Pounding the streets of Paris

It was like one of those Vietnam veteran films, you know the ones where an engine or something backfires and it all comes flooding back to the old soldier: the heat, the privations, the horror of it all.

It happened just last Sunday, coming out of the foot tunnel at Greenwich after a couple of hours rowing around the Isle of Dogs, when I was greeted by a scene of confusion. There were people, hundreds of them, and cheers and laughter and yells of encouragement. Cutting these hoards off from the road was a barrier, and behind the barrier were runners – thousands of them, pounding the streets of South East London, struggling through the heat to mile seven of the 2007 London Marathon.

It was at this point that I knew what it was to suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder.

Only a week earlier that I too had been running a marathon, not in my adopted city of London, of course, but around Paris. I went into it without an abiding motivation. I was neither doing it for charity, nor simply to run it (I’d already done a marathon 18 months earlier); I had some hazy idea that I’d do it in 4hrs 30mins, but I knew that my long training runs had been far from perfect and the weather was going to be far from ideal. It was going to be hot. The night before the marathon I ate al fresco for the first time this year. I went to sleep with fear in my heart and slept badly.

The next morning the streets were quiet and cool, but the sky was cloudless. It was going to be a scorcher. I ate a single, miserable croissant from the hotel buffet, sipped Lucozade, peed as if I was an 80-something with a dodgy prostate, fixed my number onto my shirt and lumbered the short walk past the Arc de Triomphe to the start line at the Champs Elysess. Catherine took a photo of the reluctant runner, my face looked desolate, silently despairing, saying ‘What am I doing here?’ I imagined the photograph published in the following day’s newspapers under the headline ‘Tragedy of Marathon Runner, 28’.

And so to the start. None of the fannying around, waiting for TV crews, as in Italy. The theme to ‘Chariots of Fire’ was on loop and as the start was sounded a roar emerged from the runners and the crowds. The hairs stood up on my neck and we were under way. From fear to elation in seconds; It was incredible.

For those first miles, down the Champs Elysess, through Place d’Concorde and down the endless expanse of Rue de Rivoli it was great. I settled into my rhythm, ran swiftly, but without over exertion and enjoyed myself. Every 500 metres a band was set up, playing African drums, samba, oompa lumpa music, you name it. Parisians were out in force, shouting ‘Allez! Allez!’ The cheers of the crowd were a clarion call to the legs. To the south, however, the sun rose ominously in the clear blue sky.

In fact, the only thing that was missing were my own supporters. I had a notion of where people were, and they had an idea where I would be and when they would see me. But I passed Rue de Rivoli (circa 5km) without seeing Catherine or my friends, Claire and Patrick, and Place de Bastille (10km) and no sign of my parents and siblings. (Later I learned that I’d been too fast for them). Shortly after, a boy’s voice shouted ‘Go on James!’ and I turned to see a young urchin in a Liverpool FC shirt. The indignity of it all!

For the second 10km we ran through a park to the east of the city centre. It was here that things rapidly disintegrated. The organisers had promised extra water would be laid on in extreme heat – it was forecast to be 27C, but it was actually warmer than that (at 6.30pm that evening it was still 29C) – but there was no sign of this. I had water with me, but that soon went. Worst still, when we came to 15km they had run out of water altogether. It was shattering to go on with a dry mouth. Dangerous too.

In fact, things were so bad, so ridiculously awful, as the temperature soared that I, and thousands others, were left to pick up discarded bottles on the roadside, like tramps, and drink other’s leftovers. It was a shocking state of affairs and an appalling symptom of the organiser’s incompetence. At 18km there was a standpipe and I fought my way to the front of a crowd and filled my bottle up. But the damage had already been done: I had started to dehydrate.

When you dehydrate, nothing you can drink can sate your thirst. No matter how bloated you feel, you always want to drink more. Worse, your muscles start cramping in the most incredibly painful spasms. By 19km I’d had my first cramp; as I came to the 20km mark I was seriously thinking of giving up. When I first caught site of Catherine shortly after I was a mess.

‘Go on, you can do it!’ she ordered.

‘It’s too hot! I’m not even halfway through!’

‘Think of all the training, think of all the people who’ve come to see you!’

She had water, that wondrous, elusive elixir, and my calves, which had moments earlier been spasming into brutal looking concaves were suddenly reinvigorated. At the halfway mark were my Mum and sister; my Dad and brothers and brother’s fiancée shortly after; at 25km were Claire and Patrick (with more, much needed water as the idiot organisers had again run out) and I kept running. At the underpasses along the side of the Seine it was a dream-like sequence as you’d leave the glare of the unrelenting sun into near darkness, thousands of bobbing heads in front of you, and a roar of ‘allez’ would fill the air. It was amazing stuff.

But the damage had been done earlier. The legs started cramping again and I’d run a bit, stop in agonising pain, start again, then stop. In the sun it was unbearable. Gone midday it was like running on a sunny beach. I hung in there. At 30km – with 3hr 30ish on the clock I knew I was going to do it; even if I walked the rest I wouldn’t disgrace myself.

And that, pretty much, is what happened. The heat, with dehydration, had made it utterly impossible to run continuously. I’d start off and 400m down the road, almost fall over as my legs seized up. This wasn’t the mythical ‘wall’, this wasn’t a lack of training, this was unbearable.

Things took on a more epicedian complexion towards the end. Another park preceded the final kilometres; skirting around the edge, 50 metres ahead of me was a chap perhaps ten years older than me. I saw his legs go first, slaloming together like a prize fighter with a knockout blow. He teetered over and I and ten or so others ran to his aid. An ambulance was there moments later. I like to think it was just the heat, but they had heart pumps at the ready.

I carried on. Another 500m away was a second ambulance, but no crowd. Just two paramedics, a stretcher, a tin foil blanket pulled over a corpse’s face.

At that point I didn’t care any more. I had enough water, finally. But the heat was relentless and I had nothing left physically. So I walked the rest of the way. Mentally I skipped the last few kilometres, and there, suddenly, was Avenue Foch and the finish line. I started running again, but the legs seized up, and I staggered the final metres like Dorando Pietri (the infamous winner of the Olympic marathon a century ago, who staggered into the White City stadium and took ten minutes making his way to the line, such was his exhaustion). The muscles spasmed up again, and some French guy tried to help me along, but the legs wouldn’t move.

Anyway, I did it. I did it in a time to make my face red with embarrassment (15 mins longer than last time), but I don’t care, I have a medal to show for it.

My family, who had beer and smiles for me, joined me. And to them I announced my retirement from my marathon career. Never again. Ever.

…Unless, maybe, just maybe, London comes calling one year.

WHAT AM I SAYING?????

Never. Finito.

Afterwards, I ate well, drank more beer and had an earlyish night. My legs throbbed when I walked up and down stairs, and the three seventysomethings who shared a room at our hotel and also ran the marathon swanned lithely around, waltzing past me as if it was I that was the crazed old man. I think seeing them made me realise that this probably isn’t the sport for me. If I was a racehorse I’d have been put down by now. I was never ahead, but I should end it all before I slip so far behind the rest of the field that they forget about me.

And so, I shall bid you adieu – until the next crazed urge to run 26.2 miles enters my head. And you can refer me back to this blog and tell me to stop being so stupid…

The Chasing Pack! (I'm 200 metres ahead)

April in Paris

More Marathon Madness

As many of you will know I will be running the Paris Marathon this weekend in an attempt to obliterate my alarmingly slow record, set in Florence 18 months ago.

Beyond wanting to overcome the bowel exploding hell of that day I’m not exactly sure why I’m doing it. As one of my more blunt friends put it the other week: I’m not doing it with my brother, I’m not doing it for charity, I’m not doing it in my home city… so I must have finally gone insane...

Besides that, several members of my family can also come to Paris on the pretext of supporting me ;-)

Anyhow, marathons are all about reflected glory, and I’m fully expecting to bathe in the pathos of the morning/ early afternoon jaunt around the French capital in a suitably fine bar and restaurant afterwards; and for several months after regale you all with stories about the blister-bursting brilliance of it all.

But until then it’s something which I’m approaching with mild dread. As I’ve not really been blogging about my training regime this time I’ll quickly fill you in on the details.

Essentially my first marathon in Italy in November 2005 went slightly wrong: I got sick; the Italians were indifferent; it rained, then hailed and the temperature dropped. The nadir came in a portaloo –what can only be described as ‘the worst toilet in western Europe’ - after 17 miles. Eventually I staggered home across the line in 5hr 18mins – 48 minutes slower than I’d planned and without a patch of skin left on my inner thighs.

So, wanting to do another marathon afterwards was obviously the most natural thing in the world…

London turned me down, twice; but Paris, the nearest big city, came calling and so I sent off my application, dusted down my Sauconys and hit the road again.

This time, training through the rain and grime of an English winter made it less fun. Not doing it for charity or with a running partner gave me less of an incentive. And then there were the long runs; those limb-achingly, mind-numbingly three and four hour traipses through the wastelands of South East London. My God, they were boring. And also more problematic this time. I ran 16 miles and it took me more than a week to recover. I ran 18 miles and limped around for four days as if I had a club foot. I did 21 miles in my last major run, dehydrated, cramped up, staggered for the last 6 miles, but still did it in less than 4 hrs. So there’s hope, even if everything goes utterly wrong again, that I’ll beat the previous, fairly pathetic time.

As it happens I’m fitter than I was 18 months ago, even if the training regime on those long runs has been less smooth. I’ve also got the experience of last time behind me. However, although I initially set out aiming for a 4hr 30 time; I think it’s probably going to be closer to 5 hrs. If I beat 5hrs I’ll be happy – though perhaps not happy enough to retire from my marathon running career…

For those of you who will be in Paris and are planning on coming out, some practicalities:

The Marathon starts at 8.45am on the Champs Elyse and finishes on Avenue Foch, which is nearby. I expect to be finished between 1.30pm-2.15pm, depending on how long it takes to actually cross the starting line. There’s maps and everything at http://www.parismarathon.com/marathon/2007/us/r1_parcours_01.html

You can also register your mobile number with the organisers and they will text you my progress as I go along. It’s free, but you’ll need my bib number (46418) and year of birth (1978). The link is here: http://marathondeparis.jetmultimedia.fr/index_ang.php4

Afterwards, come and check out my blisters over a pint or seven. I’m not sure where, but we are staying at http://www.hotel-paris-dubois.com/ (it is also near the finish line) and it will be near there – so gravitate in that direction. Hope to see some of you there and to live to tell the tale to the rest of you soon.

The Worst Five Hours Of My Life -- And Some of the Best Memories...

It's a week since we did it now -- the aches have gone, the blisters healed, even if the skin on my thighs might take a few months to grow back. It seems like a blur now, though at the time the run seemed as if it would never end. After all the training I put in over a period of nine months nothing -- and I mean nothing -- could have prepared me for what happened. Ludicrous heart palpitations; stomach cramps; rain; sleet; driving wind all hit me in a run that spiraled out of control in its second half.

But I did it.

Oh yes, I DID IT!

Or rather, WE DID IT!!!

What a day, what a day...

Where to begin though? I left you 48 hours before the big off, beset by a cold and with Andrew suffering from a dodgy knee. For me the cold had cleared up by the Sunday morning; Andrew, however, was complaining about intermittent "twinges" in his knee. We'd registered with the marathon people almost immediately on arrival in Florence the night before, the officials taking all the interest in our carefully acquired medical certificates one would expect from our Italian hosts...

Oh well...

As for the start, this was slightly shambolic. Warmed up, we were shepherded into starting pens for a 9am start. 9am passed. Then 9:10. Then 9.20. At this point we realised what the problem was -- the TV people weren't ready. Finally a helicopter swooped overhead, 6000 people looked up and waved, we were treated to the bizarre sight of hundreds of Italians started throwing off their tracksuits over the fence, then the starting pistol sounded, we trotted to the front, then limbered up into a jog, and three minutes later we were beyond the starting line and away.

Yet straight away we both realised that all was not quite right. The delay had seen both our bladders fill up, and after a mile I was in the bushes relieving myself (note bushes-- toilets aren't exactly the specialty of Italians, but more of this later) -- Andrew followed a mile later. Not an ideal start, but things were soon to get worse. By mile two Andrew's knee was playing up in a big way and he was talking about dropping out. He vowed to keep going until the 10km mark where Catherine and our sister Anna were waiting, but we somehow contrived to lose each other.
When I saw the two girls at that point I was sure he'd pulled out, but was delighted and surprised to hear that he was still going and a few minutes ahead.

Things, however, were not right with me. I couldn't seem to relax into my usual pace; couldn't get my head down and enjoy the run. At this stage the weather was still fair, we were running around the beautiful south of Florence, with the adrenaline, the buzz of the occasion, it should have been a great couple of hours ahead of the final slog, but I just couldn't relax.

A look at my fancy-dan heart rate monitor gave an indication as to what was wrong: my heart rate should have been a steady 162-165bpm (or about 85% of my maximum heart rate) - instead it was in the low 180s (or 95%). The only time I ever previously got near that sort of rate was running up the side of Shooters Hill -- but here I was on the flat, going no faster than I normally would, but my body going flat out. This wasn't good, this wasn't conducive to such a piece of endurance. By eight miles, I was having to slow down to walking pace every 10 minutes so that my heart could go down and I could at least run -- no matter how briefly -- at a rate that was comfortable.

Obviously none of this was ideal. I'd lost Andy -- who was somehow ploughing a lonely furrow ahead of me, his knee feeling as if it would fall off at any minute; I was as knackered at 10 miles as I'd ever been at 18 or 20 miles on a training run; at mile 11, I hit the mythical "wall" for the first time -- which was horrible until it passed; and my carefully conceived race plans were in tatters. That said, the weather was holding out, and I reached the halfway stage in 2 hours 18 minutes -- a respectable time and in keeping with my plans to run the marathon in about 4:30.

Things, however, were about to take a turn for the worse. Catherine and Anna were waiting at mile 16, shouting encouragement. My heart rate was still all over the show, but worse still my stomach was starting to cramp up. At first this took a pattern: I'd run for maybe five minutes, then this creeping monster inside me would start plug away at my guts, causing me to slow to a stop. I'd double over with pain, take a drink, and it would go for another five minutes.

By mile 17, however, the cramping had got unbearable and I was looking for a pizzeria, a bar, a restauarant, anywhere that might have had a toilet. Unfortunately, the Italians -- as I mentioned earlier -- pay rather less attention to excreting food, than they do to making it. Thoughts of completing the marathon started to dissipate as my focus started to centre on finding a way to avoid disgracing myself in a way that I haven't disgraced myself since I was two years old...

Given that there weren't even toilet facilities at all the refreshment points (every 5km), it seemed quite incongruous that there should be a portaloo in the middle of nowhere at the 17 mile mark, but for me it was a small miracle... until I stepped inside...

Anyone who's seen the film Trainspotting swill surely remember "The Worst Toilet in Scotland" scene -- well this was infinitely worse. There was shit on the floor, shit on the seat, shit smeared all over the walls, and shit -- somehow -- on the door. For a second I didn't care: I did what I had to do, and was out.

For the next three miles or so I was just about okay, but they say that a marathon's last six miles are like a half marathon in themselves. I reckon this is a cliché, but when the stomach cramps started to come back, the cliché began to be realized. At this stage I'd bypassed central Florence -- where I saw hundreds of lucky runners heading for the finish -- and entered a long narrow park on the city's far side. The park was perhaps 500 metres wide, and 4km long and I had to run up one side and down the other. Having been so close to the end of the course, I was now heading away from it. There were no crowds at all here. Just me, fellow sufferers and intermittent marshals.

Then it started to rain. By the time I was heading back down the far side of the park, the River Arno to my right, raging away, it was lashing down a mix of rain, sleet and hail. I was at the point where I could only manage 200 metres running before I'd double up with another cramp. I was freezing, no, fucking freezing actually, there was nobody around, and the marathon felt as if it would never ever end. Then, suddenly, in the midst of this piece of Florentine emptiness stood a solitary marshal, every bit as wet and cold as me, despite the protection of a golf umbrella. Picture this apocalyptic scene: an empty park, a fat Italian and a fat, knackered Englishman nearing him. Suddenly this guy starts clapping and shouting "Bravisimo! Bravisimo! Vai! Vai! Forza! Bravissimo!" as I go past and until I was out of hearing. I don't know much Italian, but I know enough to have understood him. I was so moved I felt like crying -- and I never cry (except over Everton…).

I picked up pace and soon the park was out of sight.

Catherine was at mile 24. My sister, Anna, at mile 25. The stomach cramps weren't going, but slowly, surely, the miles were. Anna was at mile 26, and running with me.

"Where's the end?" I shouted, forgetting the 0.2 of a mile still to go.

"Just around the corner!"

I rounded the corner, still no end in sight.

"Where's the fucking end?!?" I yelled like a madman.

"Around the next corner!"

And it was. I even sprinted to the end, tears, this time, in my eyes. Andy was there -- barely able to stand; Catherine was there; my sister, St Anna of Great Crosby, handed me a cup of milky coffee. I couldn't talk, I couldn't think, I was dead to the world -- and dead happy too.

It had taken me 5 hrs 18 minutes -- pushing on for an hour longer than I'd hoped. The stomach cramp packed second half of the marathon had taken me exactly 3 hours; 40 minutes longer than the first half.

For his part, Andrew had tapped into a supply of emergency painkillers at the 10km mark and miraculously -- given that he could barely stand up at the end, and even a week on is struggling to walk -- finished in a time of 4 hours 26 minutes.

All the way back to the hotel we were greeted by the smiling faces of fellow runners, but few others. Although the marshals and spectators had all been friendly and encouraging, non-running Florentines had been impervious to the day's events and regarded the two knackered, smiling runners with a bemusement that often passed for indifference. Which is a shame. Some twat of a taxi driver even refused to give us two wet and cold semi-cripples a lift.

At the hotel, a long awaited bath, and the removal of shorts that were caked in blood, sweat, and God knows what else. Oblivious to anything other than running, I'd rubbed off all the skin on my thighs. Ouch. St Anna went to a bar and got me a sandwich and the best-tasting beer ever; friends texted to find out how I was; Sky News told me that Everton had beaten Newcastle -- does life get any better? That evening I went out to a good restaurant with my cortege of fans, and good friend Hannes, and ate the biggest Florentine bistecca in Tuscany, drank great wine and vowed never again.

And yet...

And yet I still feel as if there's unfinished business. After some great training runs, I look back with disappointment at the time in which I finished and lack of enjoyment during the actual run. Yeah, it's great to have done it, but I could probably have walked it in 7 or 8 hours. It feels as if I hadn't done it properly, as if the diligently followed training programme was almost a waste of time. And Florence's indifference to the exploits of 6,000 lunatics running its streets was palpable. During the hellish period in the park I got talking to some English lads (also injured) who'd done London and who said there was no comparison. At that point you need support, you need more of the excitable marshals, you need some cheering crowds. Not plagues of bemused Italians.

When I arrived home yesterday a rejection letter from the London marathon organizers was awaiting me, and although my initial reaction was relief, that relief is now tinged with a touch of disappointment. Flicking through the enclosed magazine were adverts from some of the world's other great marathons: Berlin, New York, Chicago... a year's a long time (my chapped thighs might have even healed by then), so we'll see -- I'll certainly let you know if I do take the plunge.

A final word on the fundraising. At the start this was an incidental part of the marathon effort and the £1000 mark was plucked from the sky. Thanks to your generosity we've actually raised in excess of £1500 and have a few more pledges still to come in. I shall drop Bobby Moore's widow, Stephanie, a line during the week and I'm sure she will be delighted; I'll also thank everyone who has donated individually, but in the meantime, thank you all.

And if anyone still wants to donate you can do so by clicking here.

And thanks also to everyone who has emailed me -- again, I'll be in touch during the week.

Cheers

James

Can We Go Home Yet?

Relief

Brothers in Victory (i)

... Done In...

Done!

On The Red Carpet

By Firenze's Duomo

Back On Track

An Emergency Painkiller Stop

One Last Hug

Taking The Plunge

Waiting For The Big Off -- and bedecked in one of Asics less glamorous lines...!

The Final Hours

Only another forty hours to the big off and nerves are starting to jangle. Although we're both physically up for it, our final preparations have been upset by (i) me being struck down by a cold (ii) Andy having a knee that creaks like his grandfather's (iii) Italy being beset by a national strike (which will hopefully have abated by tommorrow). But besides these minor woes, we're packed, ready and all set to go.

How we got on, photographs and all that stuff will follow when we get back at the end of next week. However, if anyone has a satellite TV system posh enough, the race is being shown on the Italian channel RAI 3. They've got a website too and while they don't seem to do live streaming, you can download news broadcasts -- tune in at 1pm on Sunday and watch us being carted away in an Italian ambulance!

A big thank you to everyone who has sponsored our efforts. We're nearing the £1000 mark, but if anyone else still wants to support our efforts for the Bobby Moore Fund you can do so by clicking here.

That's all for now -- we'll let you know how it all goes.

Ciao a tutti

James and Andy
Florence Marathon Men

Twentysomething

I was 27 yesterday, but the big day was interspersed with two bits of purgatory.

First Mrs C decided it would be a good idea for (much less Britain's drivers and pedestrians) to get me driving lessons for my birthday present. Okay, I'm only a decade older than the minimum driving age, but ME, behind a wheel? That's ridiculous.

Next was a bit of self imposed masochism. Forget the lazy lie in and long read of the paper in bed. Nope, I was up before 7.30am (this being a Saturday, as well as my birthday), in my kit and downing lucozade sport ahead of my last long training run. Following the advice of my Uncle Pete and not my marathon guidebook, I decided to celebrate my big day with another landmark. My first twenty miler.

So down into Blackheath I went, and back. Then down to the Woolwich Arsenal, and along the front, nearly retching as I went past the sewage works, on through the docks and down as far as Erith. And back. This time I was helped along the way by Catherine, who accompanied me on my bike and hovered around cheering encouragement and passing out lucozade. By the time I stepped onto the 161 bus in Woolwich I'd done 19.99 miles according to my running computer. As far as I'm concerned that's as twentysomething as you can get.

Now just two weeks to go until the marathon, and I plan to start to taper off a bit. The short runs that I've omitted will return, but no more long slogs, no more three hour plus crusades. It'll mostly be rest and relaxation from hereon in. But I feel ready.

Strange Things You See While Running (part 3 in an occasional series)

Seals In The Thames!

Running on Saturday I saw this brown thing turn over in the water. Too large to be a bird I thought as I looked ovber the side. And then it stuck its head up out of the water and revaled itself to be... A BABY SEAL!

I didn't know there were seals that far up, maybe it had got lost, but what an unusual thing to see...

Another Big Training Session Down... One To Go

Hit the road again yesterday for another long sesh. This one was aimed at the 18 mile mark, and I hit that with something (though not much) to spare. Just one more big run left next week -- I'll be aiming at 20 miles -- and then I'll only have the marathon ahead of me. Certainly yesterday I benefitted from six days of respite. The niggling injuries that have been plaguing me had had a chance to settle and although I could feel the burning of a monumental blister swelling on my left foot, there was no twisted knee this time, and mercifully no bleeding tits. In fact today, although I'm beset by a cold and a headache, all that aches are my ankles (no sore calves or thighs), which seem unsure whether they're able to take this collosus pver long distances.

Thank you to everyone who has donated money to the Bobby Moore Fund -- we're more than halfway towards our target of £1000. Remember, it's not too late to donate and you can do so here through the excellent Justgiving website.