I never thought I’d run another marathon.
I thought I was done.
I’ve ran two marathons. Berlin in 2012 (3:51) when I was 32. Reykjavik in 2013 (3:42). Perfectly respectable times for a perfectly unspectacular athlete. Back in my slacker twenties, the idea of training for a marathon, let alone finishing one, would have seemed hilarious. Getting to the finish line under four hours in two marathons seemed up there with Usain Bolt's 9.58 and the other great sporting achievements of the 21st century. I was happy to pursue other interests.
I loved some of the training, especially summer evenings in Phoenix Park. I loved the adrenaline high that came from 90 minutes on the road. I loved telling people that I was doing a marathon. I loved the marathon itself, up until the 30km mark. But for all of that pleasure, marathon running always seemed like a particularly cruel kind of self-inflicted pain. I distinctly remember running the last 5km of the last marathon through a drizzly Icelandic mist, entirely on my own, my legs buckling, my nipples burning. I crossed the finish line, proud and weary, pretty sure that was that. Hardcore road racing wasn’t for me.
So why the hell did I find myself lacing up a worn-out pair of New Balance runners one Saturday afternoon last month? What was I doing checking the Met Éireann weather tracker to gauge the likelihood of rain? I was about to start training for another marathon and I found myself asking myself: ‘Really? Am I really about to do this again?’
Why?
My friend John had approached me in January wondering if I’d have any interest in training for a marathon with him this year. He was hitting a life-defining age milestone and in search of a training partner for the solitary job of getting fit.
I shrugged him off.
‘Thanks, but no thanks’. Not for me. I chatted about the possibility but deep down, at a very fundamental level, I thought ‘not a chance’.
But as winter turned into spring and spring turned into whatever follows it in Ireland, my own priorities changed. I starting thinking more about my own physical health, and my own mental health, and found myself yearning for that challenge again. The 43.5km race, sure, but moreso the four months of training, that long journey of ecstasy, agony, solitude and communal spirit, that sense of purpose that marathon training deeply provides.
But I still wasn’t convinced that afternoon. The first months of training, when the body and mind are out of sync, are the hardest of the entire experience. Building mileage and endurance can be demoralising. I hadn’t registered for anything yet. There was still time to get out of this.
But I found my legs taking me towards the front door. The rain wasn't coming. I was going for it.
I’ll be profiling this particular marathon journey every week here.
