Meadows Marathon: Week 3
Hannah Thomas
I'd been feeling rather smug in the run-up to the big day. And with good reason, too.
My tortuous month of thrice-weekly runs was about to pay off: I would finally reap the benefits of my punishing training regime and take great pleasure in lapping all those idiots who signed up months ago but had been too lazy to make it round the park even once.
'They think they'll be able to wing it,' I thought, 'but actually they'll wheeze their way round, feeling like death and wishing they'd spent some quality time pounding the tarmac.'
But me? Well - for me the race would seem just a walk in the park.
You see, that's the problem with marathon training. It brings out this nasty, competitive side of me that revels in the misfortunes of others - especially if they make me feel like I'm ahead of the game.
It's like essay-writing really. Except for the fact your secret weapon is no longer your word count, but rather your kilometre count. In both cases, the number says it all. Success or failure, both measured and determined by a few digits.
So I must admit it was with glee that I listened to a fellow competitor bemoan her lack of pre-race training.
"You'll be fine," I reassured her, trying to suppress the smile twitching at the corners of my lips.
You can imagine my horror, therefore, when I found out the day before the race that every lap of the marathon involved a hill.
'A hill? What hill? Why wasn't I told about this! I haven't trained for this! My legs don't know how to run against gravity!'
Yes, panic was my first reaction. Then denial. It must just be at the beginning and the end of the race, I thought. They wouldn't make us to it nine times.
Unfortunately a simple call to the race organiser confirmed my worst suspicions. We did have to run up Middle Meadow Walk and yes, we had to do it every single lap.
So it was with trepidation that I prepared for the race the following morning. The hill loomed large just a hundred metres from the starting line. I'd know soon enough if it was going to screw me over.
I wanted to join in with the communal warm-up - the starjumps, the toe-touching, the bum-kicks - but I wasn't prepared to sacrifice an ounce of energy. I'd definitely need all of it to mount the mountain every lap.
Suddenly we were off. I focused on the tight, lycra-clad bottom of the bloke in front of me and tried to pretend I was running on the flat. It worked - for the first few laps at least.
Numerous musicians were dotted around the circuit, playing bongos, opera singing, strumming guitars, providing entertainment en route that went some way towards breaking up the tedium, and there were plenty of outlandish costumes to admire.
Seeing the poor bloke in the panda suit finally remove the head and gasp for air, red-faced and spluttering, made me realise the hill was probably the least of his worries.
So I kept going and made it round. And round. And round. And round. And five more times round after that. Yes it was a long way, and pretty damn painful for the last couple of laps.
But I guess marathon-running is a bit like childbirth - not that I know this from experience, mind you. At the time it feels like torture and you swear you'll never put yourself through it again. But as soon as it's over you feel so smug and relieved that it makes the whole thing seem worthwhile.
But don't expect to see me doing laps of the Meadows any time soon.
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