It all started when one of my training partners, Scott, signed up for Ironman Wales 2018, an endeavour that is going to involve him in a lengthy swim, a 112 mile bike ride and then a marathon. I casually suggested that wouldn’t it be worth running a marathon without the preceding bike ride just to, you know, get a feel for what it’s like? Before I could say Boo! to a goose, (and we all know which goose) he’d sent me a picture of his entry form for the Gloucester marathon and, like the subservient training partner that I am, I duly entered too because Christmas isn’t really Christmas without a massive training plan for a January marathon. This is why, rather than snuggled up warm beneath my duvet, I found myself alongside 442 others warming up in an innocuous side street in the outskirts of Gloucester one chilly Sunday morning in January. We’d trained up to 32km and we were confident that the extra 10km was just another 10km of the sort we’d run many times before. The route was a 3km out and back spur to four exciting laps of a flattish 9km loop around the rural flats south of the City. After a diligent warm up I created a 3:45 virtual training partner on my watch, uttered one Hail Mary, two hello Dollies, and we were off!

My training partners, both real and virtual were left reeling.

Off like a speeding bullet in fact. My training partners, both real and virtual were left reeling. Once the pack spread out and order was restored I realised I was way too quick and I experimented by slowing down to match someone I was catching up until I found someone just up on my target pace and hoped that theirs didn’t fluctuate too much. It was now that I understood the advice, “if you think you’re running too slowly, slow down.” Having struggled in training to get my nutrition correct I did some extra bedtime reading the night before the event (!) and realised that I was going to have to stuff at least 350 calories per hour down my reluctant system. I’d optimistically set my target at 3:45 with a ‘get out of jail free’ clause of four hours. Anything over four hours and I was throwing myself beneath the wheels of the nearest tractor. With this in mind I had to not only carry 1400 calories but also manage to eat them. As I had been training with Tailwind, a complete, add-to-water fuel, I had to either carry the powder and mix it at water stations or pre-mix it and run with a hydration pack. I opted for the latter and concocted a sickly mixture of 1.5 litres of fluid with 600 calories of powder. As I estimated a minimum water requirement of 2 litres I was planning to fuel with Tailwind syrup and clear my palate and increase my hydration using the water stations as required. In addition I carried 18 Clif shot-bloks (margarita flavour) at 30 calories each. As a wee treat I also popped a handful of jelly babies in my back pocket as a last-lap luxury. At 3km I popped my first shot blok and aimed to do that every 4km for the rest of the race. As I’m a sucker rather than a chewer it soon became apparent that it was taking 3km for them to dissolve in my mouth and this was going to be a day of sweet energy chews washed down with sweet syrup. It was like 1974 all over again!

By 24km I was 5 minutes up on my virtual partner and looking forward to basking in the glory of his complete annihilation.

They do say that pride comes before a fall. I’m not sure who ‘they’ are but I really wish they’d stop with their negativity. By 26km my times were dropping to target times – not too bad I thought, I’ve plenty under my belt now and I can drop a few seconds per km. By 28km I was totally sick of Clif shot-bloks and their awful taste. Every burp was an obnoxious mix of tailwind mandarin and shot-blok margarita – not a pleasant combination at any time. By 30km I appeared to have my number two toe, on my right foot, poking through my brand new sock. I could feel the sock rucked down around my toe and sort of folded up under my foot. A limp was also developing. By 32km I was into my final lap. I’d now decided that as it was only 10km left I could stop eating blocks and treat myself to a jelly baby. Well, it’s hard to describe the feeling of trying to breath and simultaneously eat a corn-starch-coated, jelly lump with a dry mouth partially glued together with shot-bloks. The first one was such a bizarre experience that I had to try another one just to be sure. It was no better. There had been discussion before the race that events with laps were really good because there was that extra push available from knowing you were on the final lap and possibly a little more left in the legs. In reality I found that running laps had left me knowing every gate, asphalt crack, pothole, hill, road-sign and every other trivial landmark. Consequently it provided an accurate picture of how much further was left and, crucially, how much energy my legs no longer had. At 37km I had no option to stop to remove my holed sock. For the previous half hour I’d been cursing Wiggle and Hilly for selling me yet another pair of defective socks. I’d already mentally written my letter of complaint made ever stronger by the missing Haribo from the previous order. I found a convenient bus-stop with a bench, sat down, took off my shoe and looked at my perfect sock. At this point my virtual training partner ran past and gave me the finger.

Careful foot experimentation soon revealed the problem; I seemed to be wearing someone else’s foot! Mine was usually pink and responsive, even ticklish you might say, this one however was sort of wooden, unresponsive and frankly, a little listless. I massaged it a bit, gave it a thorough talking to and together we set off back on our merry way. It was at this point I realised I couldn’t run very well. I’d developed a sort of hobble and a shuffle just to balance out the limp. Still, it was a sub 6.00 minute shuffle and that should see me to the end ahead of that tractor. Despite my watch saying 30+ kilometres I was constantly looking at my lap wrist bands trying to work out whether this was actually my last one or whether I had to go round again. 38km was the last hill. Despite having finally got my legs running again they just looked at the hill and laughed so we had to have a little walk instead. At 39km came that familiar feeling of two golf balls being inserted in your muscles and casually moved around by a sadistic tormentor – this time in my woefully inadequate hamstrings for a change. I had visions of doing that new-born foal thing and staggering around on jelly legs any minute but thankfully the cramp just hovered there for the final 3km, keeping me on my toes and suggesting that a finish would be a safe bet now and not to try anything silly – I was well ahead of that tractor. I crossed the line at 3:50.17 with a chip time of 3:49.17 against a target of 3:45 – not too shabby in my humble opinion.

A quick stock take afterwards showed: Tailwind consumed – 400 calories. Clif Bloks consumed -270 calories. Jelly babies consumed – 40 calories. Hydration 1 litre. Not enough calories, not enough hydration, too many jelly babies.

And as ever, a massive thanks to Jane, Louise, Caz, Michael and Damian who turned up to spur us along.