Boyfriend and I did the Paris marathon last week and it was awesome. It was not the blur of hallucinations, pain, blisters and spectacular failure so many people told me it would be. It was easily the best experience of my life.
The first 10 km we were all like, “Woohoo. Yeah. Happy high fives all round.”
Then the 5:30hour pacer overtook us and we were like "Say whaaaaaa?" That couldn't be right, could it? 'We' had trained to finish the marathon in 5 hours (I put 'we' in inverted commas because Boyfriend didn't train. Unless you count one light jog per month). But still, we were like how is this guy overtaking us? Have 'we' trained wrong? If our pace is slower than his we'll be nowhere near our 5 hour goal!
Then we noticed all the people dying around him.
So we timed the speed and saw he was going at 4:40hour pace.
So we asked him what was going on and he replied in his smooth French accent, "We run then we walk, run then walk, no?" Boyfriend and I discussed the value of a stop-start pacer (oxymoron, anyone?), went back to 5 hour pace and it was back to happy happy awesome times.
At 15 km we overtook the 5:30 pacer and the people he had screwed over.
At 16 km my shoulder and ankle went and it was bad. I felt shooting sharp needle pains and crippling cramp and agony all over. And I was like...
I descended into grumpiness and snapped at Boyfriend at 18 km.
At 21 km I was distressed and in pain and very grouchy. I gritted my teeth and kept going.
At 28 km we saw Boyfriends's brother and his girlfriend who started scream-singing Katie Perry's "Baby you're a firework". My mood went from darkness and anger to my first glimmer of hope since km 16. Maybe I would finish after all? I had the power of Katie Perry behind me now.
We got to 30 km and mentally, everything changed. I was out of the terrible 20s. We only had 12 km to go. I also had my first drink of water and a sugar cube. I never eat or drink during a race. Never. I threw up bright green lime squash during a race when I was 7 years old and haven't tempted fate since. But mentally I was feeling much better and thought maybe water and sugar would help too.
I wouldn’t normally describe myself as a religious person, but that sugar cube could be the closest thing I’ll ever get to a religious moment. Something I could never have expected happened - the pain went away, I felt mind-strong and body-fit. I was back to happy joy joy rainbows and puppies phase.
It was at that stage I noticed Boyfriend, who had been my rock the last three hours. He had entered an exponential pain spiral. I've never seen such rapid and extensive physical deterioration. At 30 km he took water and food, but was starting to look very pale, sweating profusely, wearing a look of strained pain.
At 32 km he was white as a sheet, his eyes had a strange glazed look and he was swaying as he ran.
At 34 km I saw that it was only Man Pride getting him through.
At 36 km I was almost definitely sure that he was dying. Jesus was coming and the end was nigh.
At 38 km he asked if we could walk.
It's amazing what a little walk can do. At 39 km we started running again and finished with a sprint, demoralising everyone around us (that felt goooood, in a smug sorta way). Our time was 5:18.
It was hands down the best experience of my life, and it just goes to show even if you don't train you can finish in under 5:30. You just need a sugar cube, Man Pride and Katie Perry.
The first 10 km we were all like, “Woohoo. Yeah. Happy high fives all round.”
Then the 5:30hour pacer overtook us and we were like "Say whaaaaaa?" That couldn't be right, could it? 'We' had trained to finish the marathon in 5 hours (I put 'we' in inverted commas because Boyfriend didn't train. Unless you count one light jog per month). But still, we were like how is this guy overtaking us? Have 'we' trained wrong? If our pace is slower than his we'll be nowhere near our 5 hour goal!
Then we noticed all the people dying around him.
So we timed the speed and saw he was going at 4:40hour pace.
So we asked him what was going on and he replied in his smooth French accent, "We run then we walk, run then walk, no?" Boyfriend and I discussed the value of a stop-start pacer (oxymoron, anyone?), went back to 5 hour pace and it was back to happy happy awesome times.
At 15 km we overtook the 5:30 pacer and the people he had screwed over.
At 16 km my shoulder and ankle went and it was bad. I felt shooting sharp needle pains and crippling cramp and agony all over. And I was like...
I descended into grumpiness and snapped at Boyfriend at 18 km.
At 21 km I was distressed and in pain and very grouchy. I gritted my teeth and kept going.
At 28 km we saw Boyfriends's brother and his girlfriend who started scream-singing Katie Perry's "Baby you're a firework". My mood went from darkness and anger to my first glimmer of hope since km 16. Maybe I would finish after all? I had the power of Katie Perry behind me now.
We got to 30 km and mentally, everything changed. I was out of the terrible 20s. We only had 12 km to go. I also had my first drink of water and a sugar cube. I never eat or drink during a race. Never. I threw up bright green lime squash during a race when I was 7 years old and haven't tempted fate since. But mentally I was feeling much better and thought maybe water and sugar would help too.
I wouldn’t normally describe myself as a religious person, but that sugar cube could be the closest thing I’ll ever get to a religious moment. Something I could never have expected happened - the pain went away, I felt mind-strong and body-fit. I was back to happy joy joy rainbows and puppies phase.
It was at that stage I noticed Boyfriend, who had been my rock the last three hours. He had entered an exponential pain spiral. I've never seen such rapid and extensive physical deterioration. At 30 km he took water and food, but was starting to look very pale, sweating profusely, wearing a look of strained pain.
At 32 km he was white as a sheet, his eyes had a strange glazed look and he was swaying as he ran.
At 34 km I saw that it was only Man Pride getting him through.
At 36 km I was almost definitely sure that he was dying. Jesus was coming and the end was nigh.
At 38 km he asked if we could walk.
It's amazing what a little walk can do. At 39 km we started running again and finished with a sprint, demoralising everyone around us (that felt goooood, in a smug sorta way). Our time was 5:18.
It was hands down the best experience of my life, and it just goes to show even if you don't train you can finish in under 5:30. You just need a sugar cube, Man Pride and Katie Perry.
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