Vassos Alexander - How to Run a Marathon

Our running shoes have magic in them: the power to transform a bad day into a good day, frustration into speed, self-doubt into confidence, chocolate cake into muscle.

Mina Samuels, author

I suppose its too late to back out of this, but I tell you what, Im bloody tempted.

Im one of 11,000 people crammed behind the start line of the 2011 Barcelona marathon and I very much expect Im about to get found out. Ive not done the proper training. I wanted to, but Ive been injured. And also, lets face it, Im not a real runner. Unlike every single person surrounding me, fit, athletic, toned, making last-second adjustments to shoelaces, shorts, expensive watches. Theyre obviously proper runners. Not me.

I began to feel like an imposter in the hotel breakfast room first thing. Theyd opened especially early for us marathon runners (us runners ha!) and while I dithered and nervously nibbled at a stale croissant, the others were all piling into the porridge, merrily munching on muesli and greedily guzzling granola. A fitter and more focused collection of people you could never hope to see milling around a breakfast buffet. They terrified me.

None of this did I convey to my cousin, also named Vassos, who was sitting opposite, beaming with excitement. Hed done all the training, and more. Also, importantly, hed already run four marathons. He knew he had this. I watched as he wandered off languidly to toast more bread. He fitted in perfectly.

Indeed the only question in my cousins mind that morning was what time would he run? By contrast, questions churning around in my head included:

Will I have to stop and walk? (Probably)

Will I finish? (Probably not)

How mortifying would it be not to finish? (Very)

How far until it hurts?

Will I even last a mile on my dodgy knee?

What does The Wall feel like?

Do I honestly want to know?

What if Im last?

What happens if I cant continue?

Will the people of Barcelona laugh at me?

Is there sufficient medical cover?

Why am I doing this?

And mostly, how can I possibly, possibly need another poo?

Of all the pre-race surprises assailing my thoughts and senses, by far the most shocking is how often I seem to need the loo. Surely by now theres simply nothing left? I go for a third time straight after breakfast, a fourth before leaving the hotel room. And as we emerge into milky Barcelona sunshine, I dive back into reception for No. 2 number five.

Almost 100 marathons and ultra-marathons later, I do still feel compelled to do multiple pre-race poos. The maranoia, on the other hand that strange, hypochondriacal pre-race madness that affects marathon runners (and drives their friends and family potty) thats largely gone, Im pleased to say. But in Barcelona it was all-consuming.

In fact, those questions churning around my mind on the start line are the culmination of a fortnight of fretting. For two weeks, every walking step has seemed to aggravate a different body part. Ive had trouble sleeping through the aches, pains and niggles. I even ruined a family weekend in Bath, sulking because I was convinced my ankle was about to implode. All pure maranoia.

And speaking of potty, I wonder briefly if the problem in my bowels is down to something I ate last night. Cousin Vassos and I had inadvertently invented a private, marathon-eve tradition as we wandered into a city centre restaurant in search of carbs. It was the sort of place we imagined Catalan locals dined at for special occasions. Thats probably exactly the vibe they were hoping tourists would feel, and it worked a treat. We were seated in the middle of a busy yet understated dining room, ordered a beer each and cheerfully asked our waiter to bring whatever food he suggested would help the two of us run a good race the following morning.

Im not sure the waiter was well schooled in the delicate art of marathon nutrition, but he certainly knew how to lay on a proper feast. Dish after wonderful dish was laid before us, all colourful, all bursting with flavour, all dripping in oil, like nothing wed ever eaten before. After a brief moment considering the wisdom of eating these new concoctions on the eve of a big race, we decided to simply relax and go with the flow.

Well, what a flow! Massive plates of pork, snails, onions, smoked sardines, seafood paella, even oxtail with foie gras. This was before I went plant-based, obvs. We revelled in the thrill of ignoring all the sensible advice wed ever been given about eating a tried-and-tested, simple supper the night before a marathon. Dont risk running with an upset stomach, they say. We both went high-risk in Catalunya that night.

Not that we knew it at the time, but Barcelona was to be the first of many one-night European odysseys fly somewhere on a Saturday, run a marathon the following morning, home by Sunday evening. And from Bergen to Copenhagen, Ljubljana to Prague, we searched out the most eclectic restaurant to gorge ourselves on local delicacies, the weirder the better. We knew that one day we might live to regret it, but the risk only added to the enjoyment.

No risk of any enjoyment on the Barcelona start line. Nerves are so loud theyre verging on panic.

The man on the public address system starts the countdown. Oh God, now I urgently need a wee. I have a matter of seconds to consider this latest setback before the hooter sounds. The marathon is underway! Around me, everyone starts shuffling forwards towards the start line. Im in with the group expecting to finish in around 3:30 only because I followed my cousin in here and in the few minutes it takes to reach the start, I make a snap decision to remove the timing chip from my shoe and discard it. If Im going to fail here, and lets face it, I probably am, aint nobody gonna know about it.

Whenever Ive needed to pee mid-race since, I think back to those opening few yards in Barcelona. As we all started running and I was flipping the timing chip to the side of the road, my bladder felt full to bursting. By the time wed reached the first bend in the road, it was as if Id never needed to go at all. Im pretty sure I didnt wet myself in the meantime. So either, I thought, this whole urge to wee was psychosomatic, or my body modified the signals it was sending to my brain because it knew bigger problems now lay ahead: 26.2 of them.

Though actually, around two-thirds of those went gloriously smoothly.

Id been looking forward to passing the famous Camp Nou stadium, home to FC Barcelona, and was thrilled to discover the route went right around it. And five miles done already.

I was also pleased that the Sunday morning streets were relatively quiet. Loads of cheering Catalans would emerge later but theyd do so, quite rightly, in their own good time. Which meant to me that there were fewer people to witness my inevitable disgrace as I pulled out of the race.