A Bit of a Marathon Weekend - Part Two- Sunday

Sunday morning began a few hours before I was ready for it. My alarm started buzzing at 7.30 am. It was the day of the Cardiff Half Marathon and Mum and Dad were ariving in a few minutes. I looked quickly for my race pack, broke open the envelope to find my race number - 4434 and race chip. I fished out my trainers and my rugby shorts and attempted to psych myself up as Rhi pinned my race number on my t-shirt. Sitting in the early morning light on a frosty morning in Newport, the prospect 13.1 miles of people jostling, thigh burning effort suddenly seemed a daunting prospect, especially when my training in the months leading up to the weekend had consisted of nothing more than frantic DIY. Sitting on the beach in sleepy, summery Byron Bay, Australia, a half marathon seemed the easiest thing in the world, a million miles away and not really a problem. Besides, I thought, if worst came to the worst, we could try to extend our travels until after the 18th of October. The noise of a car pulling up outside brought me out of my reverie. I kissed Rhi goodbye, wishing more than anything that I could whisk us both away again to the hazy climes of exotic places and ran out to the car. 

There was Mum, excited and jumpy in her new running socks and charity vest, and Dad smugly content in his role as 'official spectator'. As we travelled down the motorway the sun rose into a clear blue sky and I wished I had brought more to keep me warm before the race began - it was far too cold to be wearing nothing more than rugby shorts and a flimsy t-shirt. Dad dropped us off and we made our way into the throng of runners heading slowly to the start line outside the impressive façade of the Wales Millennium Centre. We met Ruth, Mum’s running partner, and stood shivering, eating jelly babies and blowing out cold cheeks whilst attempting to do some rudimentary stretches.

 Finally, as the nine o’clock start time neared everyone congregated closer together, and we were herded in between two metal barriers. Before I knew about it I could see thousands of runners streaming through the start line on the large screen to the left of the Millennium Centre. It took a good ten minutes for our section of runners to begin to move forward; there was time for a small jog to warm up before we crossed the start line and the race began. I soon lost Mum and Ruth in the throng and was swept along in the crush. At the first corner heading through the town centre space opened up slightly and I began to find my rhythm. I began to enjoy it, the sun was on my back, I felt much fitter than I thought I would, I seemed to be over taking hundreds of people – at this rate I’ll finish too early and it wont have been a challenge. This feeling continued for a good while, I slipped easily in and out of other runners, jumping over obstacles and planning a full marathon next year. As I began to tire, sweat dripping into my eyes and legs and lungs beginning to burn I felt that I must be nearing the ten mile mark- the mark at which I decided I would allow myself to have one of my rationed jelly babies to give me the energy boost I needed to sprint home through the finish line. It was odd, I thought, that the race organisers hadn’t put any mile markers on the route so that the runners could see where they were. I was just considering how this oversight could have happened on an otherwise well organised event when a three mile marker appeared around a bend. I deflated a bit and the task in front of me suddenly hit me. I had a jelly baby anyway.

By the eighth mile marker my legs were wobbling and I had discovered as I slowed down to grab a drink from a water stand that they did not take kindly to a change in pace. It felt as though my legs would give way if they did not maintain this momentum continually – it was my own, scaled down, much more painful version of Speed.

Having achieved terminal velocity at mile eight, I was still waiting for my ‘second wind’ by mile ten and by mile eleven I decided that having preserved this steady speed thus far, it would be criminal not to run the whole route. Visions of Rhi, Bump, Charley, hot baths, Sunday roasts and our bed waiting for me at home sustained me during the low points.  My jelly babies had disappeared by the half way point but the smell of burger vans from the Sports Village set up in the Basin outside the Millennium Centre gave me a final lift as I tracked around the corner and headed up the final straight.

I stumbled across the line, the effort of looking pleased and spritely for the cameras finally finishing me off (having seen the pictures afterwards I realised that I looked neither pleased not spritely!). I slowed to a wobbly stop and held onto a barrier for a while to ensure that I would suffer no immediate effects of breaking my momentum. I wobbled, took a few steps, felt sick and stopped. Waited a while and tried again. This time I made it to receive my medal and give my timing chip back in. My official time was 1hr 58 mins 37 secs.

You can see the thought 'this is going to hurt in the morning' on my face as I cross finish line...

I managed to find everyone, give Rhi a ring (In which I was so out of it that I tried to convince her that I had run the race in a little under two minutes) before heading to the burger van. Mum arrived shortly afterwards having finished in just over two and a half hours, not a bad feat for someone who turned fifty this year.

We travelled home and I collapsed onto Rhi. As usual she had spent the day being extremely productive and the house had taken another massive step forward aesthetically. Glynis, Nigel and Dennis were all in various stages of stripping, washing and re-painting the walls and I admired everything as I crawled slowly up the stairs. I ran a hot bath before falling asleep, spread-eagled on our beautifully mowed lawn.

Never again – until next year.