I’m sweating. I feel trapped between all the runners around me. My legs aren’t running as easily as they were in training in the weeks before today. Only 16 kilometres done, and it feels like the Marathon Rotterdam has already begun.
Well, I kind of knew this would happen. I woke up this morning and my legs didn’t feel as they should. It’s weird how you can wake up and know it’s not your day. You can be in shape, yet on the day it has to happen, the peak form might or might not be there. I guess that’s the fun and at the same time the hardest thing of training for a race; to get it right on the day it matters most.
Today is not that day. I felt it this morning; I feel it in these first kilometres. I have to work hard to run 5 minutes and 10 seconds per kilometre. In training, I was cruising at this speed. I mean, five weeks ago I ran 30 kilometres in two hours, 35 minutes and 18 seconds. Perfectly 5:10 per kilometre. That would have led to a 3:38 marathon.
Okay, maybe it was only 30 kilometres, but it felt like I could keep that pace for a while longer. Plus, I ran it as a back-to-back training session. The day before, I had done a 40-kilometre training session in the Ardennes, with 1,347 metres of altitude. That was a race simulation for the Chianti Ultra Trail.
I admit, running a marathon three weeks after a 75-kilometre ultra run isn’t the smartest thing to do. Yet, I felt recovered in the last few days. I did an easy run four days ago, and I had to contain myself not to run too fast. So why aren’t my legs working today?
Maybe it’s the pack of runners I’m in. I’m not used to having thousands and thousands of runners around me. Sure, the start of an ultra can be busy. But in no time, the field is scattered. Here I’m continuously looking for space to run. I’m scared I’ll trip over someone’s leg. And I have to focus to avoid those who run around the field without watching where they’re going.
Maybe it is my heart rate. Paces like this I normally run in heart rate zone 2. Today I’m often in four. I’m highly sensitive (HSP). That’s why I love to be in the forest on my own. Having all these people around me, all this noise around me, costs energy.
And maybe it’s the sun. It’s here. Shining down on me. The sun is my kryptonite. The forecast looked perfect. A little bit of rain in the morning, clouded later in the day, and only in the afternoon a bit of sun. Well, the forecast was wrong. The sun is here and it’s hot. Not sunny-day-hot, but for somebody who hasn’t seen the sun yet this year, it’s definitely hot.
Enough complaining. It’s time to focus. It’s time to be positive. The 3:40 pacer group isn’t that far ahead of me. So I’m not doing too badly. Not bad at all, considering the fact that my main goal is to cross the line within four hours. In 1995, I clocked 4:05. I never liked that I didn’t run a sub-four-hour marathon, so I promised myself I would come back one day.
Well, that day is today. Okay, it’s 30 years later, but most of those years I struggled with an ankle injury. Even worse, I had surgery for tarsal tunnel syndrome. When that didn’t help, the doctor said I should stop running.
Thanks to yoga, I’m back. Funny how simple balancing postures can strengthen your feet and help you run again. Run even faster than before. I can’t remember how fast I was running in 1995 at the start of the race. I do remember I hit the wall in the final kilometres. Today, I hope to avoid that crash. The way I feel now, that’s a question mark.
Although, the kilometres are ticking by. The Marathon Rotterdam isn’t nicknamed the most beautiful for nothing. The crowd is amazing. There is hardly any stretch of the course without spectators. There are music bands everywhere. Stages with deejays. Speakers with loud music. Cheers, yelling, screaming, and applause. It’s a marathon and it’s a party. A party with almost a million spectators and 18.000 runners.
That’s almost double the amount of 1995, and if it’s up to the organisation, it will be even doubled next year. No clue how that’s going to happen. This already feels overcrowded for me. Plus, as a trail runner, I’m shocked by the trash. I kind of understand all the cups at the aid stations, but everybody throws their empty gel packs on the floor. Why? Can’t you put them in a little garbage bag in your running vest? I mean, if I can. On a trail, you will be disqualified for littering.
Okay, focus. I’m not here to lecture; I’m here to run. Halfway and I’m still two minutes ahead of schedule. Every time I’m running in the shade, I’m happy. Every time we run in the sun, I feel the energy draining away. But the legs are still doing what they have to do. A few more kilometres and I will see Sara (my wife). She has the secret potion with her: a soft flask half-filled with water, half with Coca Cola.
Struggling now. Passing the Erasmus Bridge for the second time. The first time was easy; now it feels like a mountain. Why? I run all my races in the mountains. This should be a piece of cake. Another sign my legs are not up for it? Will my sub-four-hour marathon be in danger? The last few weeks I’ve been so confident. I wanted to show that you can run faster while getting older. But can you?
Kubus houses. Sara should be here. But where? The crowd is standing on both sides of the road; three, four rows thick. How am I going to spot her? Will she spot me? That’s it. I’ve passed them. No Sara. No Coca-Cola. No new softflask. Luckily every five kilometres is an aid station. I have to do what everybody does: grab a cup of water, a cup of sports drink, and run on.
It does mean slowing down, but looking at my watch, I’m slowing down anyway. Up until kilometre 30, I was perfect on schedule; then the marathon started. I know that’s the critical moment, but I hoped my ultra experience would get me through. I mean 42 kilometres don’t feel that far. Running them fast and non-stop does.
So it’s time to grind. And I have a bit of time to lose. However, I do have to stop walking at the aid stations. I do it to drink properly. When I run and drink from a cup, I splash all the water in my face. Not helpful. Well, it cools me down, but I prefer to drink it.
Kralingse Bos. Shall I pee? I have to, but I can hold it. Holding it is faster, going is an excuse to give my legs a break. My watch isn’t happy with me anymore. I lost the 3:40 pacer group out of sight. Okay, why not go?
Running again. My feet are painful. Asphalt is hard. That’s why I run on the trails. Too much impact. How far is that finish? How far is the Coolsingel? Kralingse Bos used to be a dreadful place. No spectators. Well, in 1995. Now there are little groups of people cheering us on.
Let me walk for a moment. Just a moment. I swear. To let my heart rate go down. Five kilometres to go. I can still squeeze five fast kilometres out of my legs. Fast-ish. But what will be the price of walking a couple of hundred metres?
Okay, come on. Run. Five more. Think ultra. Five is nothing. A sub 3:45 might be out of sight, but you’re here to run sub-four, and to beat Matteo. He ran 3:46:49. Beat him. He bet a kilo of parmesan you couldn’t. Prove him wrong.
Come on, legs. 5:42, 5:43, that’s not good enough. Run! I know you can do it.
5:18. 5:22. That’s it. See, I don’t believe in you for nothing. Keep going. There is the Coolsingel. The most beautiful street in Rotterdam. Look at that crowd. People are going wild. Cheering. Yelling. Feel that energy and run. Fucking run.
Grind. Run. Slow down that clock. I see the arch. Now give everything. 3:46:36. I’m cutting it awfully close. Run, run, run.
Three forty-six, what? I got my sub-four. But did I beat Matteo? 3:46:50. One second? I fucking lost by one second. Why did I pee? Why did I walk? One second. How can you run 42 kilometres and 195 metres and lose by one second?
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Waking up the next morning. Checking the official results. I won, I won. No, not a sub 3:45. Although I ran 42 kilometres and 610 metres. A marathon is 42.195 metres. According to Strava, I ran that in 3:44:32. But that’s not important now. What is, is my official time. 3:46:47. That’s two seconds faster than Matteo. That’s one kilo of parmesan for me.
