The marathon diaries - training

I have just run two marathons in the space of two weeks. It wasn’t the plan. But it is what happened. And here I will tell that story…

In the beginning

It all started in my grandparents’ front room. I was minding my own business and eating some chocolate fingers my nan had bought me. Very nice they were too. And my mum was talking her usual nonsense, this time about doing the Brighton Marathon for her charity, Dementia UK.

My uncle, often keen to take on a challenge, said he would love to do it as well. Having just turned 50, he was looking for a new challenge.

I have no idea what possessed him, but he then said: “And I’m sure Andrew will want to do it too, he’s the youngest and fittest out of all of us.”

Well that was it. With my family’s gaze upon me I was signed up to the Brighton Marathon in a little over three months.

The training regime
I’ve always played sport, mostly football and golf and a bit of cycling more recently. But I have never been a runner. My maximum, before this whole ordeal, was about 20 minutes on a treadmill at the end of a very rare gym session. I can only recall going on one run before starting my training. And running a marathon was not something I had ever seriously considered.

I let Christmas get out of the way first, using it as a last opportunity to stuff my face guilt free. And then on a cold and quiet day I decided to venture out for my first run wearing my football kit and £18 trainers I bought in India about nine years ago. 

The route was just less than five miles. And despite pretending I needed to look at a map at a bus stop half way round to give myself a rest, I got there.

The next run didn’t go so well. I got a mile down the road and decided I really wasn’t ready for this and turned back.

But surprisingly, that didn’t deter me.  I managed to get into a routine. Nothing silly, just three runs a week sometimes substituted by a football match and sometimes in addition to one. I started off with five mile runs and stuck pretty closely to the training programme I had signed up to through a training plan website that is still sending me daily emails saying ‘how was your run today?’ (PISS OFF!)

By the time I went to America on holiday in February I was up to about ten miles. And America was a good boost because it was warm and I got to feel good about myself as I ran over the Golden Gate Bridge with the San Fran mums (even though that was a horrific experience – it looks far more serene in pictures).

Stepping up the committment

With six-eight weeks to go disaster struck. I got an injury. My regime was such that I didn’t have time to waste. But I couldn’t put proper weight on my right leg when I ran. I nursed myself to fitness by using a death trap contraption known as a ‘cross trainer’ in the gym.

But I decided this warranted a greater commitment to the cause. It was time to have my gait analysed and buy some trainers that actually fitted me. The man in the shop (obviously qualified medical practitioner) said he thought it was my Achilles that was giving me a problem. But some extortionately priced trainers should help, especially by supporting my over-pronating left leg. I paid the man without asking too many questions. 

The final preparations

With my new trainers and my leg feeling much better I embarked on my long runs in the build up to the marathon. After a disastrous day dodging shoppers on Chiswick High Street, I decided to do these along the canal.

First I did 14 miles, then 16, then 18 and finally 20. Although they were gruelling days that I would dread in the days leading up to them, I did the mileage with two weeks to go before the big day. I also have Keith Richards to thank. His audio autobiography got me through some dark dark times.

Speaking of dark times, it was on these long runs that I learnt the hard way about the need for a big tub of Vaseline. On the 16 miler it started hammering down with rain about eight miles away from home. By the time I finished, my sodden erect nipples were bleeding to the extent that they stained my white shirt. I had bought an industrial size pot of the lubricant by the time I went on my next run.