And Then They Played The Cranberries
The highest of runner’s highs
The training cycle had been a disaster. Foot pain at the turn of the year gave way to a knee issue. A few weeks of positivity then preceded a hamstring strain that put my ability to race in jeopardy.
I did the rehab and I hoped. That was all I could do. I hadn’t run for almost four weeks when Judgement Day came. In the beautiful Croatian city of Split, a 5km plod in the spring sunshine stood between me and being declared able to run the 2023 edition of the Ibiza 22K in six days.
Could I still feel my hamstring? Of course, I could. But the sensation was manageable and I had completed the run prescribed to me by my physio.
More concerning was how unfit I felt and how intense running in the sun had been.
PSA: Outdoor winter training in the UK does not prepare you for a spring race in Southern Europe.
Four days later, I did my rehab work at the gym for the last time pre-race before flying from Manchester to Ibiza. My girlfriend was joining me as she was running in the 12K. Our flight was significantly delayed and we arrived late in the evening. Good start.
The next day (Race Day -1), we found an Italian restaurant that would become our carbs station for the next 24 hours. I’m sure they appreciated the custom, even though it meant serving me the same pasta dish three times. I got my bib from the expo and purchased an extra water bottle.
The hamstring survived a shakeout jog made uncomfortable by, you guessed it, the heat. Then I tried to get some rest.
Whatever Happens, Just Finish
I would not describe what I did before the race began as a “warm-up”. I loosened up a bit, sure, but I spent plenty of time sitting down in the shade. So did many others. It was hot.
The atmosphere at the start line was immense. Two or three kilometres in, a DJ was stationed in the middle of a field, blaring out dance tunes as we went past. Very Ibiza.
I was really struggling though. Starting the race with a water bottle in my hand had been an excellent decision. I offered my drink to an ailing participant, but they declined. I think they were Irish, so they were probably finding the heat difficult to cope with as well. I hope they got through ok.
The race went on and on. My research had deceived me: the course was hillier than I had anticipated. I was feeling unfit again. The weeks spent out of action had caught up with me already.
Still, I meandered through the beautiful Ibizan countryside, boosted by the occasional “Vamos!” from those locals kind enough to offer us their support. Side note: Ibizans are great.
The physio had warned me against running too fast because I risked tearing my hamstring and being out of action for months. No danger of that, I was going so slow that I may as well have been going backwards.
Whatever happens, just finish.
Medics attended to a runner who was down on the floor, most likely with heatstroke.
The plan to save my last energy gel until a certain point went out of the window. There would be more water stations up ahead and, with the help of hydration, I backed myself to dig deep at the end.
Whatever happens, just finish.
The Highest of Runner’s Highs
We had met the marathoners quite early on. With a few kilometres to go, the 12K circuit merged into ours so that everybody had the same grandstand finish through Santa Eulària des Riu.
The locals were out in force. I was able to understand a pleasing amount of their encouraging words, so at least my Spanish practice had been working (we’ll ignore the volunteer at the expo who insisted on conversing in English, probably out of respect for their own time).
With a few kilometres to go, we passed by a band playing on a roundabout. I was very tired, and if you want evidence of this, just know that my average heart rate for this run was 186BPM. One hundred and eighty-six. For 22 kilometres.
We hit a bend and then passed the band from the other side.
And then they played The Cranberries.
I recognised the opening notes of “Zombie” instantly. It’s one of my favourite songs, as the people who endure me singing it can attest to.
I powered along with a smile on my face. I sang the lyrics and got them mixed up in the same place that I always do. That in itself offered some respite.
One can only imagine what my fellow runners thought of the weird guy singing “it’s not me” under his breath.
The band was now behind me in the distance but the song was, please forgive me, in my head.
“With their tanks, and their bombs, and their bombs, and their guns”. Not very Ibiza.
“In your heeeeeeeeead, in your heeeeeeeeead”.
Imagine if I had stayed injury-free and been able to run at a pace that put me beyond the band before they played this song. I would have missed out on this experience.
The highest of runner’s highs. The peak of my running life to this point.
I had won races as a kid. I had competed regionally and nationally. But this, this is why we run.
I was not in a very good place during the early months of 2023. Training for this race had offered me a sense of direction, but even then, I had been blown off course.
For the time that I was singing along to “Zombie” by The Cranberries while running along a road in Ibiza, surrounded by people realising their own excellence, I knew mental peace. I felt genuine, impenetrable joy.
Of course, it didn’t last. I finished the race strongly and felt wonderful at the finish line. But normal life soon resumes and you have to move on.
Whatever happens, though, I finished. And I’ll always have that time when that band played The Cranberries.
They’ll never know how grateful I am.
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