After running Windermere last year, I crossed the finish line with a firm ‘never again’ in my mind. This appears to be a fairly typical response to running your first marathon, and aside from the slightly nagging thought of ‘what time would I run on the flat?’ the idea didn’t really crop up again. I trained fairly seriously towards a half in the Autumn of 2021 and again discovered the joys of the long training run of a weekend. That’s not being facetious either, once you get into the groove, knocking out long runs produces a nice clarity of thought and calmness.
Once Christmas was past, I headed back over to the Trans Pennine Trail every weekend to start knocking out the long miles, with no particular aim in mind other than keeping myself in good nick for the half at Anglesey in March. After a few weeks of this, a couple of things happened, most notably recent relative Gav Mills dropping dead suddenly - he was a pretty sturdy chap with a physical job - and mulling over it all the weekend after on the TPT, the urge to run another marathon came flooding back. I’m still alive, I can still do it, so why not? A timely Facebook advert popped up the same weekend plugging the Manchester marathon, and the vast entry fee was duly dispatched.
So training refocussed onto marathon and I decided to take a slightly more relaxed approach, sticking to an escalating set of long runs, including three 20-milers, and running twice in the week, with two additional sessions on the static bike thrown in for good measure. Rach turned out for some of the long runs, Lorna also tagged along for one, and I finally sussed the correct way to tackle the TPT - start at the cafe at Penistone, do your run, then finish with a massive mug of tea, sausage sandwich and complimentary Hobnobs. Doing the first 20-miler in mid February really felt like crossing a threshold in seriousness, and I was buzzing for most of the following week. And hobbling, obviously.
So training ticked along fine, and once tapering started, I seemed to be in pretty good shape with a very easy but quite quick 15 miler as the last big effort. Marathon then began to come into view, which combined with the drop in exercise levels, set the usual doubts going. I’ve got a sore throat, is it covid? Why am I doing this again? Not sure I can do it… etc etc. The last week before is always a bit of a moody and rubbish one.
So race day finally came along, fine and dry with bits of sunshine and a pleasant chill in the air. The train company arranged a strike to make travel more complicated, so I headed over to catch the tram in Oldham - first time on the tram, it’s brilliant! Runners gradually piled on, and by the time we changed in the middle of town, it was jammed with nervous folks in expensive running shoes. We then swayed out to the start at Old Trafford.
I used to go and watch the cricket with Dad, Grandad and sometimes Uncle David back in the day - memorable visits included Ian Botham, eyes firmly closed, hooking and flaying Lillee into our seats at the Warwick Road End, taking him for 24 in an over. It was a surprise to see that the Warwick Road End was being demolished and the whole ground was essentially unrecognisable - the square has rotated and even the Pavillion has had some kind of glass monstrosity built round it. Anyway, I was straight into a spot of nostalgia, thinking how 41 years had passed since Michael Whitney spilled that catch in front of us. Oh for a wormhole to open up - what would 15 year old me make of the marathon running version? What important advice could I convey to younger me? But most of all, the palpable sense of the missing people - you don’t really notice they are gone until you are in an environment where male company was shared - watching the rugby, being at the cricket… Which was the first of several memories that dredged themselves up throughout the day.
The whole event was brilliantly organised, extra layers removed, bag dropped and into the slow entry process, advancing through a series of stages to allow the 25,000 runners to start in roughly time-organised groups. I stopped for a couple of chats and had a crafty wee on a tree before advancing towards the start line. At long last, we were underway.
I had the rough notion of running inside 4 hours, which requires an average pace of 9.09 per mile, but was mostly just planning to see how things felt and flow with it. It was a pretty near perfect morning for running and when my watch beeped for the first mile, I appeared to have run it in 8.20, which was rather too fast. But it felt fine, so I just kept on running. I seemed to be in a little group going at the same speed - 4 lads running together, a bloke with a mohican, a lady with a flourescent yellow skirt. Sometimes they were ahead of me, sometimes I was ahead of them, but we kept on seeing each other for the first half of the race.
The route ran back into the centre of Manchester, heading up and then back down Deansgate, with huge crowds on either side of the road. The support was fantastic throughout, but this section was absolutely exhilarating. Like being a proper athlete! Almost every child standing by the side of the road was holding out trays of jelly babies for runners and the encouragement from those watching was ever so enthusiastic and genuinely meant. There were apparently some 100,00 spectators out on the course. All rather amazing.
The race organisers had set up regular music stops along the course, varying from speakers blaring out ‘Manc’ music (to run past Old Trafford with ‘The Fall’ playing was an experience!), a brass band, several rock choirs and best of all, a steel band. As you tended to come up on these suddenly and were moving, it was a bit like a game of ‘name that tune’ as you rattled past. I was past the steel band before I got their tune - ‘All Night Long’ by Lionel Richie. A choked smile and an involuntary shout of ‘Scoffer’ in memory of a late but legendary Town fan. If you know, you know. Memory is a funny business… Again, my head was blank for most of the run, and when I started to struggle toward the end, I couldn’t make myself think of any thoughts at all, now matter how crude. But the snatches of music kept on bringing up random memories. Maybe this is what dementia is going to be like? Minus the running, obviously!
In addition to the ‘official’ bits of music, all kinds of sound systems had been hauled onto pavements by residents, playing all sorts of music. Sticking in the memory were an Asian family blasting out Bollywood and dancing along, busting some fantastic moves, and the sound system by the 13 mile marker playing ‘Living on a Prayer’ on an endless loop, joining in the chorus each time. They must have been knackered at the end. Oh, and passing under the M60 flyover, a huge techno sound system was playing, complete with comically abusive signs about our dear PM and a little knot of ravers giving it their all at the side of the road. The whole thing was rather humbling - people really are so absolutely brilliant and kind and we often fail to realise. It was hard to ignore whilst running.
Back to the run - having looped through the City Centre, we ran out past Old Trafford, passing the side of the docks that Dad did so much to put in their current, amazing state (more random memories…), then out through Sale to Altrincham, which contained, in short succession, an unpleasant little looped climb in the middle of town, followed by a street of very decorative but horrible to run on cobbles and a huge humped bridge over something or other. I had been knocking out steady 8.30 miles until this point, but this quick run of ‘shit bits’ combined with the ‘witching distance’ of 17 miles began to make things feel suddenly very hard. The field around me seemed to be similarly afflicted, with runners seeming to pull up, stop to stretch, wobble and sit down or be sick all around. I kept going, but it began to feel harder and harder. Legs became leaden. Run you twat, run.
I reached the 20 mile marker in 2 hours 52, which gave me another one hour and 8 minutes to get inside the magic four hour mark. But… my pace was really dropping off by now, eyes were starting to ‘swim’ a little, no energy remained to high five small children, spectator encouragement was met by a thousand yard stare, legs like inert joints of ham stuck on my body. I stopped at water stations, rather than running through, and thought about sitting down, or maybe lying down. But lumbered onwards, occasionally glancing at the watch, feeling like I was running fast, but seeing that I wasn’t. The miles crawled by… I stopped at the water station at 25 miles, ate Jelly babies and gummed my mouth up. And trundled on. With about a mile to go, the dreaded sight of the 4 hour pacer ran past me, large orange flag flapping from his back. No way, fuck this, you aren’t blowing all that effort. Pace lifted again back towards running, I overtook him and then just ran as hard as I could. Which wasn’t very hard, but it seemed to be enough. The finish line was clearly visible for the last half mile, so every last drop of energy was deployed getting there, finishing into a cauldron of noise and stopping the watch in 3 hours 58 minutes and 57 seconds. Mission accomplished. Not bad for an old git.
There were a lot of runners crying in and around the finish and after a bit, it got to me too. Exhaustion and emotion. In a few days, the aches will have faded and a sense of triumph may appear, but at the moment, shellshock mostly.
And never again. Again!
