Valencia Marathon 2024

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Our Eurostar has arrived in Paris, and we are standing in the aisle, waiting to depart. The train has stopped, but the door isn’t opening. Other travelers from other carriages have been released, and are walking past the windows. For some reason, those in front of me, and those behind, seem intent on just standing here. I have to push back past a dozen or so people, with my bags knocking them, and their bags knocking me, to reach the carriage behind ours. The train door is open. I exit. And walk back along the platform, looking in through the window at those I have just pushed past. They are still not budging.

I press the button to open the faulty door from the outside. Gas hisses. Mechanical steps lower. Door opens. People inside cheer. Someone shouts ‘Thank you!’. I walk off.

This small, humble guy, so unremarkable to the human eye. Yet so intelligent, resourceful and capable of heroic feats. The Savior of Carriage D, they probably call me. A real life James Bond. I could have left them all to stand there forever. But no. I am kind and empathetic. It feels really good.

I resolve to do another kind thing the first chance I get.

I have a few hours to kill before my connecting train to Barcelona. I go and read my book by the canal. No kind acts take place during this period. No one falls into the canal for me to rescue.

Sitting on the TGV later, I say a few words to the man sitting next to me. He is French. I notice he has a bottle of Coke Zero in the magazine holder on the seat in front. I watch some NFL for a few hours. Later, I want to stretch my legs. I walk to the bar. They sell Coke Zero in cans. Sure, don’t I remember that the French guy’s bottle is now empty. I am kind, and also observant. All these qualities I never knew I had, now coming to the surface.

So I buy two cans of Coke Zero and go back to my carriage. I sit down and offer one to my fellow passenger. He refuses. But I am not to be denied. I insist. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘Un pour moi, et un pour tu’. Five years of French lessons, not wasted on me. He smiles, as if to say; ‘Yes I understand the concept, I just don’t want it.’ But my charm and bilingual skills are irresistible, and so he accepts. He tries to squeeze the can into the magazine holder, next to the empty bottle. The bottle springs out, flies up in the air, hits the overhead luggage compartment, comes straight back down, and hits him on the head.

Then it falls deep into the foot-well underneath him, where he tries in vain to retrieve it.

What do I do whilst all this is going on?

I put my headphones on and pretend not to see. My kindness has limits.

An uneventful evening in a Barcelona Youth Hostel, where I have to show my passport to prove I am not too old to stay there. The cheek of it. The age limit is 44. And I am only 43 and a half.

I am tired from my day of travel and kind deeds, so fall straight asleep.

Short 3hr train from Barcelona to Valencia the next day. A lot of the people on this train are also doing the marathon.

When we arrive in Valencia it becomes apparent that the Metro is completely out of action, due to last month’s floods. So I must take a bus to the Expo to pick up my race number. Unfortunately, the buses are buckling under the strain. There is a very long queue, standing out in 25°c sun. When I left home it was -1°c. I finally get on the bus, but I’m told they don’t accept cards. I don’t have any Euros. The bus driver is not interested.

I get off and start walking around Valencia looking for an ATM. It is suffocatingly hot, my bags are very heavy, my legs are tired. The roads are busy, loud, hard to cross. First ATM says no. The next one only offers 50 Euro notes. The third one says no. I traipse back to no.2, getting increasingly hot and pissed off. I withdraw the 50, march into a small shop, get a bottle of drink, and present my note. I act like an ignorant, loud, English tourist (as if such a thing exists), in the hope that the shop assistant will decide it is easier to give me the change than to argue. It works. I go back to stand in bus queue an hour later, weary, but with 48 Euros of change in my wallet.

The queue is even more vexatious a second time, with people pushing and barging in. I hear a group of four English guys behind me, runners, asking if cards are accepted on the bus. The locals either don’t understand or don’t know the answer. I refrain from turning around and telling them. Instead, with my well of kindness replenished overnight, I hatch a plan. I will wait until the bus driver tries to turf them off, before I jump to the rescue, and pay all their fares with my bulging wallet.

We are waiting for ages, so I have plenty of time to imagine the likely outcomes of this pending act of kindness. The group of English runners will be so overwhelmed by my generosity it will restore their faith in all mankind. One of the women might not proposition me right there and then, but she will certainly consider it. Another will probably recognise me from instagram, and open my profile up to show the others. In hushed tones, they will express amazement, and disbelief, that this 2:20 marathoner, and Winter Paddy Buckey Record Holder, could be so generous towards his fellow man. Also, they will note how my blue eyes look even more exquisite in real life.

The bus pulls up. I can barely contain my excitement. I don’t know. Perhaps the whole bus will erupt into spontaneous applause.

The bus driver is not opening the door. Instead, he is turning the engine off and on again. Whilst hitting the cash dispenser. I’m beginning to worry the bus is broken down. But after about five minutes, the doors open and we start to board. My plan is back on track.

‘The Savior of Carriage D saves the day, again!’

Something is wrong. No one is paying. I realise, to my immense disappointment, that the cash dispenser is broken, and so the bus driver is letting everyone on for free. I want to punch him on the nose. It is supposed to be MY kindness, not yours!

I can only watch on, red faced, as the four English runners waltz on board, without a care in the world. They have not had to endure the hour long tour of all Valencia’s ATMs. They are not thankful to me in any way.

As I stand there, being squeezed half to death, on a bus that is crammed full and way too hot, I decide, I am done with being kind. It is too exhausting and complicated. I resolve to return to my familiar surly, grumpy, regular self.

Queues at the Expo. Queues to get on the hot bus after. Standing on buses so packed that people can’t get off without having to scream at the driver. And the driver tries to drive off quickly to avoid hordes more passengers trying to get in. It is too congested to even get my phone out and take a selfie.

My heart rate is in the 90s. It is usually in the low 30s.

I spend Saturday eating carbs and yawning. My heart rate remains stubbornly high, no matter what I do. Breathing exercises, sleep music, green space… no impact. Just tired.

Sunday 8:15am, gun goes off and I grind it out for 10 miles. I am struggling constantly, can’t even pump arms or go harder to make last-gasp moves. And that’s it. No catastrophe. No shitting my pants. No fall. No stitch. It’s just not there today. I pull over to the side of the road, and decide I will wait for one of the athletes I’m coaching, who is aiming for sub 2:30, and help pace him. Something to do to help pass the time. I don’t spot him. So I just get going anyway. With no real purpose or goal, other than to stay on the tracker so my family don’t worry too much.

I finish in 2:33. 10min slower than last year (read post here). I refuse all the drinks and goodies, as I feel like I’m going to throw up. When I am past all the volunteers, and have a bit of space, I do throw up. Just water and gel.

I see clubmate, Rhodri, who has kindly waited for me. He has done phenomenally well, achieved a massive PB of 2:19. It helps me forget my own moody mind.

Shuffling back to the Airbnb, I am suddenly extremely thirsty. The sun is high and hot, I have just run a marathon and thrown up all my liquid. I see a bottle of water, same brand as those being handed out. Without thinking, I open it and start necking it down. My throat is on fire. I spit and choke. Then I throw up again. Someone has filled the bottle with neat Vodka. I stumble off, still half choking. I wonder, how sorry for yourself must you feel, to be drinking first thing on a Sunday morning? I consider going back for the bottle.

I find another water bottle, but this time smell and sip carefully first. It is water. Oh, the sweet relief of water for a dying man.

I learnt a lot from my race here last year. And it has been working. Through my marathon block this time, I ran my fastest 10k in 10yrs, as well as my fastest ever parkrun. The marathon sessions have all been faster than ever, and feeling better too.

I have more fully grasped the concept of building blocks. It might take me longer to stack blocks than it used to, but, if I give myself enough time, I can still stack them higher than before.

My ceiling is higher than when I ran 2:23 last year. But my floor is lower too. I need sleep and routine more than ever. My tolerance to any deviance is vastly diminished. I had to abort, or postpone plenty of sessions this year, take a few more days rest, before I could come back and get it right. It feels like a neural thing. If I’m not ready, I just can’t get my torso on top of my legs, can’t get my legs to go. Making me a completely different runner; flat, inefficient and grinding.

So many selfies in this post. I was trying to document my train journey, thinking, if I run a fast time, some readers might consider rail travel to their next European race; ‘It worked for him, it can work for me.’

Lamentably, I ran like shit. However, rail travel is still great! Definitely do please consider it, because, you know, the planet. But, a good rule of thumb; take one day to recover from each day spent traveling. I was traveling for three days and should have had three days to rest and recuperate in Valencia. Last year I took two. This year I took only one, and the journey was more disrupted.

The way of the marathon.

Run 100 miles a week for three months and, if you have a bad day on race day, you have nothing to show for it.

Except, of course, I have so much to show for it. I love running. I love the routine. I love feeling fit, fast and healthy. I love training with my friends, and I love coaching others to hit their PBs. I love admiring my six pack in the mirror, running my hand slowly over the bumps.

Thanks everyone for all the support and kind messages.

In times like this, I remind myself of three things:

1. My family love me
2. I am healthy
3. I have exquisite blue eyes

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