Legend has it that the marathon originated when an Ancient Greek messenger named Pheidippides ran 26 miles from the Battle of Marathon to Athens, to report on the Persian attack before collapsing and dying.
However, I have an alternative theory of the word’s origins that reflects the binary experience of a marathon in more detail. It’s simply a combination of the words ‘Mara’ and ‘Thon’. Allow me to explain.
A mara is a large South American rodent similar to a hare. And for the first half of the run, you’ll skip along like a carefree hare in a meadow.
The second part, thon, is the French word for tuna. And that’s precisely how you’ll feel in the second half of the marathon – like you’ve been dropped onto the deck of a boat from a great height, shredded into tiny pieces and squeezed into an airtight can.
It’s certainly a Jekyll and Hyde experience, as I discovered when I participated in my first one at the Yorkshire Marathon. Here’s how it went.
Pre-race
The main thing on my mind leading up to the race was that primal and practical fear of long-distance runners – really hoping I didn’t need a poo halfway around. I was also slightly concerned by two gammy toenails, one on each foot, and wondered if they’d survive the race.
I was up nice and early and surprisingly well-organised. I had my usual breakfast of a fried egg sandwich in toasted bread, but in what could have been the first of many fatal errors that day, I didn’t bother with a cup of tea.
After a pleasant and relaxing drive, I arrived at Elvington Airfield for the park and ride. It was a chilly morning, so I’d brought along a scabby old hoodie that I’d wear to the start line and then discard when the race began. This is common practice, and the British Heart Foundation gathered up any leftover clobber, though I doubt even they would find a use for my ratty old thing.
The race village was in the York University Campus, and I managed to find a Costa Coffee to keep warm for the next hour or so. I had a nice chinwag with two lovely ladies from Scarborough doing their third and tenth marathons. Upon hearing that it was my first one, they looked at me with sympathy and said, “Bless you.”
Privately, I was thinking, ‘Don’t you worry about me, love’. But I was soon to find out how deeply misguided my confidence was.
I was really hoping that I could squeeze a number two out in Costa, as the toilets were warm and clean, but my bowels wouldn’t play ball.
Naturally, as soon as I’d returned to the race village, they sprang into life. Portaloos it was, then. Ick. Luckily, I’d packed a loo roll. Thankfully, my first fear was allayed – no need to worry about being caught short halfway around.
Mara
I was shepherded along with thousands of others into the race enclosure. We all had a giggle at the ridiculously overexcited lady doing the warm-up, which nobody could do as we were all packed in like sardines.
After a poignant speech about the late Harry Gration from the announcer, who was apparently a colleague of his, and some words of encouragement from Mike Tomlinson, husband of Jane, the athlete who raised millions for charity while battling terminal cancer, we were ready to go.
The first couple of miles were lovely, taking in the quaint streets of York and passing through the shadow of the minster. Soon enough, we were out of the city centre. We passed through several beautiful villages, each more upmarket than the last – the houses were truly mind-blowing. Millionaires row indeed.
And the locals were out in force. Their abundance of wealth was matched by their abundance of spirit. Cheering, high fives, placards, handing out sweets – they were doing everything they could to spur us on. There were even live musicians – the bagpipes a particularly rousing highlight.
I hit a steady stride and glided along as we headed out into the sticks. I reached the halfway point in a respectable 1:48. Things would soon start to go downhill.
Thon
The time of me bouncing merrily along was over. Around 15 miles, the soles of my feet were burning. Not the end of the world. I was used to this from my training runs, but I was concerned about the fact I still had 11 miles to go. This would be the least of my worries, however.
By 17 miles, all my old niggles rose to the surface – right knee, right big toe, left ankle, all sore.
Things really took a turn for the worse at 20 miles though. My body began to reflect the recent political climate and protest.
First, my feet started glueing themselves to the road like those climate activists. My strides became shorter and more laboured.
Then, my calves began to feel like they’d been tied to a goalpost like that Just Stop Oil fella at the Everton match.
Before long, everything from the waist down had formed a picket line and was engaging in a full-blown strike that Mick Lynch would be proud of.
My gait went to pot and I could only manage a few hundred yards before having to walk.
The scenic roads, that merely one hour ago I felt great affection for, I now began to hate. Long, straight flat roads might sound like a runner’s dream. No. It simply means you have nothing to think about except your increasing pain.
In desperation, I started consuming everything the locals were offering – jelly babies, Haribo, drinks, oranges.
Anything to give me a little boost and provide a few precious seconds of distraction from my agony.
I even took a blackjack for pity’s sake. One of my old favourites that I haven’t had in years. Not even the near-death experience could dampen the lustre of a novelty sweet. Unwrapping it was an ordeal with my trembling fingers.
The last couple of miles and I was hoping for a surge of adrenaline to push me to the line. But it never came.
Each time I had to slow to a walk, fellow runners and spectators urged me on to no avail. My legs had simply gone. Each bit of road began to look like a comfortable place to lie down and curl up in a ball.
The final hill was a nightmare – I was almost on all fours – but the gods had mercy as the last couple of hundred yards to the finish were downhill. I let gravity take over and sped down the hill for a time of 3:43:44. At least the people crowing around the finish line thought I finished strongly. Alas, a mere illusion.
Post-race
Finally across the line, I wasn’t in a good way. A loud ringing filled my ears and the noise of the spectators was muffled. My vision was intermittently blurry and my mind was a fog. Nothing was in my consciousness except staggering after my fellow runners on my jelly-like legs.
After being given my medal and gift bag, I eventually found the race village again. Feeling sick and dizzy, I joined the queue for the refreshments van and thought a good brew would sort me out. However, I couldn’t stomach anything.
That’s when I realised things were really bad. Only in the most extreme circumstances would I turn away from a cup of tea. Something was amiss.
I meandered over to a patch of grass, lay down and shut my eyes. This did help a little bit, so I decided it was time to head to the buses.
However, once I got in the queue, the queaziness began again.
I suspected I was going to be sick. I was eyeing up a hedge behind which I could have discreetly spewed my guts up. However, I didn’t do it. Thought I’d be OK til I got back to my car. Fatal error.
The bus I boarded was very full. I headed up to the top deck but there were no seats. Considering what happened next, this turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
I went back down and squeezed onto one of those folding chairs near the front. I buried my face in my hands and shut my eyes, willing myself to keep it together for the ten minutes or so to the car park.
However, before long, I felt the ominous flutterings in my stomach, rising up my gullet as my internal organs prepared to expel their contents. Then the salivating began and I knew the chunder was imminent.
Luckily, I had anticipated this and prepared for it. Before getting on the bus, I’d taken the t-shirt and snacks out of the gift bag and put it in the top of my backpack to use as a makeshift sick-bag if required. It most certainly was required.
Startling the other passengers, I quickly stood up and dashed to the front of the bus, away from the other passengers. In three mighty heaves, each more voluminous than the last, I chucked up what looked like about two bottle’s worth of Newcastle Brown Ale. I dread to think what would have happened if I’d been upstairs with no way of escape.
The copious amounts of energy gel, water, candy, ibuprofen and oranges I’d ingested on the way round had formed a deadly concoction that was slowly poisoning me. I suspect its disturbing dark hue came from the single blackjack I’d eaten at around 22 miles.
The driver, a grizzled old veteran who’d seen it all, simply said, “Feel better now, mate?”
And as a matter of fact I did. Much better. My stomach was no longer a roiling cauldron, my mind no longer a swirling fog.
In ordinary circumstances, I’d be deeply affected by the reactions of the other passengers. But I didn’t care. What could their piercing scowls or cutting laughter do to me when the marathon had already scythed my body in half.
To be fair, one lad offered me some water and we exchanged a knowing chuckle. This sort of thing is clearly par for the course when it comes to the pulverizer that is the marathon.
Finally at the car park, I deposited my vomit into one of the portaloos and set off home. I called in at Bilbrough Top services for a chocolate milkshake (Frijj or Yazoo are as good for your recovery as the most extravagant and extortionately priced protein shake), but alas, they only had strawberry. Bloody awful stuff that merely added to the day’s woes.
After chucking up another bottle’s worth of Newcy Brown on some grass behind my car, I was off again.
Finally home
“Never again,” were my only words to Amy as I dragged myself upstairs for a cold bath. A 15-minute soak, another 15 minutes trying to stand up again, a hot shower and I was feeling alright.
Amy’s delightful lasagne finally brought me somewhere close to my usual self, and I was even well enough to crack open the bottle of cider I’d been saving as I sat down to write this.
All in all, I’m glad I did it. I can’t say I enjoyed it but I’m proud of myself for getting through it. It’s always been on my bucket list.
The event was brilliantly organised and the local support was fantastic. It certainly did Yorkshire proud.
Will I do another one? I’m not planning on it. I already have the joints of a man twice, maybe even thrice my age, and I think more marathons would ravage them and leave me crippled when I’m older.
I’ll probably stick to half-marathons and 10-milers. I’d like to get into trail running, as I enjoy running in scenic locations. Also, the varied and uneven terrain means you always have something to think about and therefore distract you from your pain and exhaustion.
But you never know. I often fail to learn my lesson after painful experiences so it’s very possible I’ll find myself striding to hell once again.
Done a marathon? How did your experience compare? Let me know.
Recent Comments