The day we ran the marathon

The day we ran the marathon

The day before the marathon is a bit of a jittery affair. My friend advises me to hydrate but the more I drink the more I pee. It’s a case of ‘in one end and out the other’. I try to be careful with what I eat but I really don’t feel like eating much. Bread, bananas, a scone, almonds and a nice crunchy apple. I do some window shopping in New Market to pass the time.

Then it’s a quick stop at the supermarket for last minute supplies. The race-pack-pick-up, in central Auckland, is more relaxed than I thought it would be. People have time to chat. We try on snazzy gear, take some pics, get talked into buying stuff. We grab brochures on future marathons - London, New York. . . Ha ha! Full of nervous optimism.

I leave with several products designed to get me through the 42.2 kms  - most notably a blackcurrant miracle potion that will ‘give me a boost and help me recover’. I’m all for ‘boosting’ of any sort, and ‘recovering’ sounds like a good idea as well.

For dinner I make my pearl barley masterpiece -  a vegetarian concoction of onions, mushrooms, pearl barley, coriander and peas. We jaz it up with smoked salmon and salad. A nice glass of merlot would round things off but the four o’clock start weighs heavy on our minds.

Before bed we try on outfits. The daughter has splashed out on new leggings and a T shirt. I have dragged some things from the hall cupboard. In the end, we both settle on our old faithfuls. She, her pink singlet and me, my purple T shirt with eight year old nike bike shorts.

We head to bed at 9 o’clock. We will need to be up at four, away by 4:30 am. It’ll take an hour to get into the city, which gives us 45 mins to shower, dress, eat and ablute.

When the alarm goes I’m already awake. At four o’clock I take a long hot shower and, putting breakfast off, I end up balancing a bowl of oats on my knee in the car. There is the usual nervousness around the topic of bowel movements. Unfortunately, for me, the Metamucil hasn’t yet taken effect.

Luckily the traffic isn’t too bad. We are driven to the start line by our friend Sonya who is also providing our accomodation. She skillfully nabs a carpark. 

The daughter and I queue up nervously at the porta loos, along with several thousand others. There are around 16,000 runners registered. I will be carrying my trusty water bottle and there are 9 gels crammed into my waist belt. I also have my mobile and half a metre of handi towel for nose blowing purposes. The daughter is travelling more lightly with just the one gel.

With numbers pinned to our fronts we head into the fray. In the dark, with music blasting, you could be forgiven for thinking you’d arrived at a rock concert. The atmosphere is festive. 

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, The hooter goes and we’re off, making our way through the streets of Devonport. 

The first ‘aid’ station in Winscombe Street.

The whole thing feels altogether weird and wonderful.

There is haka.

And some singing.

And settling nervously in for the long haul.

There is hitting your stride.

And finding your pace.

And feeling more excited than you thought.

At the 5 km mark I have spotted the 5 hr pacer balloon and decide to try and keep this goal in sight. I reckon five hours has a nice realistic ring to it.

The daughter is chasing the balloon that says 3 hr 30 min. She left me at the start line!

It’s not too long before we hit the harbour bridge. I prepare for the steady climb. An older woman passes me (the only other ‘oldie’ I have seen). She looks like she’s done this a hundred times before. Head down, determined stride. In her early seventies, I’d say.

I decide to strike up a conversation. And, before long, we are sharing anecdotes and life stories to pass the time.

We introduce ourselves.

She tells me she is from the Netherlands but has been in NZ since 1971. She has been a nurse all her life and when she turned 67 decided she needed to keep moving.

By all accounts she’s never looked back. Biking. Swimming. Climbing. Her current goal is to do the Ironman.

I find inspiration in her energy, in her straight forward gutsy approach to life.

She tells me she had a heart attack (‘just a small one, mind’) a year ago. 

“I had a stent put in. The doctor told me I should do no more than 10 mins exercise a day. “

‘On what research is this based’ she asked, before promptly signing up for the Wanaka Challenge.

Coming from the south I have heard of the Wanaka challenge. It is certainly no walk in the park. This is a woman to be reckoned with.

We decide to stick together for a while. Walk if we need to.

Turns out my new companion is, at heart, a cyclist. And I was wrong about her being a pro. Like me, this is her first marathon attempt. Time passes easily with chatter and small talk.

And before we know it we are off the bridge and heading towards Victoria Park where Sonya is waiting with a banana.

I am sooo pleased to see her and I slow down to introduce her to my running mate.

But Sonya is not interested in introductions. “Just keep running,” she laughs, waving me forwards. “Hurry up,” she urges. I take the hint, chug down the banana and fling the skin in a bin.

Soon we have hit the half way mark. 21.1 kms.

Around the next bend a Samoan guy is waving an All Black flag. I’d completely forgotten about the rugby.

“Did we win?” I call, referring to the All Blacks game against Ireland.

“Of course,” he says, with a grin. “Easy!”

It’s 8:30 now and people are coming out of their houses to cheer us on.

Some offer fruit and sweets, and kindly advice.

“Good work.” “Well done.” “Looking good.” 

The two ‘old ladies’ are getting plenty of support. “Keep it up, girls.”

I am pleased to have the 5 hr balloon still in sight. But starting to feel a bit ragged at the same time.

Heading in the other direction, on the homeward stretch, are runners with the 3 hr pacemakers. Knowing the daughter is aiming to finish in 3.5 hrs I keep my eyes peeled.

And there she is! Pretty in pink.  “Hey!” 

She’s looking good. Fresh, even. She waves and slows down.

“Have you got a spare gel, Mum?”

Of course I do. I have 9! I unzip one from the pouch and hurl it her way. 

“Looking good!” I say. “Keep it up!” 

At this point she has only 5 kms to go. Her mum, on the other hand, has 18. 

Aaahhh. . . It’s starting to get hot now and its more difficult to make conversation. I am thinking I might need to strike out on my own. There is still such a long way to go.

The sun is high now and the temperature is climbing.

I take another port a loo stop, cursing the pre-race Metamucil that is now completely over-stepping the mark.

The course winds its way along Tamaki Drive. We pass through Otaku Bay and Mission Bay. At St Helliers the course then loops back to Victoria Park. It’s starting to feel tough.  It’s all heads down, bums up. Total concentration. I team up with another woman who is looking about as knackered as I feel.

“I’m over this,” she says.

I know exactly how she feels.

We continue our weary plod. I take a short walk while she trudges ahead. Then I catch her up and pass. We continue this way for about half an hour.

I visit port-a-loo number 4. My nurse friend has fallen a bit behind but is making steady progress.

Finally I can see the 30 km mark, which feels like a huge milestone. 

But I realise, with a tinge of disappointment, that I have lost sight of the 5 hr balloon. People around me are starting to have problems. A woman has slowed up with a swollen ankle i.  A young man is being treated for cramp on the roadside. Weariness is definitely settling in. The kms tick quietly on. 33kms, 34 kms, 35 kms. 

I know I need a boost and I should be taking the gels that slosh around in my waist belt. But the thought of it makes my stomach turn. I’ve had plenty of Powerade, which tastes sickly sweet. I’ve also had a jelly bean and a jet plane. Oh, and, the banana! That feels like enough for now.

At the 36km mark I am running alongside an Asian women who is obviously struggling. We strike up a conversation.

Turns out she has run 15 marathons - all in Thailand.

“Much hotter there,” she tells me, possibly prompted by the sight of the sweat pouring off my face.

At this point, I decide to try and pick up my pace. I still feel like I have a wee bit of gas in the tank.

Strangely, I am enjoying the run more than I thought. The scenery is magnificent. I’m loving the street entertainment and the chit chat with other runners. I like the camaraderie of it. I feel physically knackered, but in control. My legs are achey sore but I’m okay.

I am happy to still be on my feet and, although I feel pretty slow, I think I’m gonna make it. I don’t feel thirsty or hungry or too uncomfortable. My feet feel good. The tops of my legs ache like crazy, but that’s to be expected.

Distracting myself with random thoughts a few more kms tick by.

Then, with just 2 kms to go I feel a surge of energy and excitement. There is still a hill to climb but surely then it’s all downhill. I consider taking a walk break but change my mind.

I can do this!

I really think I can.

And I do.

I make the last two kms without a stop. Slowly but surely. 

I cross the finish line at 5 hrs 6 mins and 11 seconds.

I can’t quite believe it. 

It takes a minute to sink in.

I have actually run a marathon. 

At 60!

Well. . . 

Who would have thought!

P.S. - The daughter beat the 3.5 hr balloon home and crossed the line in 3 hrs 26 mins.

She was rapt!