Loch Ness Marathon

It was a bright cold day in Inverness and the clocks were striking thirteen…

(apologies to Orwell for nicking(ish) that)

A light rain played through the morning city lights of Inverness when L and I went down to breakfast. The hotel had put it on early for those running in the festival.

Some poked porridge around bowls, others ate as if they were about to run a marathon. Most were quiet, conserving energy. I got frowned at by the breakfast-room-matriarch for drinking three glasses of orange juice.

We drove down to the finish where a convoy of buses were beginning to fill up. Just after 8am the buses set off. It is somewhat disconcerting to be on a bus, driving away from the finish line. It becomes more so when the bus is still going some 50 minutes later. Quite what route they took, I have no idea.

We were disgorged a few miles south-west of Whitebridge, toilets were dotted in pairs up side tracks. Though not raining, it was very cold, so most people kept their tracksuits on until 9.50. A serious lack of thought had gone into the positioning of the baggage vans: the other side of the start. This meant that at 9.50 two thousand runners were climbing over each other back and forth across the start line… I gave mine to a passing boy who was making faster progress than me.

I lined up with JH in the 4hr section but when the starter sounded he shot off and soon disappeared into the mass. I run with a GPS watch so I was careful to check it frequently over the first mile so as not to run off too fast. It might sound like a good idea to get a few quick miles under your gel belt, but it causes an early build-up of lactic acid and makes the second half twice as slow. Still, carried by the crowd my first three miles clocked 8.30 a-piece.

This might not sound like a particularly fast pace but my final weeks of preparation had been hampered by pneumonia. The furthest long run I had managed was 18 miles. This meant I would be running in new territory for 8.2 miles of the marathon.

The early miles were watched by an assortment of bemused animals. Two horses and a fat pony pressed up against the fence; a field of hairy coos, which I mooed at; and sheep, who wisely ran away.

The course elevation map shows the first few miles as descent. And they are. The only problem was that there was quite a lot of ascent too. It’s running lore that descent never makes up for the ascent; this is even more true when the descent is steep and slippery from the early-morning rain. It jars the knees and forces the feet to overextend.

On one of the downs I passed the boy who had taken my bag to the baggage vans. I waved and thanked him. He smiled back.

Over the first 8-10 miles I passed and was passed by the same runners repeatedly. Occasionally we would fall into step, swap a bit of banter, or just enjoy the silent company of a stranger who was on the same awful and marvellous journey. Gradually the field thinned out. At one point I was running alone, the trees my brief companions, glimpses of the Loch my entertainment. It is easy to fall into a reverie and lose concentration, and I was soon slowing, the runners in the distance were pulling away… so I refocused and set off in steady pursuit.

I hit the half-way mark at 1hr 50mins 12 seconds. A half-marathon PB. That sub-4 seemed possible!

Somewhere around 15 my right ITB began to tighten [the band that runs from the hip to the knee]. I concentrated on looking forward to seeing PJ and JP at Dores. There was an enthusiastic crowd at Dores and I looked in vain for My People. It turned out that I ran past in the minute it took them to park the car. I felt a little down, but then saw The Hill and all thoughts bar running were swept away in a second’s awe. The Hill is not steep. It’s just long. And any gradient is steep when you’ve already run 16/17 miles.

The Hill At Dores has a special place in marathon folklore. Time-wrecker. Heartbreaker. Monster.

I’m afraid I’m about to buck the trend. I took it steadily, landing on the balls of my tired feet and enjoyed passing the runners who were being walkers. Less enjoyable were the later miles when the people who’d walked were speeding past. I’m still puzzling this one.

I passed a man in a blue vest yelling at a man in a pink vest, the latter looked shocking: his face swollen, his body sweat-drenched, near to tears. But Apparently Pink Vest Man was ruining their chance of a sub-4hr finish. I decided that Blue Vest Man was a fascist. I gave Pink Vest Man a thumbs up and a smile. I hope he finished.

At 18 miles my quads actually started burning – it was like the end of a downhill ski race.

From here the marathon became a fascinating psychological experiment. The next two miles were the toughest so far. I realised that my target time had moved into the realms of the impossible. My legs were aching and heavy. I forgot how to run in a straight line. I suspect it was during these miles that I managed to clock the extra distance (my GPS watch shows that I covered 26.37 miles not 26.2). Then I saw the 20-mile marker and my heart and mind and body leapt. I was only 6.2 miles from finishing a marathon. There was no way I wasn’t going to do it. I’d never admitted to myself that this was a possibility but I guess the doubt had been there.

My legs felt lighter and my speed picked up.

The route joined the 10k route and I thought with pride that My Mum had already covered this ground. The crowd were shouting my name and calling out encouragement. I pulled together enough extra energy to hi-5 the kids on the pavements. Having an unknown 6-year old willing you on does amazing things to the spirit. I remembered why I was running.

Spirit soaring I crept back onto the pace I should have been keeping. Then, in the distance I saw the footbridge, from where the course looped back to the stadium. Only it didn’t. It was blocked off. The crossing was the road bridge, another 3/400m away. I could’ve cried. And this despite the fact that I had the GPS watch to tell me how much farther I still had to run (so which bridge we crossed didn’t actually make any difference). Part of the problem was that you could see runners on the other side of the river, running in what looked like the right direction, ergo tired little brain was sure I was running in the wrong direction.

Just before the bridge was a welcome sight, the postgraduate director of studies. SM leapt out of the crowd and ran next to me. Running by his side I picked up my flagging pace and began overtaking runner after runner – including Superman. SM had already done the 10k (and in a good time) so dropped off a while later. My mission was not to be passed by anyone I’d just overtaken.

Lifting one leg and then the other, I struggled onward. The course looped behind the stadium. As I heard the noise inside Tired Little Brain focused on one thing: Finish Line! I took off at what approximated a sprint, hitting the springy track was bliss and I got faster and faster; smiling with a joy I will never feel again I crossed the line. I had just run a marathon.

A second later I was captured by a first aider. PJ later told me that this was because the man before me had sprinted too and then collapsed over the line.

There was to be no collapsing, despite a close call when I was handed my goody bag (the sponsor, Baxters, had filled it with tins of soup). This was no time for weight-lifting. I refused the cakes and bananas that were being waved at me. There was only one thing I wanted. I wanted My People.

One of My People, L, AKA My Mum, had run the 10k in 59.25. I missed my target by 9 minutes, but it didn’t matter. I had made it to the end.