It’s marathon blogging time again! Just as in 2008 (see http://andrewmales.com/2008/11/) I want to record everything about my marathon – from decision, to training, preparation, the race itself and the suffering afterwards.

Why? Well, for one I have the memory of one of those orange things that swim around in a bowl, so I want to record everything so I can look back at it some day. Secondly, it allows anyone who cares to visit the site to see just how much goes into doing a marathon.

So, this is an introduction to a series of posts that’ll give you the 2010 New York marathon experience through my own eyes. You’ll hear about and literally see blood, sweat and read about the tears that was my journey. Feel the pain, the hope, despair, elation and hopefully you’ll work out just why the heck we runners put ourselves through this…

The Decision  

January 2010: My friend, Steve, has said he’s running NY again this year. Last time was fantastic, but do I want to do it again? Hmmm…  

Reasons For  

• It’s a great experience
• I know I can do it
• I want to better my last time
• It’ll be cool to share and chat about it for years to come
• I’m one marathon ahead of Steve, so I can’t let him equalise!

Reasons Against  

• Been there, done that
• It’s not cheap
• I’ve a few holidays planned this year, which might get in the way
• It’s damn hard work and needs commitment to do the training
• Last time, I beat Steve by 48 seconds (I’ve milked it ever since). I’d almost like to retire on that note! What if he beats me this time?

I look at the options and think about it. No reason to pull the trigger just yet.  

April: I decide to go for it. What the hell. I could do with another challenge and to get fit again.  

Training Begins  

April: A few, short, ad-hoc runs, but nothing serious. Got plenty of months to do it properly.  

May: Hardly anything. Ongoing groin problems are starting to worry me. Have to constantly tell people that it is an old footy injury and has absolutely nothing to do with my girlfriend…  

June: The World Cup dominates the month, especially my trip to South Africa. Spend more time on the golf course than on the road. Slip into a mini-depression at England’s performance.  

Muscles and Brussels  

July: OK, now it’s time to start properly. I dig out my old schedule. I research lots of schedules, different methods of training. Go long? Go fast? Go often? I faff around for a few weeks deciding, before realising that it might be a good idea if I went out and actually start running. I start my schedule and take it easy. Thigh, knee and groin all complain a little, but I’m starting to get used to running regularly again. Even a long weekend trip to Brussels doesn’t stop my training as I am disciplined enough to put in a stint on the treadmill there (once I’d translated the buttons).  

Got to Get it Off My Chest  

August: Damn common colds! Why haven’t we cured them yet? They’re pointless and annoying, and now that it’s gone down to my chest I cannot run. Still, I’ve put in a good cycle of runs early part of the month, so I’ll just rest like a good boy and wait until I can go back out.  

I’m Welywn There – Give me Moor!  

September: A few runs  – including my first race in nearly 2 years in Welwyn – make it to a separate post: http://andrewmales.com/2010/10/02/not-so-cool-runnings/.  

I finish the month with two significant runs: first, the Moor Park 10K…  

This is great training as I want to get faster and it’s a chance to beat my 10K record and maybe get under 50 minutes. Prospects don’t look too good, though, as the rain starts to come down. Still, if my girl’s gonna make an effort to stand here in the wet to watch, then maybe I better turn it on. I start strong from the back, gaining confidence overtaking many people as we do a couple of laps around the field. I want to keep a good pace, so I constantly keep an eye my watch. It’s going well until…what the hell’s this? A golf course? And a long slope? My legs go all heavy and suddenly I can see the records drifting away from me. Must continue. The downhill is a welcome relief, and I’ve survived the possibility of a rogue hook from the 7th hole. I run past the place where Steve got married and where I delivered the best man speech of legends. Pride drives me on. After recent longer runs, 10K seems quite short, and I start to push it. I laugh in the rain and almost sprint past a few people as we enter the field again. Come on Andy – go a bit faster but don’t go too early. Wait for it…Wait for it…Now give it all you’ve got!!! I go for the line like there’s no tomorrow. Strong and oozing the last remaining bit of energy I turn the corner to see the clock still in the 49th minute! I take the glory, the records and a wet hug. If I can run like this for longer, under 4 hours will be mine…  

Character Test  

My schedule says run 16 miles today. It’s grey, wet and uninviting out there. Bugger. Still, what’s the point in training for something if you don’t prepare in all sorts of different weather? It could rain on the day in New York so I need to be sure I can go long even when soaked. Oh well, here goes my longest run since ’08…  

I’m glad I invested a lot of quality Vaseline time before I went out. It’s only been a few miles but I’m soaked through, trudging round my home town on a Friday afternoon. Everyone has vanished – if it weren’t for the cars spraying slowly down the road I’d have sworn aliens had come down and zapped everyone else. Perhaps they thought I was done for anyway. I have no idea what is sweat and what is rain, but everything from my running top to my socks are weighed down with liquid.  

I celebrate getting into double figures, telling myself that 6 miles to go is just 10K, and I can do that in my sleep. A few more laps round the lake…13.1 miles…a half marathon! Just keep going…  

I think I’m going mad. I’m clearly laughing in the rain now, loving it. My legs are just on auto pilot and I’m ploughing on, smiling. The ducks look at me strangely.  

15 miles and gravity is not my friend. If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d swear I was going backwards. A small slope, but to a sodden mess with screaming muscles it feels like Everest. Regroup, Andy. Get over it, start again then speed up. Keep up the pace. Reach your goal. I turn towards home.  

I’m nearly there. Home is almost within sight and the watch says 15.90. Ha! Think you can beat me, world? Think the rain will make me quit? You never heard of Andy Males? Pah! You stick your 16 miles as I’m gonna do it. Just let me get to my warm shower…  

Life’s a Beach  

October: You would think that the best time to book a 2-week holiday to a paradise island where you can relax on white beaches, laze in pools and generally do nothing all day is ideal for after a marathon, right? Well, I’ve decided to do it in reverse and go to the Maldives one month before the big race. This is partly due to the timing of my girlfriend’s (Shell)  birthday, but I can’t say I’m annoyed at the prospect of missing two weeks of the cold and wet of home to do my training. We’ve picked one of the bigger islands which has a gym, and enough dirt track to actually do some of the smaller runs outside. Time for the first stint in the gym…  

This is not what I planned. Some silly rule over no sand in the gym means I can’t run there in my trainers I’ve just arrived in. Oh well, I’ll try a few laps of the island. It can’t be that hot in the morning, surely? A couple of miles later, I stop and ring out my vest. I’ve never sweated so much in my life. What’s more, I’m sun-burnt, with clear white lines from my vest. In terms of fashion, it’s an epic fail.  

Time for the big one: 18 miles. This is the peak of my training, the furthest I’m gonna go. I can’t possibly do that sort of mileage outside here – I’d either be reduced to a prune, burnt to a crisp or get dizzy running that many times round the island. So, the air-conditioned gym and the treadmill it is. Can it be done? I have Shell on hand ready to supply me with towels, water, gels, Lucozade, and I have cheesy MTV hits and a mirror to study my form. Let’s do it…  

60 minutes in and I’m finding it tough. Air conditioned? Right now I feel like I’m in a sauna. Towels are running out and I look a mess. The treadmill display defies all logic, warping time. Counting up, I feel like I’ve got a lifetime left. It cuts out at 60, whereby I have to reset, giving me a few seconds of vital respite. Here we go again from zero…  

1 hr 58 and I’m praying for the next reset. My upper right leg is very stiff and I’m not sure how much further I can go on for. Mentally, I’m being drained. I’ve done over 12 miles and keeping a good pace, but how can I go on to 18?  

2hrs 10 and I’m all but gone. The stop button taunts me. It wants me to press its red, shiny loveliness. My brain wants me to press it. My legs are sending telegrams to my brain saying “STOP!” No, don’t do it, Andy. Do it! Press it! NO! YES! STOP! Continue!! STOP! Arrghhh! My arm raises high and goes to hit it. NO! Resist! I somehow drop my arm again. I’m in total turmoil, as my legs pound on and on, various counters proudly displaying my misery. STOP! NO! STOP! NOOOOOO! NOOOOO!!!!!!! Hello? This is Andy’s Emergency Breakdown Service. We have evidence to believe the reasoning side of his brain has shut down and is not taking the necessary action. We will now take control. The message to press the button is made by the part of my brain I did not know existed until now. SLAM! My hand slaps against its square face. I’m done, spent. Willpower is zero. 14 miles and I’ve quit for the first time. Gutted. So gutted. Brain melted and I feel so disappointed.  

Too Little, Too Late?  

November: Training’s all but complete- but have I done enough? A steady increase in mileage and pace has led me to be confident, but have I done sufficient long runs? With a 16 mile maximum, and only 6 runs in double figures, it looks like once again I’m gonna be at that start line not knowing whether I can achieve my goals.  

Comparison of miles trained for NY 2008 and 2010

It’s 9:15pm in a hotel room in Garden City, Long Island, New York. As soon as this post is done, I’m off to bed. At 4am I’m getting up and starting a day that I’ll never forget.

I’d like to say the preparation has been great, but it hasn’t. My legs aren’t in as good as shape as I’d hoped, and quite frankly I do not know how long certain muscles will last out. Will it just be a case of battling through the pain, or will I just lose all power?

The flight over was one to forget. The first half of it was spent mostly in the confines of a small room where my body tried its best to get rid of anything and everything inside me, including, it felt at times, my organs. I even had to take oxygen just to get me through it!

Next up: I caught a cold. Perhaps I got it just before I left, but it’s not gone yet. How much will it affect my breathing? Can I run as fast as I want?

The worst out of everything was the extremely upsetting news of my cat, Geri. I won’t detail it all here, but it gutted me.

So why put all this here, now? To give me excuses in case I run bad? No, it’s to give you an insight into how even months of good preparation can be affected by unforeseen circumstances. But it’s more than that – I’m writing this to tell myself that I’m gonna get up tomorrow and DESPITE all this, I’m going to nail New York. Whether I get under the golden four hours or not, I’m not quitting. I’m still fighting. It’s not going to beat me. Life can suck sometimes, but you have to continue to reach for your goals. I shall run alongside people who have gone through so much more…and probably with those who will go through worse.

Am  I ready?

Just watch me go…

Start spreading the news
I’m leaving today (well, November)
I want to be a part of it (and I will)
New York, New York

These vagabond (err, running) shoes
Are longing to stray
Right through the very heart of it (and all 5 boroughs)
New York, New York

Apologies to the great Frank Sinatra there – I’m sure my version isn’t quite as snappy, but it’s a trashy way to start this blog and catch your attention. Shameless but relevant: it’s to inform you all that on November 7th 2010 I’m running the 26.2 miles of the New York City marathon…and to let you know of all the charity sponsorship details.

Re-rewind

I admit that I haven’t updated this blog much recently. It started off detailing my 2008 training and race, then went on to my amazing sabbatical, then various random things, mostly footy. I had intended to put lots of World Cup stuff here, but then all the enthusiasm kinda drained from me when England actually took to the field.

So, what am I doing about it now? Well, I enjoyed writing about the training last time, so I’m going to do it again with my training now. I’ll throw in some footy posts, as well as at least one update about my South Africa experience (which is nearly finished anyway and is quite a story!) but generally it’s for you to know how I’m doing.

Money, money, money

With a quick swerve of tunes, we reach the important bit: I’m running for charity. Two charities, exactly. One is for seriously and terminally ill children, Dreams Come True, and the other is for a local hospice, Garden House.

You can read all about them on my Just Giving pages – what they are, what they do, why I’m running for them. The links are below and you should also see a donate section on this very website.

http://www.justgiving.com/AndyMalesNYC2010DreamsComeTrue

http://www.justgiving.com/AndyMalesNYC2010GardenHouse

Every breath you take

So what do I give you back in return? Updated blog entries on my training struggles. There’s always tales of injury pain, illnesses, getting soaked, dogs trying to savage my ankles and general kill-me-now moments that I’m sure you’ll have a sadistic interest in as I prepare over the next two and a bit months.

You’ll also get to see some embarrassing photos of me. For every £200 I raise, I’ve pledged to put up on my JustGiving sites funny (but clean!) photos I have of me from over the years.

And of course, you’ll get the warm, fuzzy feeling of helping to make a difference to someone who really needs it.

So what are you waiting for? Check out my sites, read my blog, spread the news and join in.

It’s up to you…

So here’s the graph I’ve constructed based on the times given to me via the email alerts. The first section just gave the average time at each 5km point, but from 16 miles onwards I’ve worked out the exact pace per mile.

It peaks between 16 and 17 miles probably because at that point we’d just come out of the awful Queensboro Bridge and morale came flooding back just to be out in the open.

You can see my “sprint” finish which happened sometime after 25 miles, on top of a slightly faster mile just before that. The slight slow-down once in sight of the finish line is also visible!

Not impressed with a 11.5 minute mile sprint? OK, YOU try speeding up after that long when your calves feel like they are in a vice being squeezed by the Incredible Hulk!

I wanted to capture my whole marathon story and publish it, as much for me as for anyone else. I’ve broken it down into sections to make it easier to post and read. There’s a lot to tell so if you really want to live through all my twists and turns, heartaches and joy, then take a seat, grab a drink and get ready for a marathon read in more ways than one…

The Quick Decision
Steve phones out of the blue and tells me he’s got a place in this year’s New York Marathon via his work if he wants it. Would I want to do it too? Completely un-Andy-like, I make a snap decision and agree. Before I know it, I’m looking on the web to see the best way to get in. Within two days, I’m booked and confirmed. Do I know what I’ve let myself in for?
I made the decision because I wanted a challenge. With most of my life just ticking over as normal and nothing much on the horizon, this could be something to kick start me. Also, it’s a great time to commit to something like this, in all but work. I didn’t know whether I could really do it, but was about to find out.

Training Begins
After researching schedules, getting new gear, dusting down the treadmill that had once promised a new fitness regime, it was time to put one foot in front of the other and get down to business. How far could I push it and how soon?

Disaster 1
My shins spend two weeks in constant pain after a three mile run on concrete. Confidence is shattered and I feel hopeless, useless and pathetic. The road to 26.2 miles stretches out before me like a poisonous snake, haven taken its first bite and leaving me scurrying off to lick my wounds.

Recovery and strengthening
The frustration of rest flows into the relief of recovery. Little by little I make my comeback and start to feel like a proper runner. Soon, I’m clocking sixes and even an eight with a bad hangover from an indulgent night out in Cambridge. With months to go, I’m looking good.

Disaster 2
My optimism lies shattered around me as I can only hold to a few small shards of hope. One hard run led me to knee problems that I cannot shake. Weeks fly by but the pain lingers. I watch friends with envy as they take up running, turning down numerous requests to join them. I feel the doubt surround me, suffocate me. Sponsors hesitate, family and friends look on with understanding in their eyes, almost waiting for the inevitable. I will not quit, though, and stand defiant. I see two specialists and a doctor and I start my exercise regime. Alcohol: none shall pass my lips until the marathon is done. I dig deep and believe. Slowly, I am rewarded.

Peaking
My new schedule is strong and so am I. Weekly mileage ticks into twenties then thirties. I pound the dark, leafy streets on my own with the moon high and breath misty. I recite my mantra and push on and on. A half marathon brings clenching fists and defiant yells. The snake will be tamed.
I learn to run through pain, and pile on further exercises. The race is coming too soon, though. Only fifteen is reached, and that at a struggle. If only for more time! A practise race, and the preparation is almost done. New York looms as I stride around with an air of confidence to lure in more sponsors. Bet on me – this boy doesn’t quit, you know.

T minus four days
4:30am: The journey that will take to me glory or despair starts with a simple, irritating buzzer from my alarm clock. I grab a few last-minute items and open the curtains, hoping that the blanket of white that unexpectedly descended last night has melted during my brief time asleep. My friend T pulls up, slightly late, scrubbing snow off his windscreen as I bundle my case in the boot.
Sunrise comes over the M25 and soon we reach Heathrow where I’m dropped off with a manly good luck ringing in my ears. I check in, wander round the terminal for a while and go through security with ease. The flight was overbooked and the plane had to be down-sized, so an offer was on the cards for a later flight. I decline, not wanting another complication to worry about. Boarding starts but pauses as the queue builds up and the stalling excuses pour out from the tannoys. Behind schedule, I finally get aboard and take my seat. Two Irish girls next to me take out some plans and discuss details – marathon runners too, and judging from the trainers of others, like many people on the flight. After a movie and some writing, we land.
Security takes ages, and when I finally get through, the carousel is empty. Panic begins to build. A porter points to a lone, sad case sitting a few yards away, apologising that it’s the last. No matter, it’s mine. I take it and eventually stumble my way to the monorail and trains to take me to Steve’s house in Long Island, my home whilst I’m here.
I see the kids and try to dig out my silly, playful side. It takes a while to get used to being in a world of Thomas the Tank Engine, Elmo and pirates, but I eventually adjust. Soon, I am as transfixed by Dora the Explorer as they are. Steve comes home and the talk of the marathon begins. After eating and sleeping it for months, communicating via email and phones it’s good to hear the hopes and fears in person. We’ll be fine, I’ll tell him, as we slope off for pizza.

T minus three days
The city awaits. The day is cool but clear; almost perfect Manhattan weather. I grab a train in, have lunch on the run and follow the instructions downtown to Steve’s offices. I go past the World Trade Centre site, and remember what was there, when I went up them in ‘98. Now, it’s just a big building site, but memories of that tragic day are everywhere. I meet with him and we buy some Gu – energy gels for the race. Could be our saviour. I do a bit more shopping and wander outside, hoping to get some photos. The Statue of Liberty greets me from afar, side on, and I walk along the riverside to get the best views. I set up various shots and have some pleasing results. This is nice, very relaxing, what I do best on my own on Manhattan. Thoughts of the marathon and how I might do fill my head. As often, my mind wanders to my future and what might become. As always, answers are never close to hand. A chill comes into the air as the sun threatens to invade New Jersey’s skyline for the umpteenth time. I cannot wait until sunset to capture its colours, so I head back to meet Steve.
We make our way to the Marathon Expo to pick up our numbers and check everything out. Organisation is near perfect, and after a few commemorative shots of us with our numbers we go to the travel section. Result! We get our buses changed to the seven o’ clock Staten Island ferry. Given that I was officially due to a) be somewhere different to Steve and b) be there at 4am – a full 6 hours before the race start – this is a major relief and maybe a significant factor tomorrow. More good news follows as Steve’s Team for Kids organisers sneak me in on their list. VIP all round it’s not, but I’m told in comparison to Ordinary Joe, this will help in my marathon experience.
We pick up the usual freebies, take some photos, buy some gear (not that we would be advised to wear anything new) and head off to a BBQ dinner place happy that everything is official.

T minus two days
You can’t go to New York without shopping, so I spend most of the day at the Mall. Easier than Manhattan, and with a good choice too, a few hours are spent on my feet. Is this good preparation? My legs and feet ache as I wonder how many miles I’ve covered today. I eat a Subway (why did I go for a spicy sauce?) and decide to kill a few hours at the cinema. I plump for something I assume to be brain-dead: Max Payne. I expect lots of action but instead get a crappy fantasy whodunnit. Two other people in the cinema witness this disaster. Lesson learned, (watch something you know should be good!) I trudge off and get picked up for home.
I come back to find that I missed the kids at Halloween trick-or-treating. Homeowners compete with each other with displays of ghosts and pumpkins. Orange and white fill the night.
The first part of our pasta-loading takes place in a local restaurant, so I eat plenty. More and more go in until I am full. And then I eat some ice cream. Still no beer; that will come in 48 hours!!!!

T minus one day
Things are bad. Things are extremely bad. I think I overloaded on the pasta last night, so by early hours I’m awake and in pain. My bowels are loosening and the bile keeps rising in my mouth as I fear the worst. I curse at being ill in someone’s house and wish I was back home, but it’s coming and I have no choice. A 2am trip to the bathroom leaves me feeling there’s more suffering to come. Will this jeopardise my run? Thoughts fly round my head of a recent conversation with Si’s dad who said he’d ended up in an ambulance after running a race soon after being ill. Months of preparation, of conquering injury, and now 35 hours before the race a dodgy piece of chicken or prawn was about to undo it all?!! 4am and 5am visits compounded the misery. I may have a decision to make.
Things improve slightly after taking some medicine and resting. We are booked to see an inspirational marathon movie and a pre-race pasta party in the city with Steve’s company. Great. I feel sick just thinking about it. However, I know to wallow in my own pity is to prolong the agony and delay the recovery, so I force myself to go. My fuel tank reads empty; I know I have no option but to fill up or ship out.
Popcorn layers my stomach and is added to with half a plate of plain pasta. I ignore incredulous noises from the chefs when declining the seemingly delicious pasta sauce, but safety is the word of the moment. I eat enough to hopefully keep it down but to get the needle back out of red. Is it enough, though?
The party is low-key but positive. The stories are flying, some promising, some worrying. We dash off home to go over the final few details. I realise my sickness has diverted my mind off of running and tomorrow, so maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. Plans finished, kit laid out, alarm clock set, I silently wish for an event-free night and a fresh start tomorrow. We’re suddenly into not months, not weeks, nor days but hours to go. Just need to turn up and start running.

In the house
No sooner had I put my head down after midnight, then my phone’s alarm woke me up. 4:30am: Game Time. A quick physical check appears to indicate that I’m rested and stomach is fine. Relieved that this was the case, and not a bit disappointed that I had no excuse to quit, I get myself ready to depart.
I am in confidence mode now – no negativity allowed. Despite the cold, dark morning and tired eyes I feel excited, alive. Today is going to be one of the most memorable of my life, and it is just about to unfold.

The long journey to the start
We leave the house by car and drive to Forest Hills where we are to pick up the train. Steve didn’t have much sleep and seems bothered by his ankle. I put to the back of my mind a doubt I have over a calf niggle; little I can do now other than stretch properly and hope everything holds up.
I shiver standing on the platform as another runner silently joins us, the sky turning from black to grey. We board, and Steve attempts to catch some shut-eye on our short journey into the city, green Deloitte baseball cap over face. Arriving, he finds time, as always, for food. A bagel and coffee doesn’t last long as I abstain. We make our way to the subway and catch an ever-increasingly populated tube to the ferry station. It’s a little warmer down here and the time it takes provides time to look at my fellow passengers. Wall to wall white running trainers, some with timing chips already fastened, all looking shiny and ready for action. Everyone looks like a runner, built for speed, and primed to tackle the miles that will come their way. No-one talks, but there is an air of expectancy in the air.
The ferry station opens up to us, swallowing its impressive capture of athletes. Nationalities drift past as the accents come thick and fast. No familiar faces, but everyone somehow looks the same. The ferry pulls in soon after and we pour in, everybody looking for a prime spot to chill, to sight-see or to simply obtain the best and therefore fastest exit later. The Statue of Liberty waves us hello and then goodbye on our starboard side; she’s seen it all before. Once docked, we board our final transport of the morning: a bus to the starting areas. It’s close now, and all necks are craned as the Verrazano-Narrows bridge looms out of the houses in our view like a mythical drawbridge to an enchanted castle. That is where our dreams will start.

In the fort
The start area is huge, but it’s still over two hours to go until the first wave starts and it’s sparsely populated right now. I walk past a group of Brazilians in foil sleeping bags that wouldn’t look out of place at NASA, and head towards the Team For Kids tent. Expecting a VIP setup, I’m a little disappointed to see it’s just a covering over a patch of field, bit realise that compared to open skies, in this cool temperature this is more than a blessing. We make camp, grab a bagel and Gatorade to fuel up and try to take it all in. Soon, the tents fills up. Steve says it looks like a war zone outside in the clear, with bodies everywhere, most unmoving, conserving energy. People pack in beside us, and the chatter of nervous energy and friendly banter surrounds us. Strong smells of ointment fill my nostrils, as everyone casually observes what others are doing in their preparations. I tackle the long line of green portaloos, mildly surprised at their good state. Timing, I tell myself is everything – you want to empty your bladder and not take on too much water now.
We chat to a couple of girls beside us who invite us to a party after the race. We enthusiastically agree we’d consider it, but telepathically consign ourselves tonight to limping home and dying somewhere instead. A horn sounds and the first wave is called up. A big cheer erupts from nowhere; the first lambs to the slaughter I feel.
I begin a few stretches, lubricate with Vaseline everything that could possibly rub and them some, and before I head out in wave 2 I dash again to the loo. The truck has our finish clothes and we make our way to the start position in our old throw-aways, keeping warm to the last minute. I worry about not having done enough stretching – there’s simply not been the room, and I make a few last-minute moves to free up everything I can. The noise is getting louder, and a few enthusiastic people try to pump up everyone around them. It’s moments away. No going back. In a blur, we start moving. Is this it? Are we running? Was that the start line? Confusion reigns as a throng of people ahead begin to pick up their feet. Soon, as music reaches our ears we realise that the start line is just up ahead at the beginning of the bridge. We cross the orange timing mats to the sound of “Born to Run” stinging our ears and our journey begins. After months of training, weeks of doubts and worry, I was finally running the 2008 New York Marathon.

Early stages

I am hit by the scene that waits for me as I turn the corner and make my way up the first part of the bridge slope. Manhattan appears in the distance against a mainly blue sky, beckoning us to reach it. The struts and cables of the bridge climb high above us as we start to dodge discarded jackets, gloves and hats from owners long gone. The uphill is nothing as we excitedly chat in our mini team of five.

I strip off to reveal my pink charity vest and shyly fall in behind the line of four blues, but immediately get noticed. That embarrassment out of the way, I stride on without a care. We say hello to Larry the Lighthouse as we overtake him, one of the few in fancy dress here. He’ll need all the luck he can get, I think.

The first of the real crowd appear, and we congratulate ourselves for keeping a great pace. Maybe four and a half hours is easily on. I run near the middle so don’t give people a chance to see my name on my shirt, written as it is within a Union Jack. No matter, I’ll need the support much further on. The Deloitte girls running with us beam their smiles and pick up a few shouts of “Mallory!” and “Go Amanda!”, much to their obvious delight. Three miles in and we reach our first drinks stop, not before time. I grab a Gatorade and wonder whether how much I should drink every mile. The sticky yellow liquid splashes all down my top and over my face as I attempt to keep running whilst drinking. If there is an art for this, I have not mastered it yet. As the four mile marker appears I comment on how that was the easiest four miles of our lives and everyone agrees. We’re going strong and looking (relatively, given my attire) good.

The pain starts

After all the concern over my knee and my ITB, it’s my calves that are starting to show the strain. The niggle in my left calf I feared might flare up is indeed proving problematic. Both legs are now tightening, and I just hope that they will either ease or not get much worse; there are many more miles to go.

We pass through eight miles and everyone is happy. I resist telling the other four how much pain I have, though, not wanting to put a dampener on it.

The girls shoot off to see something or someone, and soon it’s just me and Steve. Without the support and enthusiasm of the others, I wonder how we’ll fare.

“Bit of an uphill here,” I remark, looking forward then backwards. A pause as Steve contemplates this information.

“Oh cheers. I hadn’t noticed until you said that.”

He shoots me a stare and I learn my lesson.

I cheer at 10 miles, and prepare for the next ten. So far, not bad, and the pace is good. I don’t celebrate 13 miles, however – who wants to be reminded: “You know how bad you feel right now? Guess what? You have to DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN!”

Silent bridge

The 15 mile marker provides a slight respite for my tired legs.

“That’s it,” I say, “This is now officially the furthest I’ve run in ten years!”

“You shouldn’t say that!” Steve replies, explaining that announcing taking yourself into new territory feeling this bad with so far to go wasn’t my best idea in the world. No matter, I thought. Any little victory was worth it.

We enter Queensboro Bridge, fully prepared for a tough test. We’d heard the stories, but were promised a cacophony of sound on our exit.

It wasn’t as dark as we’d been told, but soon the bridge swallowed us and took us into its stomach. I didn’t notice the uphill as much as the change in the environment. With no crowd, we were on our own. Silence surrounds us from all angles – were we in a vacuum? No-one talked, and it was only when I picked up the thud-thud of our trainers did I know I wasn’t deaf. I considered shouting something random, something encouraging or pro-England, but the bridge demons swept inside me and beat any positive thoughts back down.

We reach halfway on the bridge and start our descent. I decide that it would be a good time to capture some of this on video, having lugged my mobile phone all this way. I decide to be positive in it, a multimedia two-fingered salute to the bridge, at least. I activate the camera, shoot at Steve for a few words and then turn it on to myself for some interesting camera viewpoints. I keep it rolling for the reception we’re about to receive on our exit from the bridge; I can hear the noise as we approach and our legs gain a little more energy.

Was that it? We leave somewhat underwhelmed at the crowd’s reaction when we finally reached them. The bridge was pretty grim and I’d hope for a better wall of noise to move me than we got. Maybe they’d seen too many runners already. Maybe they were hungry. Maybe we expected too much. Still, a notorious hard part of the New York Marathon was over and we were back in the sun.

Insane positive thinking

“This is easy,” I say out loud to Steve as we run up a long hill. He doesn’t understand. “I love this hill! It’s a piece of cake!”

I don’t really love this hill, it’s a killer. My legs want to stop, my feet want to stop, my whole body knows this is so goddam pointless just going forward like this when I can just stop and take a rest. 99% of my brain agrees with it and is hovering over the stop button. But the 1% I have trained just for this very moment is in control – the part where it starts spewing out all the random positive message it knows cannot possibly be true. However, it seems to be working. The bands are playing, the crowd cheering and with a big chunk of the marathon already behind me I fool myself for a minute that things are good. I run up to a British woman and have a quick chat before she moves back towards her partner. Everyone seems focused now, the joy and newness of the run left far behind.

We reach another fluid station and I slow to a walk to grab a cup.

“Keep going Andy!” a helper says as she cheerfully hands me a cup of life. I am surprisingly moved to nearly tears by this unexpected boost, however small it was. I drink and lob the cup as far as I can to the side. A carpet of squashed, green cardboard containers roll beneath my feet, leaving the bottom of my trainers sticky for a few yards. My legs so enjoyed their walk that they decide to keep to that pace, but the override button gets pushed again. I have no option to get me going again other than to sprint off as a turbo boost for two seconds before slowing down to normal pace.

“Flipping ‘eck, son! Don’t shoot off like that!” Steve calls out behind me, mistaking my sprint as a new lease of life. He catches up and we continue.

I think about that burst of emotion earlier, and start to replay the daydreams of my finish I’ve had whilst training. I can see myself recalling the weeks of despair and pain, the times when I doubted myself and the emotion that engulfs me as I cross the line, proving to myself and everyone that I had indeed conquered it all. Here and now, just for a minute, tears start to form as this plays through my mind, emotional chemicals shooting round. In the bad shape that I’m in, it could engulf me, but I’m smart enough to know that this would waste energy so I quickly banish all thoughts from my mind. Don’t be a sissy. Just run.

We enter the Jewish part of Manhattan, and the crowd changes. There are few cheerers or noise, and people just go about their business silently. Conservatism is their way, I’m told, so I just respect that. Some stop with their kids and gawp at us running by, as if the freak show has come to town. As I run past in my pink vest, stumbling along more in survival than enjoyment, following hundreds of others, I wonder if they are right.

The hill that never ends

“I’ve hit the wall!” Danny Boy – a runner with Deloitte we thought long left behind – cheerfully announces, bounding up to us, slapping us on the shoulders.

“There is no wall, mate!” I say, hoping that it might offer something profound that would change his race. He didn’t need it though; we saw no wall damage as he ran off smiling. Steve and I looked at each other, perplexed. Different people, each in their own different race, I think to myself.

We cross one bridge to briefly enter The Bronx. Cool – The Bronx. The people are warm and energetic as the music pumps hard and propels us along.

Another bridge approaches, promising Manhattan again, our final NY Borough visit. This bridge is gruelling, though – a steepness that seems to always offer the peak a few steps further. Steve is loving the bridge for some reason, but for me it’s all pain. My calves are like rocks, weighing me down, and the mile markers get further apart. 35Km comes up and I swear as it come into view. I want the next mile – don’t tell me the kilometres! After what seems an age, Mile 22 appears. I stop and walk, take on some drink and pour a bit over my head. Four miles left – a walk in the park in normal circumstances, but right now it seemed like the distance to the moon.

We reach the side of Central Park and the crowd thickens. Steve’s family appears and even I jog over, desperate to see familiar faces. Steve pumps himself up (always put on a show, especially with wife and kid around!) whilst my head drops at the thought of continuing. Arms in the air defiantly, smiling, even running backwards, he gives a performance to be proud of.

We start what looks a gentle slope and I pray that the next marker is just up ahead, but it’s not. It just goes on. And on. And on. “What the…? Central Park is flat! It doesn’t have a hill!” I exclaim to anyone listening around me. We agree that the organisers must have shipped in extra material to make this hill especially for this race; it certainly has never been here in my previous visits.

I start to feel fuzzy, and for a second I wonder if I’ll be taken somewhere nice and peaceful, where pain is outlawed and only comfort exists. I snap out of it and decided to push my mantra button.

“Fulfil your dream.

Reach your goal.

You have the strength.

You have the strength.”

I mutter this over and over again, my legs keeping to its rhythm. I care not that I may look like a mumbling idiot as the fans go past in a blur, this is keeping me going. Messages of pain are briefly halted, repelled by the magic of the words. A few minutes later, I am back.

I look ahead at the top of the hill, and to my dismay it remains as elusive as it did five minutes ago. The pavement seems a treadmill, the effort almost pointless. My faces pulls a thousand expressions. I hate this hill more than any other in the world.

The time I became a hero but almost died

I have a secret: I’ve always wanted to be a hero but feel I’m built to be a flighter rather than a fighter. So, any chance I may get to be at least in some part a hero to someone I hoped I would take. After 25 miles, I saw my chance to help someone else and I took it.

I see him just ahead, struggling. He has GBR on his shirt and a look on his face that says enough is enough. He slows as I pass him, myself barely running now. He grimaces and caves, stopping in despair. A stranger he is, and I have my own problems but he’s not quitting. I won’t let him. I run back over to him, calling his name from his shirt. “C’mon mate! You ain’t quitting! Brits don’t quit!!” I scream at him with all my worth, “Move it!!” I whip up the local crowd around us into a frenzy and the words seem to magically energise him. He pumps his arms and jolts forward, propelling himself on again. He moves on ahead and pride sweeps me entirely. Sixty seconds later my world almost collapses.

Just a mile left, and still somehow running alongside Steve. Pace unknown and irrelevant – we just have to shut down and wait the twelve or so minutes left until we can stop. Suddenly, however, I can no longer suck in the air I need. Another breath – the same restricted action and I feel like I could be going down. It happens so fast I don’t have time to properly panic, but the 25 miles behind me are about to be wasted. I reach out and tap Steve on the shoulder and indicate I’m in trouble. A few more short breaths like this and it could be all over. The injuries, the sickness, the effort to get here could all be undone in the next few seconds. Moments later, it passed, but I was still in shock. I quickly realised the effort I put into rousing my compatriot had taken its toll and almost cost me my run. I continue, knowing that this old course still deserved respect, and it would take the lame any which way it could.

The blur

The crowd, our position, my entire existence is a blur. We grab a drink and promise this is the last we stop – any future drinks will have to be on the run. I reluctantly agree and apologise to my calves who have already disowned me

I don’t know how, but I keep running. Steve, seemingly in a similar way, suddenly becomes vocal.

“I’ve got cramp! Shit!”

It’s looking bad, almost like he’d been shot and was about to hit the deck. I knew I’d stay with him if he was in trouble, but this was the last thing we needed so close to the end. Moments later, it seemed to pass and we continued, just waiting for the next turn of events.

The “sprint” finish

With the 25 mile marker long behind us, my scare over, I began to visualise the finish.

“Let me know when you want to go for it.” I tell Steve.

“Go for what?”

“You know,” I said, reminding him of our pre-race competitive agreement, “when you want a 3-2-1-go for the sprint finish.”

Steve looked at me with a mixture of surprise, regret, and resignation. “It’s all yours. Go for it. If you want to push on now then go. Go get a better time.”

I glance over. Deep down, I badly wanted to beat him. Something inside told me that I needed to put one over him at least once. I wouldn’t let him down if he needed me, though, I honestly knew that. “You sure?”

He nodded. I thought about if for a few steps and then made my move.

“See you at the finish line” and I was off.

I don’t know where the energy came from, but I powered forward. Overtaking men and women, crowd in my ears as I headed for home. I was full of heart until I saw it: the half mile to go sign. Half mile??!!! But I thought I was almost there!! My muscles felt cheated. Had I really gone too soon? How much did I have left? I always remarked about Daley’s Decathlon and the energy bar that you had to get right. It was well into the red and the tarmac keeps coming.

A new pain in my right knee, but I knew what this was. It was my weak quad, having done so well to make it unscathed to this stage it suddenly dawned on me the awful truth: if this muscle goes, my leg goes with it. It would become a hang-er-on-er, just there for the ride, no longer functioning. Visions of me hopping over the finish line, right leg flailing comically for the photo. Nothing I can do but hope now.

I no longer have the energy to acknowledge them, but I hear all the shouts for my name. The crowd are fantastic. My mental crutches are in splinters; I would struggle to remember any friend or family name right now. All focus is on my body. The 26 mile sign comes up. Why the **** are you showing me the 26 mile sign now?!! All I care about is the finish!!! 26 miles is nothing!! I could collapse right now and achieve nothing. The extra .2 miles is a whole new race.

300 metres to go. Just show me the finish line. Will I make it? I’m still honestly not sure.

200 metres. Is it round the bend?

100 metres. JUST SHOW IT TO ME!

And then it’s there, in all its glory, just like the photos. ING New York Marathon in its orange banner. I smile. I can’t stop smiling. For the first time ever, I really know I’m going to complete it. I cruise home, arms wide, head back.

I’d done it.

It was over. It was over.

It was over.