Valencia Marathon 2023

If I wanted to run sub 2:20 for the first time, I’d have to do something different. At my age, I also faced the law of diminishing returns. Time is not some made up construct in our heads. I’m older than I was. I don’t feel like I used to. I can’t run as smoothly, jump as high, recover as quickly.

So if you have to train harder just to stay the same, what do you have to do to improve? I wrote down the plan, and I stuck to it. I went dark on social media – no influencer catch phrases, hashtags, pity posts, comments. No distractions. No questions. Just ticking off every training session. No complaints. No excuses. I stayed healthy and injury free. The execution of it reflected years of experience.

I trained harder than ever before. It was a risk. But it was a calculated one. Progressive overload.

And there I stood. On the start line, with it all in the bank. No analysis, no looking back, no B goal.

Do, or do not. There is no try.

The marathon itself often comes down to moments. A crack in time. A peak in pain.

My Valencia moment came in mile 21 and it was something I have never experienced before.

From the first mile, I knew it was going to be a long day. Nothing was coming easy. Every minute was a strain. That was not the feeling I had hoped for, but I was in it now.

Every time the pack split, I found myself in the wrong half, having to surge to bridge the gap. Instead of dominating, I was hanging. I had to hold my hand in the fire. Force this pace out of myself, as opposed to letting it flow.

I held on to the pack, on target pace, until around mile 16. I lost contact again, around a bend, and couldn’t make it back. I started slipping further behind. From 5:20min a mile, to 5:25, 5:30, slower, slower, slower.

At mile 21 I was hurting and my head was dropping. I ran a 6:00min mile. What do I do now? Keep suffering for 5 long painful miles? Just to run a 2:30 marathon? Or drop out?

I hated both shitty options. Almost as much as I hated my shitty self. I had dropped out of London Marathon in the spring. I remembered so clearly, the moment when I stopped and pulled the white barrier tape over my head as I stepped under it, and pushed through the crowd, those nearest pretending not to look, embarrassed.

Now, my mind was spinning and spiraling downwards. This skip fire in my head. I thought about the people following me on the tracker. And I felt shame as I knew they would be watching my pace slipping. But there was nothing I could do. My children won’t love me any more. Nina will leave me. My athletes will think I don’t know what I’m doing. All that training, travelling, money, for this disaster. Looking down I registered my brand new, very expensive Soar shorts – They’re not helping you now, are they?

I tried to tell myself;

‘I don’t do this. I don’t catastrophise. I don’t lose control.’

But that just made it all worse. I was now, very clearly, out of control.

All was drained of colour. I couldn’t hear the crowds. I couldn’t see the sun. Two hours of watching my goal slip away and now my race was grinding to a halt. I kept running. Not because I was tough. I didn’t have any better ideas.

A group of around 15 runners, elite women with their pacers, and camera men on motorbikes, swept past.

Something clicked.

To my complete surprise, I caught up with the pack. And stayed with them. I looked down at my legs, and didn’t know how this could be happening. How had they rebooted like this? I was having an out of body experience. All the colours fizzed and popped back into the world, more vibrant than ever. The sounds of the cheers, and the bands, all amped up. Lightning Seeds? So randomly perfect.

As daydreams slide, to colour from shadow,
perhaps someone you know, will sparkle and shine.

I had been given my life back. I can run. This is where I belong.

My watch beeped on mile 22. I looked at the split. I couldn’t believe it, but also I knew: 5:25.

Easy. Like, comfortable. For the first time all day. My mind flittered around happier things. This guy’s vest looks like the Buff Nina bought me on our 10th anniversary, a few weeks ago. Didn’t we have a lovely time. Shopping under the Christmas lights in Dolgellau.

Suddenly, I was only 4 miles away. Which meant just 3 after this one. And the last mile is free. So really, just 2 miles away.

I was sure from then, I was going to be fine. I felt so smooth, I considered kicking on to outrun this group. But these guys had saved me from my despair, we were all riding on a brilliant sunbeam, shining down directly onto us, and I didn’t want to risk stepping off it, back into the scary, dark place.

So I resolved to stick with it and enjoy those final miles.

Who hits the wall in a marathon and then finds a way back? No one!

But here I was doing it. And loving it.

The crowds were not held back by barriers, they were drawing in so close we could hardly see the road ahead. It felt like a street party and we were the parade.

2:23:27. Nothing spectacular. But respectable. Relief flooded in with the pain.

I think of myself as my conscious mind. I think, therefore I am. But 95% of our brain is unconscious. We are mostly our unconscious. I had no idea my mind would kick in and save me. It was not my decision to stick to that group. I was lost and hopeless. But I held on just long enough for something to happen.

For three months up to this point, it was all me and my decisions. At 42 years old, pounding tarmac for 140 miles a week, keeping up with guys half your age, every morning your legs ache in exquisite ways, that few get the privilege to experience. I had to decide to override them. Eventually, painstakingly, I hammered in the habit, hard enough, deep enough, into my unconscious brain, until it became me.

We live together in a photograph of time. And Valencia Marathon is now framed and hanging proudly in the halls in my mind. Alongside the training I did for it, the hammering that cost me and saved me. A fantastic adventure, perfect race, I’m so grateful to have had another opportunity like this.

It’s been a long and tricky process, going back over my build up, figuring out what went right and wrong. The nearer you get to your potential, the more nuanced it gets. Coaching is a ‘best guess’ thing. There are always a unique set of challenges for every athlete. I got a lot of things right, I got a few things wrong. Sometimes you have to go through it to find out.

Some very valuable lessons I picked up in this block and will share with you in the next blog. Until then, in the immortal words of my first coach:

Keep going, keep going, until a little thing inside you says, keep going.
Frank Horwill

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