Here we go again...

On October 2^nd, as you may already know, I am planning on running my fourth marathon, this time in Loch Ness, just 9 weeks after my third. Why?

Simple. I owe the running community a debt, and I am very much looking forward to repaying it. The story goes like this:

In summer 2008, through a complicated series of events, I found myself struggling through the first (8.1 mile) leg of the Edinburgh Marathon relay. It was the furthest distance I had ever run. Wearing swimming shorts, cheap and nasty trainers and some elderly ‘sports socks’, I laboured through the distance and finished wheezing, hobbling and generally ruined. It was my first taste of participation in a marathon and I wanted more.

That night I hosted a post-race party at my flat for marathon and relay runners. My friends who had run the whole thing modestly basked in their success and I grew increasingly jealous of their new, elevated status as marathoners. But when a few of the other relay runners got together and bandied about the suggestion of doing the whole thing the following year, my stomach filled with dread. There was no way I could actually run 26.2 miles, and more than that I didn’t want others to make the transition without me, thinking that if none of us made the step up, then no-one would feel left behind. As far as I was concerned, the idea was shelved.

But as summer gave way to autumn my interest in the concept gnawed away at me. Even before the first week of my final year of University, I knew I wanted to run a marathon. I joined the Cross Country Club in the hope of finding a short-cut to success, and found no short cuts but plenty of people willing to show me the long road. With a small amount of convincing, I even found someone willing to accompany me all the way – my friend Alex agreed to come to Paris and run the marathon there with me.

More than that, Alex set the benchmark. He encouraged me to enter other races through the Cross Country Club, which he captained, and later helped me round the longer training runs. Even when he struggled and I actually found myself in the stronger role, it was him who reigned in my pace and helped me make the most of my fitness.

When it came to race day a lot of things happened. More detail is in my old race report. But suffice to say that without Alex there is no way I would have got into running in a serious way, much less become capable of completing one, let alone three or four marathons.

When I got back from Paris I was enthused and immediately determined to pass on the knowledge I had so recently been given. Just as Alex had supported me, I needed someone to support, too. After a little more convincing than Alex needed, I somehow convinced my brother to run the Dublin Marathon with me, just six months away at that point. If you’ve been reading this blog for some time, you may know that this went horribly wrong and Nick ended up running the whole bloody thing on his own.

So the way I see it, I still owe the running community this debt of guidance and support.

When Ben asked me to join him in running the Loch Ness Marathon, I knew I would be saying yes. I’m still sore from the Great North Run and the barefoot adventures, still not really recovered from 'leaving it all out there' in San Francisco, and I haven’t I got a decent pair of shoes to run in as both of mine are knackered. Regardless of the awkward timing, irrelevant of the challenges of the rest of my race schedule, this is my opportunity to finally give back, even if it is a bit hilly. Above all I get to spend 26.2  miles with a close friend whom I rarely see.

I can’t wait.

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 952, parkruns: 6, races: 5, miles biked: 83.24, metres swum: 1225 

P.S. Ben is running Loch Ness in memory of Marian Thomas, to raise money for the Women's Fund for Scotland. Read more here.

Race Report - Great North Run 2011 (aka The Ballad of Barefoot Dave part 4)

I don’t think I have ever been so nervous before a race.

The night before had put me at ease. By a strange series of events we ended up staying in the Gateshead Hilton, which (unbeknownst to us) happens to be the official race hotel. We mixed with the elite athletes at mealtimes and in the bar, the whole place seemingly given over to the event. I even had the opportunity to meet Mo Farah and bother him for a photograph. I never feel particularly comfortable interrupting celebrities when I see them in a private context, but I just couldn’t resist talking to the newly-crowned 5,000m world champ and getting him to autograph my race number. Evidence:

We swapped tips

But I woke up on race morning with ultimate fear. I’m pretty sure I would have been nervous anyway. The incredible anticipation of finally running the Great North Run, an iconic, aspirational event which I’ve watched on TV for years, was enough to make me jittery with excitement in the days and hours running up to it. But something about the barefoot plan was making me even more nervous. I felt like I had agreed to a duel but left my pistols at home, constantly troubled by that feeling of dread when you get off a train or a bus and realise you’ve left your bag on your seat. Essentially, I spent the race morning observing that to run a half marathon, you need to wear shoes, and I was definitely not...

Then again, I was wearing shoes, of sorts. I went for the Vibrams in the end, and I’m so glad I did. As we shall see.

I decided to walk from the hotel to the start line, a distance of probably about 2.5 miles once I’d got to my starting zone. I needed the time to relax, loosen up, get my head in the game and feel comfortable in the Vibrams. The short walk in the cool morning air was ideal and definitely represented the calm before the storm.

I had hoped to meet Aye Aye Jenny Mackay at the start so we could run together, but our poorly-planned rendez-vous never materialised and sadly we didn’t manage to see each other at all. The crowds were just too enormous. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many people, ever. With 54,000 runners, the GNR is unfathomably massive in every way, and there was simply no hope of us catching one another. Such is life. I did have the privilege of watching the elite women warm up (in what seemed like a bizarre zoo-like enclosure, athletes pacing like caged lions and us plebs peering in through the bars), and particularly pleased to see the British trio of Clitheroe, Pavey and Yamauchi. After the ubiquitous bag check, queue for the loo and hunt for my starting zone, I was in and ready for the off.

After the sad passing of Flt. Lt. Egging of the Red Arrows a few weeks ago, there had been murmurings that the team might not make an appearance at this year’s GNR. The image of the Red Arrows’ flypast over the Tyne Bridge is a huge part of the GNR’s identity, so it would have been a very sad loss if they weren't able to attend. But rather than pack it in they went one better and made an additional, early flypast over the starting line – flying in the ‘Missing Man’ formation, Red 4 (Flt Lt Egging’s position) trailing red smoke and creating an image of fond remembrance. An inspiring moment.

Ten minutes after the gun fired, I was over the line, and within half a mile I was having to consciously alter my stride to accommodate for the rough, broken road surface and try to protect my ruined ankles. Early twinges in my ankles and the balls of my feet made me nervous, but the atmosphere made it almost impossible to think of anything but utter, unconfined running joy. The runners, the crowds, the Red Arrows, the shouts of ‘Oggy Oggy Oggy’ in tunnels and the sheer scale of the whole mad shebang are indescribable. I can’t tell you – you’ll just have to run this race.

I made it onto the Tyne Bridge just before the Red Arrows got there, crossing the structure with the red, white and blue smoke streaming out overhead. The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco was humbling, the Forth Road Bridge during the Scotland Kilomathon was majestic, but the Tyne Bridge, with those pilots overhead, there, then, was a moment that will stay with me for a very long time indeed. I knew Linds would be stationed at the ‘third, no the second, no the third lamppost after the pillar. Or the third one after the bridge. I’ll be next to a lamppost anyway’, toting a camera and ready to snap a great picture. Unfortunately, I am a prat and was a bit overexcited by the whole experience, so I look like this:

From here it was business as usual, with the focus on keeping my poor feet from too much abuse. The miles ticked along at a relatively relaxed pace, averaging 8:45 minutes/mile, roughly the same speed as those around me. And with quite so many people around me, I had very little choice. This race is so densely-packed with runners that you would struggle to break free from the zone you started in, unless you were prepared to invest a lot of time and energy in weaving between other runners. Thank goodness there are so many others, though. The course itself is less-than inspiring for the majority of it, passing through industrial areas, motorway overpasses and repetitive housing estates for miles. However, the riot of colour, noise and passion from the runners brings this fairly drab landscape to life and makes the race all the more amazing. Setting a big race in London or Paris or San Francisco is one thing, because the scenery does most of the work. Here the race is self-affirming; it just works because it’s always been here, not because here is somewhere particularly special. What an amazing achievement.

With a vastly varied road surface I was struggling to find rhythm and comfort in the Vibrams, at some points resorting to running on the white lines in search of something a little softer than the nasty road. I struggled with everything from rough tarmac to concrete to areas where the rain had washed grit onto the road. But I was managing the pain and discomfort relatively well.

Until the heavens opened.

I’ve blogged before about how well the Vibrams work in the dry, but in the wet the thick rubber lives up to its name and rubs, viciously, all the way down to the bone and out the other side, then several inches into the road, too. It’s agony. The rain started as just a thin, welcome drizzle, then proceeded into a crescendo of massive, heavy rainfall that sent spectators scurrying to bus shelters and elicited a range of impassioned responses from runners.

I was probably 9 miles in when the rain really kicked in, and I knew that I really didn’t have far to go. Based on the time-honoured maxim that if you run faster it’s over quicker, I picked up the pace and started an overtaking campaign. There are some nasty hills in the GNR, but nothing compared to San Francisco or my months of training in Edinburgh, so I felt confident in pushing up the hills and planning to cruise down, a strategy which worked reasonably well until the very last descent to the seafront. In the wet, the Vibrams become slick and unpredictable, and I came off the crest of the last hill at full whack, only to find myself hurtling down the other side and very, very close to falling over onto my face. After some manic arm-waving I managed to slow down and take the sharp turn at the bottom without incident, but it put the fear of God into me and I took a few moments to recover.

Some distance before I reached the sea, a spectator had shouted ‘only a mile to go!’ and I had got rather excited and sped up. If pushed, I could have summoned my knowledge of the course which would have told me that the 12 mile marker was still some way off, but I wanted to believe him and allowed my feet to think about some respite. When the 12 mile point did finally arrive it really was all over bar the shouting and I joined in with a few others who had picked up the pace for the final furlong.

800 to go, 400 to go, 200 to go, finish. A last-gasp sprint for the camera to finish in 1:54:44 and then a slow, laboured walk to collect a medal, t-shirt and eventually be released back into society. Linds was waiting for me at our agreed RV where we eventually managed to meet up with Louise and swap a few war stories, me hobbling around trying to adjust to the incredible pain in my feet. I wasn’t brave enough to take off the Vibrams for some time, knowing that a combination of the ache from the impact, blisters from the sore spots and probably some skin missing from the rubbing points would be pretty awful to witness. They were better than I thought, in the end. But not much. My toes ache. My calves are very tight. My feet basically feel like I ran a half marathon barefoot yesterday...

Even with my leisurely pace I came in 9,169^th place from a field of 37,491 finishers, which puts me in the top 24%. This is definitely more of an indication of the slow average finish time rather than my own impressive performance, as the race is clearly popular with beginners, and it was a shame to see so many ambulances tending to those who probably hadn’t respected the challenge they were undertaking. The drop-out rate is enormous: 54k places for 37k finishers.

Would I run another road race in the Vibrams? Probably not. But I am glad that I ran this race at a necessarily slower pace, purely to soak up the atmosphere and enjoy the company of so many other runners. And it was a pleasure and an honour to run for the Alzheimer’s Society. Thank you for your support, I am delighted to see that after a flurry of last-minute donations (possibly from people hedging their bets?) that I have reached my £500 target. You could still help me surpass it if you felt really cool and groovy – check out www.justgiving.com/barefootdave. Thanks so much, it’s been immense.

Happy running

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 940.95, parkruns: 6, races: 5, miles biked: 83.24, metres swum: 1225 

The Ballad of Barefoot Dave - part three

I have had blisters before. I am a runner, it comes with the territory. I’ve had huge, bulbous ones on the balls of my feet, weird tiny ones underneath my toes, nasty blood-filled ones on my insteps and bizarre pointy ones on my big and smallest toes. I’ve got rather good at managing them; I lance them without a thought, drain the nasty fluids as a matter of course and clean them up, tape them down and generally keep my feet in as good a condition as possible given the circumstances. In fact I’m so good at managing them that I almost look forward to getting them.

Until I started the barefoot challenge, which is now just ten days away...

It wasn’t until I started running barefoot that I learnt the true misery of having blisters on my heels. Huge, deep and angry blisters, sitting proud of the wide, fleshy part of the underside of both heels, slightly towards the outside and unbelievably uncomfortable. I first felt them developing on a short, 4 mile barefoot run in the Vibrams, when I thought I had a pebble lodged under my left foot. When I peeled the Vibrams off, there was no pebble. And in places, no heel either. I don’t know what Trench Foot looks like, but I suspect it’s not dissimilar to what’s currently brewing at the bottom of my legs.

In a cruel twist of fate, the barefoot adventure is otherwise going rather well. The enormous strain on my calves is reducing, and I’m very quickly improving my speed as a result. If it weren’t for the blisters, my confidence levels for Barefoot Dave’s Great North Run would be sky-high. As it is I am getting increasingly afraid...

That said, I have to admit: I am loving this challenge. It feels like I’m revisiting the early part of my running journey, learning loads and improving relatively quickly. Everything is new again and yet strangely familiar. It’s like wandering around a house you used to live in. However, I can guarantee that there’ll be no PB chalked up in South Shields. I can just about manage to maintain 9 minute miles in the Vibrams, which means there is a real chance that I might not even break two hours. And looking at these blisters, I should probably call myself lucky to finish at all.

Once the main trial in Newcastle is over, I’ll definitely be reducing my barefoot road mileage, as the strain is really too much for me at the moment and probably isn’t helping my long-term racing prospects. I was struck by this thought on my latest barefoot jaunt. I am fortunate in that I can easily remove the aggravating factor in my life and return to comfort and normality. This brings into sharp relief the fact that the opposite is true for sufferers of Alzheimer’s Disease. Whose suffering is daily, degenerative and incurable. Whose only hope for relief is high quality care for themselves and support for their loved ones. Who have no escape from the aggravating factor of their lives.

I am humbled and delighted that so many of you have put your hands in your pockets for this cause (even though most have come with an impressive supply of abuse). If you haven't already, please help me make a small difference to a big problem.  Donate even a few pounds online at www.justgiving.com/barefootdave

Thank you.

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 907.78, parkruns: 6, races: 4, miles biked: 83.24, metres swum: 1225 

Best run of the year

At less than two miles, it was the shortest run of the year. Before breakfast, barely awake, with my shoes landing lazily on the stone pavement, it was probably also one of the slowest. There was no music, no crowd, no medal, no PB, no watch and no pressure.

In six hours’ time, my brother would be getting married. The day would be hectic and wonderful and joyously good fun, with an almost unavoidable undercurrent of stress and pressure for those of us entrusted with wedding-related responsibility.

But right now, at 8am and in the warm, dappled, early morning sun, my brother and I are jogging lightly through the streets of north Oxford; chatting about this and that, pointing out interesting cars, and running.  Same as always.

It was the best run of the year.

Happy days.

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 853.49*, parkruns: 6, races: 4, miles biked: 78.47, metres swum: 1225 

*I have now surpassed my 2010 total of 851 miles. Crikey.

The Ballad of Barefoot Dave - part two

Ow. Why am I doing this?

I am tempted to leave this post at that. I believe it covers most of the bases.

My strategy for simultaneously approaching Barefoot Dave’s Great North Run and the Loch Ness Marathon seemed logical: my midweek miles would be relatively short and barefoot, leaving my weekend runs to be long and in shoes. This way I could build up just about enough experience to make it through the barefoot adventure whilst maintaining my distance discipline in preparation for Loch Ness. Genius.

As usual, not genius. Just as happened after I ran 1:34 in Alloa, the sheer effort of running a big PB in San Francisco has taken a lot out of me. Things just don’t seem to click when I go out running at the moment. Except my ankles, which click a lot. It’s hard to tell whether the enormous pain in my calves is due to the barefoot training or a full-body marathon hangover from SF. Or indeed due to an ordinary hangover, as I am allowing myself occasional drinks again. I went for a 5-miler in the Vibrams last week and I stepped in a huge puddle hidden from view – four steps later they began to rub excruciatingly, grating away the skin on the top of a right foot-knuckle (probably not the correct term but you get the idea). Obviously, this happened when I was furthest from home and I had several more painful miles to cover before gaining any relief. My chest is still weird, my stomach’s still weird and do I really have to go back to work every day!? I’m all over the place and rapidly running out of time. I’m starting to wonder if this challenge is a run too far.

Just yesterday, however, I realised that I’ve been seeking answers without understanding the question. I’ve been approaching this from a running perspective, which is of course trivial and egotistical. Walking home from work, in a moment of absolute clarity, I finally stumbled across the perspective that a lot of charity runners are able to gain. How stupid and callous of me to be worrying about a clicking ankle or a little ache in my muscles. How petty to be complaining that I’m finding it difficult to run nine miles at 8 minutes/mile. How insensitive to call these problems.

Dementia is a problem. An incurable, degenerative, life-altering problem. This isn’t a run too far, it’s just a tiny step in the right direction. You can help make things better for sufferers, right now.

www.justgiving.com/barefootdave

Thanks folks, you’re the best.

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 845.28, parkruns: 6, races: 4, miles biked: 78.47, metres swum: 1225 (dangerously on track to record my first zero-mile week since January 2010! Busy busy busy!)

P.S. If you missed part one, it's here.

Reflections (3:49 and all that)

I’ve done a lot of thinking about SF. So much happened in such a short space of time that it’s taken me a while to get my head around it all, and particularly to contextualise that new PB. On a basic level, cutting such a large amount of time off my personal best in one race is unusual – it would have been much more comprehensible to have taken off 5 or maybe even 10 minutes. 15:31 is a long time when you’re waiting at a finish line.

The main reason I’m struggling to get to grips with that time is mainly that I never allowed myself to believe that it was possible. You might remember that I promised to be ecstatic with anything from 3:48 to 4:04, but a little niggle of doubt never really let me believe that I could run the lower end of that spectrum. I had my fingers burned in both Paris and Brighton, when I became so obsessed with running sub-4 that I almost forgot to enjoy the experience and ended the races a little deflated when I failed to achieve that goal. The marathon became a wily, sneaky adversary which I just couldn’t quite figure out. I allowed myself to believe that my training had been good but mitigating factors had ruined both races, often telling people (albeit truthfully) that I tripped over in Paris and had a chest infection in Brighton*, and that otherwise I would definitely have run sub-4.

I now know that this isn’t true.

The simple fact is that for my first two marathons I was only adequately prepared. Looking back over my running log from those crucial pre-race months I realise that I consistently took the route of least resistance (sometimes literally), setting myself unambitious training schedules and then failing to complete them anyway. SF was different. Perhaps the massive over-commitment of a 12,000 mile round-trip, compounded by the enormous entry fee and contextualised by the knowledge that this was a very, very hilly course made me wake up and smell the fear. On training runs this year I would actively seek out the toughest, hilliest courses Edinburgh had to offer, whereas for Paris and Brighton I meticulously planned the flattest routes I could find. 

For SF I made greater sacrifices of time and energy, pouring my all into training. I spent hours studying course maps, videos, elevation charts, weather patterns and memorising the location of aid stations. I cross-trained and took vitamin supplements and had sports massages and invested in new gear. The result is that seven months of training was focussed completely on success at that course, on that date. I could not have been more ready for SF, and I’m a little embarrassed to think of how relatively unprepared I was for my previous marathons.

All that said, and I’m struggling to type this: I know I can go faster.

Because I was so reluctant to commit to a finish time goal, I only designed a race strategy up to 20 miles, planning to ‘just hang on’ thereafter. I went through 4 miles in 34 minutes, 10 miles just under 1:26, halfway in 1:52 and 20 miles in 2:50, all absolutely according to my carefully-composed plan. But I allowed myself to ‘fly blind’ in the last and most important 6.2 miles, giving me no reason or motivation to reach particular markers at particular times, which also impaired my ability to predict finish times on the run. The result was that I just bargained with myself, struggling lamppost to lamppost on some occasions. If I had decided that I needed to be at 23 miles after 3:16, for example, I’m pretty sure I could have done it. I reckon I might have lost as much as 5 minutes as a result.

Furthermore, remove the long haul travel, jetlag, early start, non-ideal race week and some of the more aggressive hills from the equation, I’m pretty sure I could pick up probably 15 seconds a mile, which is another 6 and a half minutes over the whole thing.  Ecstatic and humbled though I am by 3:49, I guess I’m saying that sub-3:40 is realistic in the not-too-distant future.

Crikey.

Happy running

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 845.28, parkruns: 6, races: 4, miles biked: 78.47, metres swum: 1225

*I really was ill - when I dug out my fuel belt ahead of SF, which I last used in Brighton, I found a Dequacaine tablet in there left over from the race. Dequacaine is a super-strength cough sweet, which more or less gives your throat a local anaesthetic. I think I had it on prescription. What the hell was I thinking running a marathon in that state!?

Race Report - San Francisco Marathon 2011

Official timing. Click to enlarge.

OK, this report is very late. Sorry. And if you follow me on Facebook or Twitter, or have read either of those panels on the right you'll already know that (to my continual amazement) I ran a massive PB in SF on July 31st. By finishing in 3:49, besting my previous time by over a quarter of an hour, I finally achieved the sub-four hour dream I've been chasing since summer 2008. That's the punchline spoilt, but there's so much more to say... 

My pre-race week will probably be used by amateur athletics coaches in years to come as a guide to what not to do with your 'A' race just days away. Due to delays and cancellations, it took us 27 hours to get from Edinburgh to San Francisco, which coupled with the cumulative weariness one only gets from three flights, four airports, an eight hour time difference and wearing the same pants for more than a day, I arrived in SF three days out from the race, somewhat less than chirpy. 

Next came the sightseeing. Frantic, ruthlessly efficient and above all on foot, we took in everything the city had to offer, walking about seven miles on the Thursday, out and on our feet all day and evening on Friday, then cycling 10 miles up and down massive hills on Saturday. In fact we were so busy (and I say this with absolute honesty) I had more or less forgotten about the marathon which I spent seven months of my life building up to, somehow neglecting the fact that it loomed very large in the very near future.

I did just about remember to go to the expo to pick up my bib number on Friday afternoon - it was a mile and a half from our hotel so I decided to run there and back. Oddly, we received our finishers' T-shirts at the expo, which I thought a little presumptuous. Surely one has to earn these things? It seems a shame to me that those who DNF'd, for whatever reason, are allowed to own the same gear as those who did manage to finish it... At least it's a decent piece of kit - a long-sleeved dark grey technical shirt with the marathon logo, strangely, on the back and in gold.

With my wave (3:45 - 4 hours estimated finish time) scheduled to start at exactly 5.52am on Sunday, I set my alarm for 3am and breakfasted in our hotel room, in the dark and completely silent to avoid waking my still-sleeping crew chief. Surreal barely covers it. Aware of the cold and fogginess that would characterise the early miles of the race, I decided to run the race in my finishers' shirt (a pleasing oxymoron) with my Union Flag vest over the top. If I got too hot I could always leave the shirt with the crew chief at one of our planned rendez-vous - 4, 12, or 22 miles. I finished the ensemble with my best blue racing shorts and a ludicrously overstocked fuel belt. In the last year I've never had more than one energy gel on even my longest run - why I thought I needed seven for this race I just don't know...

Ready for the off. More or less.

At 5am we hailed a cab outside our hotel and made for the start line. Thanks to Runner's World (pick up the November edition for my report!) I had a press pass to the VIP area, the main advantage of which was private toilets before the race, neatly bypassing the ubiquitous queue for the portaloos. As ever in this situation, anticipation translates to reality all too quickly, and before long I had sent Linds off to find the spectator shuttle and found myself nervously pacing the starting pen on my own, occasionally exchanging nervous banter with other runners. And just like that, we were off.

Ridiculous though it may seem, I was grateful for having done that 10 mile bike ride the previous afternoon, as we had explored the early miles of the course and I had a good idea of where the worst hills were. In short: they were everywhere. To refer to them as rolling hills would be to disguise their aggression - I would call them spiking hills. Incredibly steep climbs often immediately followed by a quad-busting descent, repeated for miles and miles and miles...

Coming off the bridge.

Nonetheless, and like any long run, the early miles disappeared almost without my noticing. Despite being waylaid by a very necessary pit-stop at mile 2 (astounded that I still can't ready myself for a race properly), I was enjoying the vibe, the view and the rhythm enormously. I saw Linds at mile 4 with my watch showing 34 minutes, exactly according to my race plan, and by mile 6 we were tackling the brutal hill up to the Golden Gate Bridge. It's hard to express the immense feeling of running across such an iconic structure. We had biked it just the previous afternoon, but forced to stay on the restrictive bike path at the edge of the bridge. In the race we had half of the roadbed all to ourselves. To run directly under those massive red arches, with the Pacific stretching out on my left and the San Francisco Bay stretching out to my right, was humbling and strangely moving: perhaps because the bridge is so synonymous with SF and I had long thought of it as a symbol of the race, or perhaps because the view and the ocean in particular reminded me just how spectacularly far I was from the daily grind. It really was quite an extraordinary and (if I dare be so lexically unambitious) special moment.

After 1.7 miles out comes a reassuring 1.7 miles back, and around mile nine, back in the city we hit more hills, clinging to the coast with beautiful beaches and coves sneaking into view. I chatted to a Californian called Rob, and between us we discussed the more bizarre of our fellow runners. A lone, short man running a 3:20 pace in bondage gear was hard to miss, as were the surprisingly large number of people running in Vibram FiveFingers, and in a few cases entirely barefoot. Shoe-less running is big in America right now, and probably nowhere more so than in California...

After quite a lot of blocks of residential streets (which in a less consistently beautiful town would probably be the most desirable of real estate) I caught my first glimpse of Golden Gate Park, where Linds and I had our second rendez-vous at 12.5 miles. Dawn had thoroughly broken by now and the day was starting to warm up, so after quite a complicated manoeuvre I rearranged my gear and removed the baselayer, ready to pass it to Linds when I saw her. However, when I did catch a glimpse of her she was on the far side of the street, fast-moving traffic between us. Desperate to ditch the extra weight, I motioned to throw the shirt over the passing cars, but to my great astonishment Linds started running up the street to keep up with me. I slowed a little, but she was adamant that I was to keep going and she would keep up. I know when to do what I'm told, so I did, and she quite comfortably jogged alongside until a break in the traffic allowed her to cross over. With a suitably disgusted face she accepted my sweat-soaked garment, offered words of encouragement and snapped a few photos, before I took off and entered Golden Gate Park. I had ten miles to run before I'd see her again.

Linds manages to chase me and take photos

In SF one can choose to run the full marathon (like a real man) or opt run the first half (hilly, early start, great views) or the second half (less hilly, later start, less impressive views). Fewer than 6000 people ran the full 26.2, with the rest of the crowd made up of halfers. Just before mile 13 the first half runners peeled off to the left, readying their sprint finishes and best smiles for the camera. We who had doomed ourselves to longer mornings continued to the right, and suddenly the crowd was reduced by more than half as we started the extensive tour of Golden Gate Park. A herd of buffalo, botanical gardens, the California Academy of Science and man-made waterfalls are on offer in this amazing urban jungle - I should know, seven miles of the marathon are spent there. I went through halfway in 1:53, still spot-on my race plan. At mile 15 the local Hash House Harriers did their best to hand out free beer, and by rejecting it I must have angered some karmic beer gods, as my watch packed in just as I passed the mile marker. I coaxed it back to life but the timer had reset: from here I would be calculating splits based on the actual time, knowing that I started at 5:52am.

At mile 16 we rejoined the halfers, running parallel to their finishers' chute. Here's a tip if you ever finish a half marathon in the vicinity of people running a full marathon: get the hell out of the way. I'm afraid that I may have been slightly less than polite to those who loitered in my path.

In GG Park, oddly happy.

I went through peaks and troughs of energy as I took my gels. They were very effective, but I craved real food. The gels made me hungrier every time I took one, and I was so overjoyed when I passed a stand handing out orange slices that I almost forgot to take one. Aid stations were getting more frequent, a good trend, though almost all runners were forced to walk or at least slow down through them as water was dispensed in tiny plastic cups, impossible to drink from whilst on the run. I for one was grateful for the walking breaks. Somewhere around here I overtook the formerly-fast guy in bondage gear - whereas earlier he looked proud, confident, but above all fast, now he looked awkward and a little embarrassed, suddenly aware that he was walking, early on a Sunday morning, among thousands of runners, in a pair of leather pants and a dog collar. A sad sight.

At mile 19 we were finally spat out of the park and straight into the oldschool hippie district known as Haight-Ashbury. Sadly 8.30am on a Sunday is not the ideal time to be visiting such a colourful and vibrant neighbourhood, but at least the hills were becoming less severe. Knowing that I would see Linds at mile 22 forced me to maintain my pace and maybe even pick it up a little, and as the morning grew a little older more crowds of supporters appeared, waving some superb and quintessentially American signs: in particular 'I don't even know you, but you're my hero', 'looking for a man with great endurance' and 'why do all the pretty ones run away?' made me smile and lifted my spirits. Linds was waiting at a cheer station at the crest of a hill, well placed to make sure I didn't let the incline beat me. More photos, more crucial encouragement, and a cheerful challenge of a race to the finish. Linds had one final bus to catch if she was to make it there on time, and I still had four miles left to cover.

I could feel the wall approaching. I had a plan though: theorising that all I needed to beat it was a change of pace, I decided that instead of resigning to walking I would sprint. I told myself words like 'fast-twitch muscles' and convinced myself that this was brilliant. Books would be written about 'The Haines Technique' for years to come. I was to be celebrated as a genius.

Of course, it was a terrible idea. My thighs cramped ever so slightly, a warning shot telling me to back off or suffer the consequences. But the change was just enough - I knew I had overcome the first temptation to slow down.

A mile later, as the next wave of exhaustion hit me, an amazing thing happened. Out of nowhere, a tall,  long haired runner in white loped into view, running directly towards me, against the flow of the race. To my astonishment I recognised him as Michael Wardian, one of the world's greatest ultramarathoners: A prolific elite finisher at the Badwater Ultramarathon, Marathon des Sables and Comrades Marathon, among many others. Here. Running directly at me. Fast.

I prepared to get the hell out of his way, but just before the last possible second he pulled up next to a guy and a girl a few feet ahead of me. Michael offered them a cheery, casual greeting and, enthused by his presence, they sped up. The trio took off into the distance, chatting and smiling. It was a very surreal moment, as if some sort of running guardian angel had been sent to carry these two to the finish. I was insanely jealous, not knowing that mine was waiting at mile 25.5.

Things started falling apart, fast. I was still moving at a decent pace but I felt like death - my left foot blistering, hips aching and muscles exhausted. It was awful. At mile 25 I couldn't take any more and dropped down to 'only just running' pace, cursing everything and inconsolably miserable. I knew that the point immediately under the Bay Bridge was the 26 mile marker and I could see it in the near distance, but my sleep-deprived, dehydrated and generally ruined brain couldn't work out how close that was to the finish (yeah, 0.2 miles, duh. It's quite straightforward now). As I rounded the corner and prepared to run around the exterior of AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants, I was really suffering and started frantically removing then discarding unused energy gels in a desperate weight-saving exercise. Even the knowledge that the finish line was really quite close wasn't any consolation.

Then I was spotted. A young, fresh faced Californian shouted the standard American race-supporter's lie at me: 'you're looking great!'. 'No I'm not!' I screamed at him, as my leg finally cramped up and I almost folded double in pain. 'Come on!' he shouted, urging me to run. 'Are you gonna come with me?' I countered sarcastically, furious that he was just standing there, judging me, while I was in so much agony. 'Yeah alright' he replied, and stride for stride we somehow picked up the pace.

The blessed finish

His name was Colin. He was a marathoner. He knew exactly how I felt. He spoke calmly and with good humour as I grunted replies, noticing that he was wearing Converse, carrying two large bags and wearing several layers. As we closed in on the finish he pointed out landmarks and in particular the huge balloon arch which flew over the line itself. He left me to enter the finishing chute alone. I was utterly overwhelmed with gratitude for his half mile of pacing, but he stopped without a word, before I could thank him. He disappeared into the crowd - I never saw him again.

If you're reading this, thank you Colin. You're awesome.

It was over. Linds had beaten me to the finish line, only because I'd been slightly ahead of schedule at mile 22 and she'd been able to catch an earlier bus than planned. There was free beer at that point too, but I still didn't want it. What have I become!? Surreally, I found out my official time (3:49:53) from my Mum, who had got it online back home in Kent and texted it to Linds. She had the result within seconds of me finishing, and I struggled to believe that I had actually beaten not just four hours, but 3:50 as well. I still have to keep checking the website to remind myself it's true.

Very happy and VERY sweaty

That press pass got me back into the VIP area, where I had the opportunity to chat to Michael Wardian and Dane Rauschenberg , another well-known American marathoner. You can read Dane's report of the race and his Charity Chaser Challenge here, and while you're at it check out the rest of his blog too. I finally managed to work out what Michael was doing on his guardian angel mission: he had won the race, then immediately turned around and ran back to find runners who he coached, and then paced them in for a strong finish. Unbelievable. He introduced me to his protégées, one of whom had run an 11 minute PB. I congratulated him, and told the group I had just run a 15 minute PB. Michael joked that I should be coaching him. I'm a little embarrassed to say it, but I may have actually blushed.

So in conclusion, next time you have a big race coming up, perhaps long haul travel, jetlag and lengthy bike rides are the answer to all your race prep needs? That or seven months of devoted training. Probably a bit of both.

Michael Wardian kindly doesn't question
why I've already changed (hint: extreme sweat)

Happy racing.

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 825.79, parkruns: 6, races: 4, miles biked: 78.47, metres swum: 1225