13. Behind the Scenes. The Man with the Hammer

     When you’re training for a full marathon, you get to experience a nice blend of known things with others that you discover yourself. You’ve read about it a lot, but still there are quite a few that you won’t find in any articles. 

    They tell you that it’s going to be hard and you need discipline to make it. Well, I don’t know how hard it would be if you were to start from couch to marathon, but, if you’ve run a few halves and you’re practicing regularly, it’s just normal hard and the discipline you kind of have. Actually, after 50 sessions it’s more difficult to skip one than to run it. Take my honest word for it. 

They also tell you that training for a marathon is different than for any other race, from one point of view at least: you never get to run the full race before the race. You’re training up to ¾ of the full length. You know that but, at least for the first time, you don’t realise what it really means. You’ll learn by doing it. 

What they don’t tell you is about the man with a hammer. I’m not talking about the famous hammer metaphor used in design patterns (if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail to you), as juicy and tempting that one is. I’m talking about a mean midget wielding a big hammer that has memento mori carved on his handle who’s skulking around waiting for the right moment to strike. You don’t know where and when he’ll strike. For some he’ll hit the chest (very much like my sniper some time ago), making them gasp for air. In other cases it’s the head - making them almost faint. Of course, the legs are some of the preferred targets. As for when - it can be anytime, mostly when you’ve covered a substantial distance, but it can be earlier as well, if you’re far too enthusiastic in the beginning. 

I managed to avoid him for a good part of my training. Sure, there were Sunday mornings when I ran after some feel-good Saturdays and I had to push and pull and drag myself considerably, but no hammer struck me. It came towards the end...

I was running the 32 length (the longest in the training, just 2 weeks before the race) and I was feeling fantastic. After 28km I managed to even quicken up my pace a bit and I think I had all the good drugs released in my body and my mind was following just nicely. I was in the flow: if you run or cycle long distances, you know the feeling. Then a thought crossed my mind: what if I run it now? After all, I had run two thirds of it, I was feeling excellent, why not? (I told you I was on drugs!). Very happy with my decision, I began sketching a route in my mind that would avoid the temptation of going home. When I reached 30 km it hit me. Suddenly and heavily: I had the same feeling you have on the very first day at ski, when you’re adjusting your body to walk with the ski boots on, everything being unnatural and haaaard. Extremely strange feeling: the legs are heavy, your body tired and battered. On top of this, your mind is following in misery as well: you don’t want anyone to see you in that state, striving to put one leg in front of the other, crawling home. Curiously, your watch is measuring a slightly lower speed, but just a bit lower, nothing compared to your agony, but it feels like you’re moving backwards, so hard it is. It was one of the very very few times when I ran the target and walked home the remaining distance. Luckily only half kilometer left - the new adventurous route was abandoned the very moment I got the ski boots on!

What else do they tell you? That you’re alone. They wrote books and songs and made films about the loneliness of the long distance runner, so you kind of get that. Even if you’re running with friends, it’s just you out there. With your own thoughts and flow. What they don’t tell you is that you’re alone outside the race as well, when you’re constantly made fun of by your own family. They think that your preoccupation with maintaining a light and lithe body around the race time (not working much on it, though, to be honest) and the concern of one kilo is just a whim. Truth is, when you want to run such distances, every hundred grams count. And you feel bound to share that with your loved ones. And what do you get from your own daughter, blood from your own blood, while she is enjoying a glass of white wine with a large grin?  “Good that I am not sixteen anymore to have these problems”. 

But the biggest secret of such a journey, the Chuck Norris of the secrets if you want, is that no one can possibly tell you how thrilling this is and how exciting you become to go on the race. And how your stomach shrinks at the mere thought that in a week you’ll not be out for your regular many kilometres, but for something that you’ll be doing for the very first time in your life. And maybe the only time. When you look back and see that five months ago you managed to beat the sniper (or was it the man with the hammer then?) and have your first 8km of uninterrupted run ever, your stomach shrinks even further. 

Then the excitement shapes into a warm form of anxiety. And you know there’s only one way to dispel it: set the first step into the race.