So what happened?? - Part 1 of 2

Blimey has it been 5 months??

Right, well, that was quite a hiatus, but I'm back now and training for something else (I'll go into that in a later post).

So, what of the marathon I was training for, I hear you cry.  At least, those of you that can remember me having one to train for; It was quite some time ago.

Well, there are 2 parts to this.

Part one reads thus:

The Fleet Half Marathon
Show me the map!

This was my first race and a real waypoint with which to judge my speed and my fitness up to now.  So far, I had been following the schedule to the letter, where possible, working hard and feeling the benefits, with the exception of my week off for achilles damage.

Did it pay off?

In short, yes.

And no.

The Fleet Half proved to be my greatest success and, simultaneously, my greatest failure as a runner.  Now, to explain that requires a little background:

Before Fleet, my fastest half marathon had been a 1:50:07 in the Reading Half Marathon in, I believe, 2008.  I had been desperate to break the 1:50 barrier, but was 7 seconds over due to an injury I picked up in the last mile.  I remember being a little downhearted at the time at missing out on my target by just 7 seconds, but figured: what the hell.  Injuries can't be accounted for, it was only 7 seconds and it's not like it'd happen again, right?

Now, fast forward to my current training effort to complete the London Marathon, where, in order to get the marathon time I wanted, I would be expected to come in at under 1:45 for the Fleet Half Marathon a month beforehand.  (Well, actually, dead on 1:45, if we're being picky, but under would be better.)  That's a whole 5 mins (or approx. 24 seconds per mile) faster than I'd ever gone before over the distance and, as anyone who's done it will tell you, knocking the better part of 30 seconds per mile off your pace takes a sodding huge amount of effort.

Still - I'd been training harder than ever before.  Never again would I fail to achieve a target by mere seconds.

On the day of Fleet, me and the prettier half had got there in what we thought was plenty of time, but we hadn't accounted for Fleet's double yellow lines EVERYWHERE.  So, 25mins later, having finally found a place to park, we rounded the corner at the high street to find everyone already lined up and ready to go.  A quick kiss goodbye and off I ran, down the hill to the start line.  10 seconds later (literally 10 seconds later; I'd made it by the skin of my teeth) the gun went off and everyone started to move.  I spent the first mile dancing around people and moving up the order until, eventually, I was in a position to settle back and use my Garmin 405 to monitor my pace.

To complete the race in my target time of 1:45, I had performed a quick calculation.  105 minutes over 13 miles = pretty much dead-on 8mins per mile.  That's what I'd drummed into my head for the last month of training and so that's what I ran.  When I felt bad, I stuck it out at 8mins.  When I felt good, I hung back and carried on at 8mins. 8mins, 8mins, 8mins.  Always.

So 13 miles later, feeling better than I had a right to, I came down the final hill and saw a sign saying 200yds to go.  I looked down at the watch and then it dawned on me:  I was going to go over!  How could I have cocked my time up so badly?!  And so, after 13 miles of relatively quick (for me, at least) running, I put my head down and sprinted the last hundred yards or so in a desperate attempt to get under 1:45.  It wasn't enough:  I came in at 1:45:05.  5 seconds over.  After 13 miles, I was 5 seconds over my target time.  Half a second per mile quicker, and I'd have done it.  (The watch said I'd done it in 1:45:06, but I must have clicked the start before crossing the start line as my official chip time was 1:45:05.)

So I'd completed my fastest ever half marathon and yet I'd failed.  The reason for this failure is simple:  All of my training and pacing was done to reach 13 miles at almost dead-on 1:45.  And I'd done it.  I crossed 13 miles at slightly under 1:45.

The thing I'd forgotten, however, the fly in the ointment that I really should have known, is that a true half marathon is NOT 13 miles.  A true half marathon is 13 miles AND 193 FUCKING YARDS.

In less than 2 hours, I'd gone from optimistic and genuinely excited to furious.  With myself; with the plan; with the people who wouldn't get out of the way on the way back to the car and were going to get a Phil & Ted's buggy up their arse if they didn't move.

Still, after a little while (a matter of hours - I'm not generally despondent for long) I picked myself up with the knowledge that it was still faster than I'd ever gone before and by quite a pace differential as well.  And 5 seconds?  I could easily have made that up.  it wouldn't affect the marathon - I'd adjust and move on.  No mental scars here.

5 seconds, though... Even now, 4 and a half months later, I really can't put into words just how much that still burns.  I'd been the fittest I'd ever been and yet again I'd missed out on a target by 5 seconds.

Part 2 of the catchup will come later, and includes the marathon itself!  For now, leave me with my Fleet-ing tears.  (That last pun was for Nicholas J. Coumbe.)