Rochester 2012 Recap

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