Running Venice Marathon — Pasta and Tears

This was it. October 2016, Marathon #4

2.5 years of training and running Marathons, 3 months of focussed training, 3 hours to beat

American middle-distance runner Steve Prefontaine famously said “somebody might beat me, but they are going to have to bleed to do it”. This is exactly how I felt about Venice. But instead of a rival competitor, it was the clock I was racing. Chasing that elusive sub-3 hour marathon that as an average runner felt like the holy grail of marathon running. The course wouldn’t bleed, but I might, and I was happy and willing to do so. Just this one time. Just so I could claim that 2 fifty something time and stake my claim as a serious amateur runner

A strange calm was with me that early morning as I staggered out of bed to the passenger ferry that would ship me to the bus that would eventually (by 8am or so) take me up to the start line in the middle of the Italian countryside. There were no tourists about at this time, no locals either, only a few shadows with the odd luminous streak of running gear and the unmistakable race-standard pull-bags disappearing around corners in this Dickensian fairytale network of canals, alleys, stone arches and cobbled streets

“How can you run a marathon in Venice?” more than a few people asked me. The truth is you can’t, but you can run 24 miles towards Venice. I knew the race would be largely flat; a pre-requisite for my sub-3 attempt, but I didn’t really know what to expect. In the end, it didn’t matter, I wouldn’t notice any of it, all I needed to know was that if I averaged 6:52 per mile I would achieve my goal, and would forever be able to tell people for whom it meant something that I once ran a marathon in under 3 hours

I was a picture of zen at the start line. Completely focussed. I had one small wobble of frustration as I was crushed in at the front of the 3:15 pen (my previous best time being 3:07). I wanted to be up front with the big boys and girls, with the real runners. I was focused. I breathed deep, I recounted my race strategy, I looked down at my feet…to see a small stream of water building up and running underneath the sole of my bright orange Nike free-runs, the same pair that had carried me over the line in Paris and London. Thats when I realised that the lady stood next to me was no longer stood but crouching, discreetly relieving herself despite the sardine-like crush all around us. Fair play to her I thought, prioritising her race strategy over a small amount of dignity. We briefly caught each others eyes as she was peeing, a strange moment, but I think she could tell I respected her commitment

The news helicopter flew overhead and past the 18th century Villa Pisani, and over towards the small town of Stra, some pop music started playing, a short countdown, I barely noticed, and then we were off

The start was choppy to say the least. People in front moving much more slowly then their 3 hour, or even 3:15 start time would suggest, some behind pushing and shoving through brashly. On another day, in another mood, all of this might have affected me, but not today. Today I was focussed. Today I was going to run my race, I was going to adapt and I was going to execute

I had told lots of people I was shooting for under 3 hours. I thought it would give me that extra desire, extra ammunition. Once you commit publicly to an objective, it’s a really great motivator not to fail

That first mile was the slowest of my first 22 as I tip-toed through the crowd, picking my way through the openings. By the time I hit mile 2 I had caught up with the 3 hour pacers. I decided I would try running with that group for a little while, see what it would be like to run with the pack after so many miles running solo. It was quite fun at first, the steady patter of well timed feet. It reminded me of the book Running with the Kenyans, as the author, Finn, talks about the joys of running in step with a club; in his case a group of former or aspiring elite athletes, for the first time ever I felt like a serious runner, part of a team, it felt good

But it wasn’t my strategy. My strategy was to go out hard, collect as many sub 6:52 miles under my belt as I could before the inevitable fade started and I started to flag. Mile 3. I slowly accelerated away from the 3 hour pacers. I knew they would finish stronger than me so I had to build up a lead. Mile 4, Mile 5, Mile 6. At this point I was putting in steady 6:25–6:30 miles. My breathing was good, my pace was good, conditions were perfect, but it was still early days

My training had been good but by no means perfect. Too many late nights slaving away in the office for a top-tier management consultancy. Too many weekends dedicated to friends weddings (I mean 10 in 1 year?!), too many training sessions missed. “Push too hard and you’ll get injured” my more experienced friends would tell me, “don’t try and make up for training sessions missed” the running blogs said. Guess what? I pushed too hard, I tried to make up for training sessions missed. I strained my glutes

The physio put it down to a weak core and overtraining. It was the hills that did me. Trying to do Sprint intervals, uphill, after an already heavy week of training. I guess you could call that stupid, but try telling a determined runner who has never overdone it, not to overdo it, 99% of the time it will fall upon deaf ears. I needed to recover, and I needed to recover quickly

Thankfully, my 3 week taper plan worked perfectly. A half marathon 2 weeks out, a 10k 1 week out, both at my target race pace, and lots of rest. I felt my leg both times, but both times it wasn’t bad, at this point it was all about body management

So on that mild October morning in the grounds of an old Italian villa I was determined

Mile 7, Mile 8, Miles 9–13. There were live bands, quaint towns and picturesque canals but i didn’t see any of it. It was just me and the road, and my Forerunner 220 buzzing happily every 6 and a half minutes. The halfway mark. 1 hour 25 minutes and some change. Decent. My fastest half marathon by a good few minutes and I still had plenty in the tank. I knew I was going to fade, it was just a question of when and how badly. I kept telling myself it would come, and I just needed to hold on

Drink regularly has always been my approach when running marathons. Drink to thirst, but stay one step ahead of it. A toilet break was inevitable but 45 seconds would be a worthwhile delay if I could reduce the risk of blowing up through dehydration or cramp

Mile 14, 15, 16. I’m holding on. Still banking valuable seconds for my fade that could start hitting me any time now

Mile 17, 18, 19. It’s time to dig deep, by now i’ve teamed up with 2 other runners and we are pushing each other, one of us always holding the pace, giving the others something to focus on. We don’t speak, we don’t need to. We know we’re in it together, we’re all shooting for that sub 3 hour time

There’s lots of discussion about nutrition for marathon running. Most of it very good, of course you have to find what works for you. What worked for me was cutting alcohol and refined sugar (cakes, sweet, etc) out of my diet with 1 month to go. Eating lean and feeling mean. Steamed fish & veg, roasted or grilled chicken, a nice balance of carbs, protein, vitamins & minerals, and much less of the c**p that is so easy to consume in our normal Western diet. I lost quite a few kilos, being a skinny man who doesn’t want to be a skinny man I usually try not to but in this case I let it go. Anything to give me an edge in my race to get under 3 hours, after all, the Kenyans are skinny and they do pretty well. I’m a believer in carb loading, and there’s no better place to do it than Italy. The 2 large pasta dishes I had hoovered up the evening before had kept me strong until now, not to mention they tasted spectacular. But it’s not time to think about food now. Now its about digging in

Mile 20, 21, 22. I’m feeling it now as we wind our way through the Parco San Giuliano towards the long bridge to Venice. But i’m holding on; 6:43, 6:51, 6:52 splits. At this point i’m starting to feel like my sub 3 hour attempt is on, i’ve got a really good chance of cracking it…but i’m going to fade, it’s just when and how badly

And then it happens. Breathing suddenly becomes much harder, the spring goes from your step. It suddenly feels like you can’t reel in the people in front like you could so easily before. You’re still running hard, but certainly it doesn’t feel so fast, it feels clunky. This is where those few weeks of missed training are coming back to haunt you, where the fast pace you started with begins to hurt. Just hold on, just hold on. I hear load breathing behind me as the short lady I passed at mile 14 comes storming past. What an inspiration she is I think, and so do the crowd as they roar her on

Mile 23, we are running over the long bridge into Venice. I’m trying to chase down an old French gentlemen. I know he’s French from the name on his bib and his Cote D’Azur tan. He must be 70 but his body is so ripped. I can’t run him down, he’s getting further away from me. I start to be passed by one or two people for the first time in the race. Not loads of people but its happening

Mile 24 and we’re now into Venice. At this point I figure that the crowds and the stunning sights will give me a boost, keep me distracted, and they do, but not enough to shake off the tired aches and pains that have developed down both arms and both legs, as I pump from side to side

…now, I said I thought Venice was a flat race, and it is, mostly. What I didn’t factor in was the canal bridges, 14 of them in fact, and each one harder than the last. These little bridges which are so easy to walk over when sightseeing are actually pretty steep. So steep that even the strongest wheelchair athletes have to be pushed up and over them (as far as I could see). This is not what I needed at this stage in the race, each one a mini-Everest, taking every ounce of strength I have left to get up and over them. I’m fading badly now. Just hold on

Mile 25, just hold on. I enter St Marks square. I know my wife is here somewhere and i’m scanning for her, I need that boost. 3 English tourists spot my race badge and give me a little whoop, my spirits raise. I see the wife, another boost. I’m almost smiling. But why am I still in St Marks square? The long loop is agony, I thought I was almost done. Come on, just hold on

I’m being passed more frequently now, although there are others around me who, like me, are digging deep

And then I can see it, the finishing line. My brain has gone to jelly, I don’t trust my watch. I’m running hard for the line, squinting for the timer. Then my vision clears. 2:57:11, 12, 13… and i’m done. I stagger over the line, pointing 2 fingers up to the marathon gods, I stagger forward and through the line of stewards. An angel passes me a cup of something hot. It’s black tea pumped full of sugar. At that point it is the best thing i’ve ever tasted and gives me enough energy to stumble out of the end zone and onto a cobbled street where I promptly sit. Right in the middle of the street, exhausted, but happy. I’ve done it. My proudest personal achievement. And I allow myself a few tears. All of the pent up emotion, the physical and mental effort, it’s over. I’m sure I look a pretty strange sight sat in the middle of the street in the centre of Venice with people milling around me, silent tears streaking down my face, but I don’t care. Job done. Target hit. And I never have to try and do it again.

The next 2 days I walk around Venice in a happy daze, a knackered euphoria. Every bite of pizza or gelato feels like a reward, and tastes a million times better because I know i’ve earnt it. The gondola ride; i’ve earnt it. The spa and massage my amazing wife has organised for me, i’ve earnt it, and some quality time with the wife — i’m not sure i’ve earnt it, but she certainly has