I have a confession to make, I don't like running.
It
seems like an odd thing to say days after completing my first marathon, but I
don't consider myself a runner. I realise that I am runner in the sense that I
have clocked quite a number of kilometres and participated in numerous races,
but I am not a runner in the sense that I glide along and find serenity on the
open road. Running is hard work and will always be a grind for me. I really
admire several of my colleagues who have a rhythmic quality to their running
which is almost hypnotic. They are poetry in motion. They are the kind of
runner I aspire to be but theirs is a state that I believe I will never attain.
Running for me is a challenge, a deeply personal one that provides me with
irrefutable evidence of my progress and effort. You cannot bullshit the clock
or spin the distance you ran. That is running's appeal to me.
Two
days prior to the 2012 Rochester Marathon I reflected on my preparation, which had been designed to ensure I was in the best possible physical condition to complete
26.2 miles. I had run in thirty degree heat with high humidity and in the cold
and rain to prepare for any conditions that may occur on race day. I was
quietly confident, but an unsettling narrative ran through my head. If I did
not reach my targeted time would the race have less value? Would my effort be
diminished if I missed my self-appointed benchmark? My head was spinning with
these thoughts as I strove to stop thinking of others’ successes as the
barometer for mine. Thankfully, I received some wise counsel from one of the
most inspiring women I know, Danila Checchin, who pumped up my tyres with the
right mix of belief and humour. I drew strength from her words and the goodwill
of others.
Once
in Rochester, my nerves started to jangle as I saw the top seeds for the race
milling around looking relaxed and confident. The Rochester Marathon is a
qualifying race for the Boston Marathon, which has famously stringent
qualifying standards, hence a number of highly credentialed runners would be
competing. They seemed a different species to me with their greyhound limbs and
loose and easy gait. I collected my number and the volunteer manning the booth inquired
if I had any questions. I asked what was the race record was. Her head jerked
up from the desk as she appraised me - I am a fit man but my physique does not
scream marathoner - and she stumbled over her reply. Admonished, I thanked her
and said "Good to know." The race record was actually broken, just
not by me. I missed breaking the record by a mere two hours and twenty minutes.
Note to self: don’t be afraid to push yourself out of your comfort zone.
Race
day found me up before the alarm and keen to experience what the day brought. Any
number of criteria can be used to evaluate the health of your relationship with
your wife but an often overlooked one is having your spouse coating your
tree-trunk thighs with Vaseline to prevent chafe at 6am. Natalie's smile and
ever-present laughter relaxed me and allowed me to focus on my race plan and my
two goals: first, to finish the race under my own power, and second, in a time
of 4hrs 30 mins. I resolved to let the race unfold and not to put too much
pressure on myself to attain a time.
Over the ten
minute stroll from the hotel to the start line, it became apparent that I would
not overheat as the temperature had not reached double figures; a strong wind swept
the St Andrews Bridge which made finding shelter a priority. These conditions did
not abate throughout the day and prompted the race organisers to provide
complimentary cups of coffee for spectators. A concession that Natalie was
grateful for as she waited for me, she did however remark later that she would
have preferred a cocktail to pass the time. She is nothing if not adaptable.
I took the
time to survey the field and my eye was drawn to a tall, middle-aged Scotsman
decked out in a fetching tartan kilt. He was reveling in the attention he
received for his choice of attire. It prompted a couple of pretty young things
to slink over and ask provocatively “Is anything worn under a Scotsman’s kilt?”
His reply of “Worn? No everything is in perfect working order” had the required
timing and projection to leave everyone in the vicinity in hysterics.
Waiting for
the gun, the cold was starting to grip me and I could feel the pins holding my
right index finger together pulsing, it would take more than half the race to
rid me of that unnerving sensation. Another obstacle to overcome was the ear-shattering
version of the American anthem. The poor girl who provided the rendition must
have been convinced that the untimely demise of Whitney Houston had left a
vacancy in the field of vocal pyrotechnics. The four minutes of warbling she
produced was far more painful than the run itself.
I fought the
urge to explode from the start as I knew I would need energy for the latter
stages of the race. I concentrated on running each mile in ten-minute
increments. This was also a preventative measure against hitting the wall. I
was always wary of accelerating too early. I made a conscious decision not to
shadow a pacer as I had trained alone and wanted to face whatever obstacles the
race brought solo. Hitting the wall was my greatest fear as I was unsure if I
would have the resilience to persist through such hardship.
The majority
of the race was run parallel to a canal, which was filled with motley green
water and bordered by dense scrub. Hardly the scenery along the front of the
Opera House. The path was gravel, which made footing treacherous. The hardest
element for me was the lack of spectators. I am a self-confessed show pony who
thrives on an audience for energy and praise. I had to reconcile myself that I
would have to rely on intrinsic motivation to overcome the lows that the race
would bring. This aspect of the race provided me with the most self-satisfaction,
as I feel I fought and won the mental battle with my self-esteem and emerged
the stronger man.
The race
itself was a blur of images and emotions. I began to flag mentally at one stage
and took an idea from Paula Radcliffe. The multiple marathon winner has a
mantra that focuses on her daughter of “I love you Sarah” which she repeats
when she feels overwhelmed. As much as I was loathe to follow the advice of
someone who pulled out of a marathon, while leading, to collapse and piss
herself in a gutter (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWB2ofa8NZU),
her sentiments rang true for me. I thought of Natalie and the strength that I
draw from her love. Her complete faith and positivity was a key ingredient in
me undertaking this race with so much confidence. This elevated and refocused
me.
I must have
been in the fabled "zone" because the finish line loomed up unexpectedly as I turned a
corner and saw the digital timing displays and the spectators flanking the
final stretch. I heard my name and announced while I scanned the crowd for
Natalie. I saw her, dark eyes wide and dancing and that familiar gleam of white
teeth as she smiled and cheered for me. I drew near to her and saw a look of
relief wash over her, as she realized she would not become a widow in
Rochester. I lent over the railing, told her I loved her and kissed her. I then
trotted the last fifty metres to finish the marathon elated.
I have
learnt a great deal from this experience and I am unable to do it justice.
Suffice a message on a tee shirt I saw on the day surmises it perfectly.
Be the
moment.
Connors
