42nd Greater Manchester Marathon, Sunday 8th April 2018, 9AM, 4.54.26, Adidas Ultra Boost
So this period of my running life which began with a red and white medal for a 10k in Rome back in November, ended with a possible big gong of a gold colored medal for my seventh marathon, my second overseas, this time in the northern UK city of Manchester. A town famed for, amongst other things, its contribution to the Cool Britannia music scene of the mid-1990s and its two football teams, historically United, but more recently for their ‘noisy neighbors’ City. Both teams would play a minor role in my experience of the weekend, that helped make for an unforgettable experience.
Since RomaOstia a month ago I had only done two short runs, both in the past week to test out my injury. I could feel no pain but the injury was still there. I felt fairly confident that I could get up to halfway round but after that lack of conditioning was likely to play a major part. Although the short runs did not cause me discomfort, a short football match with my kids at a picnic on the Monday before I flew out left me feeling slightly hampered, as did some of the food and drink at the picnic. (I’ll come onto that later)
After a relaxing few days with my family in Birmingham, which by some miracle only featured one trip to the pub, I headed up to Manchester by train the morning before the race with my Dad, for who it was a first trip to Manchester. On the train I met Matt who was on the verge of attempting his second marathon ten years after his first, which had been London. In the interim period between the two he had become something of a multi-sport polymath, winning world titles in powerlifting and Taekwondo and playing as a semi-professional rugby player before moving things down a notch to focus on running.
After arriving in Manchester I went with my Dad to have a look around the National Football Museum which was pretty good, before moving on to Old Trafford, to watch what was a fairly eventful derby in the Bishop Blaize pub just a stones throw from the United Stadium. City, playing at home on the other side of the city and needing a win to win their third premier league title in five years, took a 2-0 halftime lead and appeared to be cruising towards a victory before a renewed United scored three goals in 16 second half minutes and held on to win and become the ultimate party poopers. I managed to get a shot of the reaction of the first United goal in the pub. When they scored the third it felt as though the roof would come off the place.
After this I saw my dad off on the tram and then headed into the town of Sale to have dinner with Neil, who was back to have another shot at his PB, and his family, fresh from several days tourism in London. They had been kind enough to take my bag to the airport, as I would have to head straight from the race to the airport, and did not want to risk leaving a bag in the athletes village, for fear of major delays. I headed to my home for the night, a cosy place about 25 minutes walk from the start area.
After my usual fitful nights’ sleep of around 4 hours, I had a decent sized breakfast and headed out to the start in Old Trafford. Passing through the 2-mile mark on my way there, the roads were already closed and race Marshalls were already on the course, wishing any runners good luck as we passed them. Heading back up past the now silent Bishop Blaize, I got a close up look at Manchester United’s ‘Theatre of Dreams’, before exchanging a few last minute messages and heading for the start line.
At the same time all of this was happening, back in Rome, Cristina was about to embark on her first race in almost two years. The Roma Fun Run, a follow up to the Rome Marathon that had begun at 8.50 CET. I had foregone a fourth consecutive attempt at Rome in favor of a fresher, faster race in Manchester, and from the appearance of things, I chose the right year to dodge it. Temperatures of over 22 degrees had runners dropping out in record numbers and those who did complete the race were way outside their target times. In addition to this, the recent snowfall (Climate change anyone?) in the city, led to the Roads in Rome being in an all-time worst condition, so much so that about halfway through the 5k, Cristina saw a runners pram whose wheel had fallen off, probably rattled off by the cracks and holes in the decrepit highways. In any event, Cristina did well, completing the race in a very respectable time of 36 minutes, and bringing home a well-designed bespoke medal.
The race got going at bang on 9AM but, as predicted, the lower waves would take some time to cross the start line and after dumping my two T-shirt’s and packing my lightweight jacket away I crossed the line at around 9.15. Heading straight down the right hand side of a dual carriageway before I stopped for a wee after just 600 meters (shades of Pisa). After this we turned right into the town of Trafford running through residential areas with little support. I cast my thoughts to the rumors of supposed large crowd and dismissed them as just rumors. By races end I would not be disappointed however.
I ran somewhat cautiously but maintained a steady pace of around 6 minutes per km, passing the first large groups of supporters near Stretford town hall. Around here was the first of very few hills in the race and, being mindful of the possibility of aggravating my injury, I chose to walk it. From a early stage, children could be seen along the route offering a wide range of confectionery. From the UK runners staple of Jelly Babies, an abundance of Haribo, Broken up Easter eggs from the previous Sunday, cake, bread and Jam, and a one point passing through Sale at around 10k, even the biggest marshmallows I had ever seen.
The pain from my upper thigh/tendon injury seemed to peak between 8-15k, and at one point I became concerned that if it got 30% worse I would have to stop. Yet after 15k it seemed to miraculously Peter out. Perhaps because at this point all other aches and pains started up a bit. But for certain I was having none of the major discomfort of a month prior. I would have to attribute the mostly flat course and my cautious approach to what few hills were there were to this.
As the race progressed it became evident that my earlier assumption about the crowds here was unfounded. There were spectators almost everywhere, carrying handmade signs (“Touch here for a Power Boost” (of which there were several) “Remember, You paid to do this” “Beer, 8 Miles this way”) One section of supporters in particular stood out, as we approached a hill in Brooklands and made a left turn onto what was one of the longest straight unbroken stretches of the race, the fervent crowd support made up of cowbells, boomsticks, clappers and hundreds of screaming children on either side of the road gave me goosebumps (Brividi, as the Italians would say) and I flew through it, my feet felt as though they were barely touching the ground, and I thought back to what the runner Matt had told me about the phenomenal crowd support in his London experience. Maybe Chicago would be like this in 6 months. Out on the course there were a few fancy dress costumes (scissors man being the pick of the bunch of those I saw) but not as many as in Birmingham 6 months before. Perhaps this is a reflection of the speed of this course. Most of the runners out there were either running a marathon for the first time, or running one for a PB. At this stage in the race, I was on for one myself.
It was at this point that we started to see what I thought were the leading pack running towards us on the other side of the road so I started to look for Neil to cheer him on and high five as he passed, but he never seemed to arrive and I feared the worst, but then at 15k I saw Makiko and the girls. They said Neil was in 42nd place and was going well. I felt some relief that he wasn’t stuck back in the masses and must’ve gone through before I joined with crossover section of the route. I gave them my rain jacket which was weighing me down a bit, they grabbed a couple of photos of me and I motored on.
Coming up after this was the southernmost point on the route, Altrincham, famous in my neck of the woods for its non-league football team unceremoniously dumping my beloved Birmingham City out of the FA Cup in 1986. As we ran up a busy shopping street at 18k, whereas in Rome we would have had Sunday shoppers disinterested in the inconvenient Marathon that was stopping them from crossing the street, here they continued to cheer us on as we pushed uphill towards halfway.
I knew that things were going to get tough as the race wore on into the second half but I also knew that anything can happen on race day. Since just before halfway, I had finally drawn the 4.45 pacer group into my sights, and now at 23k I finally caught them up in the town of Timperley. The pacer had a speaker blaring out 80s hits for the crowd of around 40 runners around him, but there was little in the way of chatter going on. By now everyone was locked into the business of finishing the race and getting their PBS. At 25k I saw Makiko and Sofia who cheered me on and encouraged me to stay with the group. A couple of minutes later I realized that Neil would have finished and I had not asked how he did, so I called Makiko up to find out. He had finally managed to get his PB, but only just, coming in 38 seconds faster than his previous top mark from 3 years ago. I used this as positive reinforcement to push on and try to beat my own mark.
Now I would like to be able to say that I stuck with the 4.45 pacers and came home with a PB that took over 5 minutes off my old best mark, but with no training beyond the half marathon distance, this was never likely. I suffer from what is now a fairly common chronic intestinal condition known as Ulcerative Colitis. I had experienced several uncomfortable periods due to the condition since the start of the year, which contributed to my weight loss, and now at around 30k, as we ran through the most wide open and rural section of the race, it reared it’s ugly head once again, as the combination of the untested blackcurrant gels that were handed out began to mix with whatever remained of my porridge from earlier in the morning, causing a gurgling discomfort which did not subside for the next 8km.
If you run at the same level of ability as me (not very fast) then there comes a point in every race of this distance when everything goes a bit pear-shaped. This is usually around 35k. And in this race, it was no different. Both of my calves basically collapsed just like the Blues Mobile when it finally reached the cook county courthouse. About a kilometer later I felt a sharp pain in my mid-right ribs which felt like a pulled stomach muscle. My pace dropped from around 6.30 to around 7.30 per minute, and in one swift strike I went from looking like a fairly competent runner, to an old man who’d lost his zimmerframe.
From this point on most of the way home was a type of 70/30 run-walk strategy. I tried my best to maintain the type of singleminded sense of purpose that is required to push through such periods of weakness but I could not, and despite what I would consider to be my best efforts, I found myself stopping due to the fatigue and pain.
At 40k Manchester United’s gargantuan football stadium came into view which meant that we were near the end, and as we passed through the area of Gorse Hill I could see the final bend up ahead that led to the final stretch. I vowed then and there that if the final stretch was within touching distance I would try to make a flat out sprint for the line in a likely futile attempt to conquer my personal best. We passed through Gorse Hill and rounded the bend.
And it was f#@king miles away.
A very faint blue banner was visible in the distance at the end of a road that was 3 deep with supporters on either side. I stopped and walked a bit but the people once again cheered me on and urged me to keep going. So I broke out into a trot again. But 100 meters later I pulled up and walked, disheartened to see my PB tick by within sight of the finish line.
The support of the people of Manchester never let up however, and were I physically able I would have sprinted the final raucous gauntlet to the finish line. Never have I heard my name called out so many times by so many people. It is the closest I have yet come to they types of crowd support afforded to the lucky few who get to run big races like London and New York. Indeed my experience of the two days I was there did a lot to change my misconceived opinion of both the city and the people Manchester. Although Birmingham clings onto its second city status as a badge of honor, this city could give it a run for its money and, to be perfectly, grudgingly honest would probably win out. With a couple of exceptions (a pretty rude barman in the Seven Stars, and the woman at the gate boarding our plane home) the people were super friendly, especially on race day. Perhaps it is us Brummies who are the ‘mardy’ ones, and maybe that contributed to the cancellation of this years Birmingham Marathon. They would have to go a long way to match the well organized race here in Manchester, which after its 42nd edition is stronger than ever, whereas Birmingham’s fell at the first hurdle. In any case, I crossed the line in 4.54.26, my second fastest marathon. After leaning against the Cricket ground for a couple of minutes to try to compose myself, I got my race pack and medal and headed off for a quick free pint of Erdinger Alcohol Free Lager, before heading to the airport for a slightly uncomfortable flight home.
After 3 years of near misses, The stars finally aligned for Neil. Near-perfect race conditions, a flat, relatively straight course, and a new training program had resulted in a PB 3 years in the making dating back to Düsseldorf in 2015. His quest for this time had taken him to such far flung reaches as Ravenna, New York, Turin, Paris and Pisa, but it was here in Northern England that his hard work finally paid off, and as an extra bonus he won his age category, finishing 24th overall. My own disappointment in missing out on my own PB was tempered by the fact that he had finally achieved his.
I suppose I will always second guess myself about my preparation, or lack of, for this race. If I hadn’t attended the picnic the Monday before perhaps my stomach would not given me issues at 30k, if I’d tried to train on and push through the pain barrier in the weeks after Roma Ostia, if I’d slept better in the days leading up to the race, or even if I’d just been mentally stronger when things got tough, maybe I could have achieved my best time, who knows. Hindsight is a beautiful thing as they say. I figure at some stage everything will be in my favor, and I can run my fastest marathon once again. This time circumstances wouldn’t allow it, but there will be another time.
If I consider how down I felt about my chances of even finishing this race after RomaOstia, then I should be happy that I even got around. Getting within four minutes of my PB was fairly remarkable, especially given that the day before I had visions of myself packing it in after 5k and trudging my way to meet Neil’s family in Sale with my first DNF. But the people of the city of Manchester would not let that happen. I almost pulled off the comeback of the year, just as United had the day before, but I’ll settle for the score draw any day.
The gear
Compared to some of the other races I’ve ran in Italy, the overall race pack is fairly sparse, a couple of snackbars, a bottle of water and a pint of Erdinger is completed by a pretty decent Asics race shirt, but I cant complain, this was only the third race I have ran in where gels were handed out, and they were handed out in abundance, and I could not put a price on the positive energy that came my way from so many people while I was out on the course. Besides, the next marathon I plan to run in Chicago will cost substantially more than 55 quid.
The medal
Although, not as attractive as their efforts of the last 4 years, the medal for this edition of the Manchester Marathon stands up pretty well. Clearly inspired by the vector-laden efforts of New York, this is my largest marathon medal by some distance. Featuring some of the architectural icons of the city which are flanked on either side by the 19th century icon of the city, the worker Bee, (Also the race mascot “Buzzin Like!”) a symbol which returned to popularity as a symbol of public unity after the terrorist attacks in Manchester last year. Also, the three chevron stripes below the skyline seem to have some meaning. On the Manchester council coat of arms, the three diagonal stripes are intended to represent the three rivers which pass through the city, the Irwell, the Irk and the Medlock (thanks Wikipedia). Maybe the designer was a city fan, since they closely resemble the stripes on their badge. With all this added significance, it was clear why so many local runners sported theirs for long after the race.
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Well done good read onward to Chicago x
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