DISCUSSION TOPIC: HOW NOT TO RUN A MARATHON

by Virginia Moffatt

This contribution by my inspiring twin sister, is a real warts and all account of what can go wrong... and she still finished!

This is a cautionary tale for anyone out there might be in the position I was, slightly unfit, getting back into running, and thinking of next year. I think hubris is the appropriate term to describe what happened next…

Oh dearie me, it all felt so easy when I rang Julia up two years ago. Having watched the rain soaked Marathon of 2004,I had started running again after a ten year lull and was having a blast, rediscovering the joys of pushing myself and simply flying through the roads.

So I really really did think I could pick up where my twenty-something self left off. After all when I started running at twenty, I found that from a slow coach amateur puffing her way through a mile to a speedy eight minute miler covering six miles seemed to happen with little effort, hardly any thought and nary a decent pair of trainers. So going for the Marathon in our fortieth year, and fulfilling a dream I had had since my twenties seemed just the ticket.

But how times change. Alas the nearly forty body isn’t so pliable as the twenty year version. Add to this ten years of sloth, three babies in four years having made me two and half stone heavier, created jelly of my stomach muscles and given me a permanent back ache that I hardly ever noticed, and I was bound to get into trouble.

The first bit was simple – building up my mileage to three to four miles wasn’t hard, and running on a beautiful country road with the sheep and the birds, the odd snake and stunning sunsets was exhiliarating. That summer I entered two 5K races and was pleased to see my time improve on the second, even though it was a scorching twenty-eight degrees. So the autumn programme I blithely sent to Julia seemed eminently doable. All it would take, I arrogantly thought, was to follow the programme and the miles would pile up, we would speed up and by Christmas be in a great place to start training proper.

Yeah right. It was when things went above five miles that it all started going pear shaped. The first inkling was around half term when I was coming back from a nice enjoyable run and started noticing a niggling ache down my right leg. I iced it, and rested for a few days, and there it was back again when I did my six miles. So I trotted off to a non-running GP (never again) who misdiagnosed a pulled muscle. Two weeks off, no problem, at least it wasn’t my training proper.

Oh but when I went back it was worse than ever, and I was getting shooting pains all the way down. It seemed to me like sciatica. I had had a bit in my last pregnancy and not thought about it since, so off to a physio who agreed with me. Four weeks of expensive physiotherapy and no running later, I started back again. By this time it was nearly Christmas I had lost weeks of valuable time and was starting back on one to two miles, when I’d hoped to be at ten.

This was the first point when I thought about pulling out. I had not got a place in the main ballot and was waiting to see if Mencap would give me one. Perhaps my early injury was a sign that 2005 was not the year for me? But, but, but… I really wanted to do it the year we were forty, the twenty-fifth anniversary and fulfil my long-held dream. Waiting another year seemed too far away, particularly since Julia had now got a place and was breezing along with nine and ten mile runs.

So I carried on and probably pretty stupidly got back up to five/six miles way too quickly. The week after we went on a January 1st hellish hill run, I tried to go for a gentle three miler. I lasted a mile before my back gave out and I noticed a twinge in my right knee. By this time I had just accepted a place with Mencap, but I had not yet advertised the fact and here again was another chance to stop. My buts were still stronger than my common sense, however, so I went back to a different GP as I could not afford any more private physiotherapy. He recommended some NHS physio and ibuprofen before runs to reduce the inflammation. So I was back on.

All went swimmingly for another three weeks or so, my mileage built up slowly with the programme. I attended the back clinic and religiously followed the exercises. Two weeks running I had spectacularly good ten mile runs, the second faster than the first. And although I had lots of niggles I thought I could get away with ignoring them. But the following week disaster struck.

One Tuesday morning I got up to run my twelve mile run. It was cold, it was grey, and it started snowing halfway round. The wind was bitter, and my legs hurt from the off. I ignored them. I could also feel a cold coming on. I ignored it. Three or four miles from home I was aware my back and right thigh were in a lot of pain. I ignored it. Two miles to go, it was a lot worse. Nearly home I thought through gritted teeth. One and a half miles from home it happened, shooting pains from my hip to my knee sent my muscles into an exruciating spasm. Run? I could barely walk. I hobbled miserably home in freezing cold winds – now what?

All I could do was rest it for a couple of days, made a bit easier by a heavy cold that laid me low anyway. The pain didn’t go away so off I trotted to the GP again, this time asking for one who could run. He tested my knees and diagnosed iliotibial band syndrome. A common problem for runners particularly those who were running longer distances in short times. More rest, more exercises and a programme that was rapidly reducing by the minute. Being a runner he understood my mad obsession and advised I could do it but would have to be careful. So after a real dark night of the soul, I decided to press ahead.

And here I have to confess that despite all my cheeriness to Julia, I was harbouring a huge case of sour gripes. Every time we spoke she seemed to have run further and faster, had no major problems and be having much more fun than me. It didn’t seem fair, this after all had been my dream for years – why couldn’t it be so simple for me? (As for all those dream team stories in Runner’s World – well disheartening ain’t the word). But I am nothing if not determined (or perhaps just an obstinate bugger) and the thought of not being there still outweighed the idea of giving up.

So I went on, for another eight weeks of abandoned runs, several heavy colds interrupting training, slowing speeds, and had to adopt a walk/run strategy just to get the miles in. Every week brought another chance to sit it out, and every week increased my cussedness. I spent half my time at the doctor’s and half swigging echinacea, chomping vitamin C, iron tablets, ibuprofen and glucosamine.

And so to the final fortnight. Two weeks before the big day I ran a brilliant ten miler, about fifteen minute slower than the previous one, but never mind. A week before I ran a great six miler, relatively fast for my times. I was upbeat for the first time in weeks. Whatever the pain, whatever the speed (and I had abandoned realistic hope of under five hours, although a girl can still dream) I was going to run all the way round.

Then on the Friday, I woke up with a heavy head cold. I couldn’t believe it. The Marathon Team give you lots of dire warnings about making sure you are fit and here I was after all this effort and I felt lousy. But at this late stage I just couldn’t bear to pull out. Next year seemed a lifetime away and I couldn’t face going back to all my sponsors and asking them to put it on hold for a year. A friend from the school playground recommended sudafed, and sure enough I took two on Friday, woke up on Saturday and felt a lot better. So I took another on Saturday night and one on Sunday and hoped this would do the trick.

And so to the start, and after the excitement of losing Julia, we were off. With all my training lapses, I found the eleven minute pace a bit fast for me, and so I thought initially my feeling peculiar was down to that. The miles clocked on, Julia was upbeat and excited, enjoying us pacing ourselves so well. I felt worse and worse, sick and dizzy and overwhelmed by the crowds, the noise and the heat. South London is where I lived and worked for many years, and I had been looking forward to running through the familiar streets. But it was a total nightmare.

Eventually at five miles, when a lucozade drink had no immediate effect I told Julia to go on hoping that slowing down would help. By this time I was feeling hot and cold and struggling to move one step in front of another. The Cutty Sark was a complete let down, all I could think was how am I going to get another nineteen miles. Just before eight miles I stopped for a toilet break and a think. Despite the twenty-four degrees my skin was covered in goose pimples and I was shivering and nauseous. This was the lowest of all my low points. After everything I had been through, I realised something was badly wrong, and I seriously might have to stop. However much I wanted to run the Marathon, I did not want to die in the attempt, and I either had to pull out now or do something drastic.

I took a deep breath and had a good think. Eventually I decided that my bad feelings might be to do with the fact that I was wearing two tight knee bandages. I had used one for long runs in training and it had got me round, but in the last couple of weeks had gone to two because both knees were hurting. Perhaps the combination of heat, my head cold, a little too much water at the start, and the effect on my circulation had had a bad effect on my body. I knew that taking the bandages off meant inevitably my knees would hurt, and it was unlikely that I would get away without walking. But it was my only chance of getting to the finish. So I sat by the side of the road, took the bandages off and left them behind.

From that moment on I felt a whole lot better, and never thought of giving up again. I knew that all I could do now was get round, so my finishing time and even running all the way round were just not important anymore. By the time I got to Tower Bridge my knees were hurting, but the dizziness was gone, and I could keep moving. So from that point onwards I ran some walked some. As a result, I staggered round the course, my knee at one point swelling like a balloon, but had a great time at the back of the pack (highly recommend it if you ever get in the same situation) and finally made it across the line four hours after Paula Radcliffe (yes that’s right a staggering 6 hrs 15).

So yes, you can run a Marathon despite all this, you can complete it and have a great day. But it comes at a price. If you want a slightly easier journey (and no journey to the Marathon is easy) give yourself a bit more time, but if you have some mad personal reason to go for it next year, well at least you can be prepared for the worst.

A year later I am still running, just about. I have a bad back still and have taken a long break and had some expensive chiropractic treatment. But I am slowly getting back in and am going for the Oxford Town and Gown 10K in a couple of weeks. Given where my back and fitness levels are at, I fully expect to plod along at the back of the pack, but someone has to be behind you super-fitties. One day I expect I will sort out my physical problems, and improve my speed. I still believe ten minute miles are achievable, though I doubt I could ever get back to eight minute ones (if I ever really did – maybe my memory is a bit faulty) But you know what? Running by the River Thames last Saturday on a beautiful Spring evening, still is the best high I know, and that elusive four and a half hour marathon still beckons. At forty-five perhaps? Watch this space…….

I'm pleased to announce that Ginia did that Town and Gown in 66mins - way to go girl!!!