our excitable whoop-ing and numbing hand-claps matter. They make a difference. And so I keep on clapping and whooping.
After an hour and a half, we start to amble back towards our hotel. We’re still whoop-ing and clapping, only we’ve called in at an off-licence and both now have the most ridiculously large Cornettoes. It feels offensive to draw attention to this fact whilst runners are going through some of the most painful, desolate marathon miles.
But I’d swap places with them. I’d trade my XXL Cornetto for their pain in a second.
I feel myself go quiet, and I turn to Gav. ‘Do you think I’ll ever be back, Gav?’ I ask him, like some insecure child seeking reassurance. ‘OF COURSE you will, Rach! You’ll be back stronger than ever!’ he replies.
I smile at him, but I simply don’t know the answer myself. I’m becoming increasingly familiar with not knowing…