You Will Always Remember Your First Marathon
This Was My Ordeal
It was one of those gloriously sunny crisp Autumn mornings. There was hardly any wind at the seafront, as if the elements had conspired to appease the spirits of those facing the prospect of the notorious 42-kilometre run. There was a clear straight line separating sky and sea below which, at the distance, cargo ships awaited their turn to enter the nearby harbour. A group of seagulls floated above us in the morning breeze, crying insistently as if trying to warn us about the challenge ahead.
There are shorter races, there are longer races, but there’s nothing like the mystic surrounding a marathon. The historic and Olympic aura plays a part but there’s something else. It may well be the fact that, contrarily to what happens with shorter distance races, marathon preparation does not typically involve running the actual race distance. For some, it may have been a long time since the last time they did it. First-timers in particular have thus never tested their limits running for so long before. They will have little idea of what awaits for them beyond the longest distance made during training, some 30 km, or maybe a little more.
And neither had I.
And yet here I was, standing among those apprehensive fifteen thousand souls forming the human strip tightly packed behind the starting line. The countdown had commenced for the 13th edition of “The Porto Marathon”, seen by many as the finest and most beautiful piece of marathon running in Portuguese soil. With its course set along the endless blue pane of the Atlantic Ocean and the mellow flow of the Douro River — who together embrace this mantelpiece of orange rooftops and narrow cobblestone streets that form the urban sprawl of this ancient Portuguese town best known worldwide for its eponymous fortified wine — it sure is one thing of beauty.
At nine o’clock sharp the siren sounded with loud music and the day’s host cries of ‘good luck’ thumping through the loudspeakers, shouts of encouragement among fellow runners, running watches set and they’re off.
The initial procession soon gained pace while circling around the green sprawl of Parque da Cidade — the city’s lung and the largest urban park in the country — then into the wide streets of neighbouring Matosinhos, northwards up to Leixões seaport, back to the starting line and then southwards along Avenida Montevideu and all the way down Avenida Brasil.
Months of preparation make this first stretch feel like a pleasant casual run. Here is where many fall prey of pacing themselves too fast, I was told. One imperceptible mistake that will cost them dearly towards the final stages of their effort. Taking heed my main focus was keeping the pace deliberately low while enjoying the views. There was a friendly banter going on. The sun was up and the spirits high. Thoughts of grand achievements cross one’s mind.
Arrábida Bridge (Source)
And thus went the mile-long human snake around the bend from Avenida Brasil on to Passeio Alegre. Running between two lines of palm trees, we are now sided by the Douro River on our right, covered still with the heavy morning mist that in that morning went all the way to the top deck of Arrábida Bridge, engulfing half of its span. An awesome view as we pass kilometre 15, with some five more ahead of us until Porto’s historic centre.
Still feeling strong and relaxed but noticing the friendly banter slowly fading away. Conversations become few and far between and gradually give way to the hum of thousands of feet thumping the asphalt. The sound of heavy breathing of those running close by becomes more perceptible. Running sometimes in sync, runners gaze into the distance while trying to keep their cool.
My section is now entering the historic centre carved along the steep banks of the Douro. As asphalt becomes cobblestone and runners are channelled through the short stretch of narrow alleys into the dock known as Cais da Estiva, the sight of Ponte D. Luis I, the 19th-century double-decked metal arch bridge stapling both sides of this medieval burg, is simply inescapable. This is UNESCO World Heritage land with ambience to match. After a teasing short steep ramp, we cross the bridge’s 170 metre lower deck on to where the port wine cellars line up one after the other.
Porto Historic Centre (Source: Unknown)
While passing the half-marathon mark along the south bank the views are those of a postcard. The waterfall of colour formed by the conglomeration of renewed multi-century-old houses seems to cascade down into the blue pane of the Douro. Slowly as initially intended I reach this point after 2:02 hours. Yet being effort an exponential function of time and distance the challenge is still far behind its midpoint.
From kilometre 20, each five-kilometre-station provides energy drinks and food such as bananas and dried fruit. Bananas were good but I’ve stuck with my usual energy gel to be safe. The kilometres started to mount but fortunately, a great deal of the south bank is sheltered by the shade of the steep river bank and buildings. The race followed the river course until the Douro’s estuary and Afurada’s Marina, where we made our turn back and shortly after ran past the 25-kilometre station. Picked up a sponge; squeezed it over my head. Nice.
Somehow the same views on the way back seemed less awesome. The initial thoughts of grand goals seemed now pathetic and delusional. The pace was about 5:45 minutes per kilometre which would translate in just over a 4-hour marathon time. It would have and should have been indeed. But somebody must have stretched the distance back to the historic centre into a few more kilometres. Yes, that must have been it.
But eventually, there it was again: the ancient magnificent bridge, yet not as magnificent as before for some reason. Through its lower deck and back to the north bank, the race continued further upstream. In this section of the course, the riverbank is made, here and there, by stretches of a vertical natural wall of granite several meters high, which deflects heat on to the road like a massive radiator. Not something one notices when driving or walking leisurely by but, I swear, rather perceptible when running past kilometre 30, which I have reached at the glorious time of 2:55:41.
Feeling not too bad but then… it started. Slowly but surely.
Now at kilometre 32, never the prospect of ten kilometres seemed such a long distance. Ever. When people talk about how completing a marathon can be an epic unforgettable experience as well as a gruelling physical and emotional test to one’s own limits — this is it!
Some call it “the wall”, which always led me to imagine something one would hit hard, at some magical and unforgiving point. For me, it was nothing of the sort. Instead it was what is best described as a gradual shutting down of the systems that keep one’s body standing.
Following the river back towards the sea the only thing that kept my senses together was trying to look as good as possible past kilometre 35 where I knew my family was waiting to cheer me on. A goal as good as any other, I thought. So these were three kilometres trying to divert my mind away from the mounting discomfort into positive thoughts or into nothingness of mind. Sure enough there they were and it was all sheering, smiling, and high-fiving.
So, this thing. It doesn’t feel like an acute physical pain. It is more like a sense that the last drop of energy has left your body. You insist on going but the sense you are running on an empty tank can be overwhelming. Your legs sort of move, as your body struggles over each step, conscious that there is only one way to the finish line. And that is onwards!
A gradual shut down of the system that reminds me a plain whose engines stop, systems send consecutive failure notices and cockpit lights shut off one after the other. And then that dreadful silence. Nothing but the aerodynamic noise out there in the immensity of Earth’s lower stratosphere. The only chance is that there is enough inertia for a controlled and skillful glide down to some runway still miles away. This is one moment that pilots put in thousands of hours for. Hopefully, they will pay off now.
The gradual shut down of my system allowed me no more than focusing on placing one step after the other on that heavy glide along Avenida Brasil. The asphalt now deflects the blinding glare of the midday sun, as I count each of those last five kilometres towards the finishing line. The clear notion that I had really done it came only at the 41 kilometre sign — until then, I was never sure of it. The end, of the 42,195 metres epic, was just around the corner now. There was a red carpet, which was nice. Time: 04:22:20.
Will always remember.
