Keep on Running (36 page)

  I paused to look down at the back of my leg in shock and horror. I could hear the owners shouting. I didn't want to find out whether it was at me or at the dog. Instead, I fixed my eyes in the middle distance and hobbled on. Glancing back, there was blood on the road.

  I didn't have a phone with me. That would have been far too sensible – all too counter to that great spirit of running (or at least my conception of it) that I was just starting to stop worshipping. By the time I got back to our holiday let, the bleeding had eased, but the back of my leg was a mess.

  Clearly I needed to go to the chemist's. Fiona came with me, and in my best French I explained what had happened. The chemist leapt backwards in terror and told me to go straight to the hospital, where I was seen quickly and treated with a lovely mix of efficiency and friendliness. The doctor explained that you don't stitch up wounds made by animals. You allow them to drain and heal naturally. She also explained, when I asked perhaps slightly tactlessly, that no, they no longer had rabies in France, only in certain illegally imported Eastern European dogs and in wild bats. Clearly I just had to hope that my dog was as French as a string of onions. The doctor put all sorts of plasters on the wound to hold the sides together, and off I limped – with two months to go until Mallorca.

  In the event, I was running again within a few days – much to Fiona's disapproval. She thought I was crazy to attempt it so soon after such an unpleasant injury. My view was that I had a marathon to do. As far as Fiona was concerned, my attitude said it all about runners. In the event, the wound healed quickly, and I was running without pain within ten days. However, I couldn't help but see an underlying significance in what had just happened. It seemed to crystallise the way I was heading. Whichever way I looked at it, running really wasn't any fun any more, and that was the thought that stayed with me as the marathon approached.

  For Rome earlier that year I had churned out two 8-mile runs a week, plus an 18-miler, plus intervals. For Mallorca, I continued with the long run, but I dropped the intervals and reduced one of the 8-milers to six. I continued to push myself on the shorter runs, aided by my sports watch, but while I put in the effort, I was conscious that I was marking time. More than ever, I was ticking off weeks, forever counting up how many runs remained until I could stop. Rome had been a tough one. Something had snapped, and now it was obvious, even to me: I'd run my course.

  Mallorca was a last marathon which really was going to be a last marathon. Mixing up my sports, I even started telling myself that I'd had a good innings. I'd had a good run for my money. All things must pass. And all the other clichés.

  In the final few weeks, I knew. Mallorca was to be my farewell to running – and it was a relief to realise it because with the realisation came a resurgence of energy. In the final ten days, just a little bit of the buzz crept back in. I wanted to sign off in style.

Michael and I flew out on the Friday for the Sunday start, which was from the main waterfront promenade in Palma, just opposite the Parc de La Mar. The Parc offers an attractive lake which stands in front of La Seu Cathedral, a building which reflects gorgeously in its waters. It was instantly obvious: this was going to be one of the most picturesque starts to a marathon you could wish for.

  The registration was novel and exotic, open air in tents under palm trees at the north-eastern end of the lake. As we registered, we could see – across the water – the finishing area being constructed on the southern side, on the seafront. Later that day, still the Friday we arrived, we walked right by it, seeing the final few hundred yards all laid out, still protected by polythene. It's always good to get an idea in your mind of what the finish looks like. A clear image of it will help once tiredness sets in, and here it really did look enticing – several hundred yards of raised gangway, the cathedral standing proud above the lake to our left. It was the kind of finish I could happily envisage; I could imagine how much just the thought of it would help weary feet towards the end.

  Importantly, we were beginning to get an idea of the beginning and the end. Now we tried gropingly to get a feel for the rest of the marathon route, very grandly bringing the fruits of our combined experience to bear on the course ahead. We came to the conclusion that it wasn't going to be a good one.

  The first quarter was a couple of seafront loops, at the end of which the 10-km runners would leave us. The second quarter was in the Old Town centre, after which the half-marathon runners would leave us. At 13 miles, the marathon runners embark on quarter number three, 6 or so miles eastwards and slightly inland on roads parallel to the coast, occasionally glimpsing the sea to the right. At about 18 miles, the route twists back on itself to come out on the seafront promenade for the final stretch westwards to the finish, the sea now open on the left until a final turn sees you double back on yourself for the final couple of hundred yards.

  Wandering around Palma on the Friday and the Saturday we came to the conclusion that the city-centre stretch was going to be a nightmare, particularly when we started noticing the stripe of blue line showing the way to go – invariably along tight, narrow medieval lanes and around twisty corners. It was impossible not to imagine that we would be horridly bunched, especially as we would still be with the half-marathon runners at this point. Plus a few doubts started to creep in as to just how interesting that third, backstreet quarter would actually be.

  Another factor emerged as we looked across to the starting/finishing area. The size of the respective bag deposits suggested the marathon runners would be outnumbered three to one by the half-marathon runners. We'd imagined there was going to be around 7,000 or 8,000 doing the full marathon. In fact, that was the total number of runners across all three races, with the marathon comfortably the smallest element. As it turned out, there were 1,372 marathon finishers; 2,977 half-marathon finishers; and 1,795 10-km finishers, plus various walkers and Nordic walkers, who presumably had a fine line in knitwear. It was clear it was going to be a very different kind of marathon to the vast city slogs we'd become used to.

  The night before, as almost always, was bad. It was difficult to get to sleep and then even more difficult to stay asleep. We left the hotel at 8.15, just three-quarters of an hour before the start but still in plenty of time. Funny when you think how early you have to get up in New York; how soon you have to get cracking in London; and just what an awful crush it is in Paris. This was leisurely indeed. It was barely ten minutes' walk to the start, and it was all terribly relaxed, no wait to hand over the bags, everything calm, unflustered and simple. The queues for the loos were long and slow, but there was a huge city wall you could use instead, and plenty of people did. Mallorca has probably suffered worse indignities in its long and sunny history.

  From there it was a gentle amble around the eastern end of the lake and up onto the seafront dual carriageway to assemble at the start. I left it a little bit late. The runners were quite tightly packed at the front by now, which meant a quick clamber over the barriers. But plenty of people were doing the same, and it was all very friendly as we stood shoulder to shoulder. Michael was already in his group further back. I was a hundred yards or so from the starting line, and it wasn't long before we were off – the usual process of standing still, shuffling forward, increasing in pace and then getting into your stride as you cross over the timing mat.

  Once again, armed with my sports watch, I was most definitely running in miles whatever the roadside markers said. Annoyingly in the first mile or so, however, quite a number of people were running several abreast or in little groups, which made them difficult to get round. There were also plenty of people who had started too far forward for the pace they were now running at, and so the first mile seemed comparatively slow. I was quite surprised to see it come up in 7:33, far closer to my 7:30 target than I'd expected.

  After a while, it was more than possible to run at my own pace, particularly in a temperature which had to count as absolutely perfect for long-distance running. It was bright without being particularly sunny, and it certainly wasn't hot. It was cool and comfortable, and, as usual, there was the lovely release that came simply with the act of getting going.

  We started off on the seafront loops which made up the first 6 miles of the course, all on good wide roads. Posh marinas gave us plenty to look at, as did high-rise hotels as we entered the smarter end of town before turning back towards the start. Miles 2 to 6 were all nicely within the 7:30 target.

  All in all, it was a good start. The road rose and fell gently, but I had the pleasant feeling that any gradient was mostly downhill, which clearly couldn't have been the case given that we ended up back where we started. But I guess the sensation simply reflected the fact that I was feeling comfortable, particularly as we approached the start/finish area once again. We turned left inland and, almost immediately, the 10-km runners dashed off to our right, down the concourse to the finish.

  Of course, every distance has its disciplines and huge challenges, but it was difficult not to feel a slightly superior, totally irrational 'Why did they bother?' as the 10-km runners disappeared. We'd barely been going 40 minutes by then. But it was certainly an important psychological marker. Rather as a rocket sheds bits as it zooms into space, we were saying goodbye to the part-timers; we were clearly well underway; and, more interestingly, we were heading into the Old Town section we'd been worried about.

  In the event, it proved absolutely fine. There was limited crowd support; in fact, it's probably fair to say that the whole thing probably didn't impact vastly on the people of the city as a whole; but it was pleasant to be running through the city, particularly early on when we went up one side of the road only to come back down the other side, a chance to see just how many people were behind me – not a terribly sporting thought, but an important way to assess how I was doing at that point. You're always being pulled along to an extent, but even better, if you're doing well, you're being pushed along at the same time, and that was certainly the case here.

  I'd hated this kind of doubling-back in Amsterdam; I hadn't much liked it across the lake in Paris. But here, it was fine – another instance of how your feelings on the day colour your approach to everything. On another day, the sight of runners going in the opposite direction would have dragged me down; today it had the opposite effect.

  At about 8 miles, I passed our hotel before heading off right on the day's first slightly narrow street, gently uphill for a while before bearing round to the left and then down beside a river which flowed inland at right angles to the coast. And so it continued, some decent straight stretches taking us back into the narrower, older areas before we found ourselves coming out by the cathedral and running along the walkway on its southern side, overlooking the lake with the finish on the far side – an area we'd familiarised ourselves with. From there we headed back into the twisty streets for a bit more criss-crossing.

  The fantastic thing was that at no point were the public a problem. We'd imagined it would be difficult to keep pedestrians off the course, but never was this an issue at all. Just as importantly, at no point was bunching an issue either. It was emerging as an excellently thought-out course. The opening 6-mile coastal stretch, along decent dual carriageways, had stretched us out perfectly. Consequently we didn't for a moment get bottled up in the town. And again, even though it was fairly consistently up and down, I still had the impression – again, obviously completely wrong – that it was largely downhill, again presumably a sign that at that point I was still running well.

  We took in most of the sites, including Plaça Major and Plaça de Cort, and the miles remained nicely under control – miles 7 to 13 all comfortably under eight minutes. The whole thing was feeling nicely steady as we entered the penultimate city-centre section, a straight road north before a turn to head back south, down to the coast.

  Here at the waterfront, the half-marathon runners left us, while the full-marathon runners turned left to head east for that final half-inland, half-coastal 13 miles. With the sea in sight for the first time since mile 6, it was another significant psychological moment in the race. The field had reduced by about a third when the 10-km runners had peeled away just under an hour earlier; now our field was reduced by a third again as the half-marathon runners veered off in large numbers to the right. Turning left, I realised just how well spread the marathon runners were by now.

  And the lovely thing was that I had absolutely no sense of wishing to be with the half-marathon runners. All I felt – smug and entirely unjustified – was 'Right, now we're getting down to the serious business!' At 12 miles, I was pretty much bang on the 1:30 time that 7:30 minutes per mile demanded; at the half-marathon point, I was just under 1:40; and now it was marathon runners only as we entered the third quarter of the race – a stretch that proved even more boring than we'd imagined; dull industrial areas with only the occasional glimpse of the sea at the end of side streets to our right.