Marathon Man!

Studying the weather forecast so intently in the week leading to the marathon was probably the wrong thing to do. All week I had been repeating the mantra that the forecast was wrong and it had plenty of time to change. By Friday, however, time was rapidly running out, and rather disconcertingly, the weather was now forecast to be worse! Oh well. This was something completely out of my control and something all the runners would have to contend with. It wasn't as if I hadn't run in strong wind before either – strong wind is one of the facts of everyday life in these islands.  Rather disappointingly however, was the knowledge that running a personal best in a force 8 gale was going to be much harder, if not impossible. 

Not sure about this number.

Race day dawned rather more peacefully than I was expecting. Looking out of the front window all appeared quiet. This quickly proved to be a false dawn however, as before long the wind suddenly picked up, as did the hail showers, which started to hit the back of the house with worrying ferocity. The wind was predicted to blow in a south westerly direction and the direction that the road signs in front of our house almost seemed to be bending in its wrath, suggested the forecast was right. Anything from the south here also means cold – next stop in that direction is Antarctica – and the lumps of ice now intermittently peppering our metal roof suggested it would be cool today.

Race HQ was the Standard Charter Bank (race sponsors) and the town hall next door. This was also the start and finish of the race.  The familiar buzz of excitement and nerves filled the air, as did the familiar smell radiating from the small and overused toilets before any such race. The Falklands Islands TV camera was ready and waiting at the start, and it quickly hunted me down for the inevitable pre-race interview. It seems that my recent half marathon victory had placed me well and truly in the position of favourite. Whether this would play out over the day, we would see, as there looked to be quite a few well-trained runners from the military and South America – the latter were also looking rather tanned! 

A very welcome feeling...

Radio interview.

The first part of the marathon is always a test of restraint. The legs are fresh and feeling good and the pace always seems slow. However, if you succumb to temptation and push hard, the legs will inevitably pay dearly in the latter stages of the race. A number of runners pushed on in front at the sound of the starting gun, so I decided to keep them close but not to take the lead. The first few miles were into the wind, but we were in the more sheltered parts of town, so I knew things would get a lot harder. After 2 miles, I tucked myself behind a runner from the RAF. His pace seemed comfortable and he made a good wind break at that point. We were leading the race now and we would stay together for the next 18 miles.

The marathon course would lead our band of intrepid (or should that be foolish) runners on a small loop around the west side of Stanley, back through the centre, past the start and finish again and then head east along the front. We would then pass my own house, just before hitting the true test of this race – the Stanley By-pass. We would run the entire length of this twice, before turning back into the more sheltered climes of Stanley again. As the RAF runner and I turned round the corner into the by-pass, the wind hit us with an invisible hammer blow. This was not going to be easy. The fact that the volunteers manning the water stations were finding it difficult to stand up was a worrying sign in itself.

I had trained on this road many times on the lead up to the race, however, one of the benefits of training is that you can be flexible and avoid the worst of the weather if needs be. I would never have chosen to train in the kind of fury we were experiencing today. In an attempt to make things slightly easier on ourselves, Ian (RAF runner) and I decided to take turns in front, while the other grabbed some sort of shelter behind. Even this was difficult at times as the gusts were almost knocking us off the road. Approaching the end of the By-pass at Sapper Hill, the road's gradient sharply kicked up, and with a monstrous headwind almost pushing us backwards, everything seemed very slow. It was here that I suddenly found myself alone at the head of the race. The tailing shadow, that had been with me had suddenly gone, as had the familiar rustle of a race number violently flapping in the wind. On turning out of the wind to run back down the by-pass I could see that I had made at least a minute on him. We were now half-way, and despite the titanic effort made in getting here so far, I was feeling fairly good still. I decided I would try and put the hammer down and finish the race off.

Sssweeeet...

Or so I thought. Running on your own, with no watch, no GPS, meant I never really knew what my pace was. What I thought had now been a good pace (enough to completely demoralize and squash any challenge from 2^nd place), obviously wasn't quite so, as 2 miles later Ian was back with me. Damn. The race was well and truly still on. We both knew it was a race now as well. Gone was the relaxed conversation (well as relaxed as you get when trying to run a quick marathon), certainly gone was any notion of helping each other in the wind. With just over 10 miles to go, we had plenty of time to get friendly after the race.

The last turn into the wind, at the opposite end of the by-pass at Stanley airport, turned out to be the last time (at least during the race) I saw my determined challenger. It also ushered in, by far, the hardest 3 miles of the race. Just 6 miles from the finish now, so close, yet with the wind now battering me with unrelenting fury, it felt like a lifetime away. Having no idea how far I was in front, I just had to keep pushing on, despite, by now, feeling sick with the effort. Moreover, not only was I facing this very physical battle with the elements and the pain in my legs, a fresh battle front had now opened – the mental war. The temptation to slow my pace, even walk, was huge, and it was all I could do to resist. Welcome to the hurt locker…

What felt like a lifetime, the finish line drew ever closer. Rather like a cruel twist to the end of a story, the final 2 miles of the route took us back past the finish line onto another loop of the west end of town. Caz had made it back in time to cheer me through and reassure me that I was well in the lead.

Crossing the finish in races is always a good feeling. All that preparation has paid off and the sense of achievement is great. It was especially good being in first place and knowing that I had just run an insanely tough race. It wasn't until this point that I had any idea of my time and I almost couldn’t believe I had run a 2.54 marathon in those conditions. In fact, I was the only runner under 3 hours. With little time to gain any sort of composition, the local press were descending like ravenous vultures, eager to pick the bones of the helpless and exhausted finishers. Local celebrity status beckoned it seemed, with radio, TV and then newspaper interviews following in quick succession. All I really wanted at this point was a warming cup of sugary tea.

At this point I feel that I must extend my gratitude to all the marshals and volunteers at the water stations. These brave souls had to spend a number of hours more than I did out in some pretty extreme conditions, which included some vicious hail showers. Also to the huge amount of support I had en route. Foremost amongst these were Caz and the girls, all of whom are welcome sights to a weary runner at the end of a long, hard race. 

Spoils of war!