Frankfurt
As featured in Issue 26.2 of LikeTheWind Magazine.
She stood in the torrential rain for six hours, the sheer ferocity of the precipitation hammering the hood of her woefully inadequate poncho like nails. Against a barrier outside the Lennox Hotel, she’d unwittingly found herself in a ‘restricted zone’, security personnel making little secret of their presence, the capitalised amber letters - ‘FBI’ - unmistakable whilst stalking the length of sidewalk, just 100 yards from the finish line of the Boston Marathon. We’d bid farewell as I boarded a yellow school bus on Boston Common some hours earlier, I was headed for the Athletes Village in Hopkinton, my fiancee the warmth of Starbucks.
There were several hours until the race began, my aspiration to duck under three hours for the first time leaving her plentiful time before she’d need to secure a good vantage point to see me finish, eager herself to soak in (the non literal sense), the atmosphere and pageantry of the 119th running of the worlds most prestigious marathon. Yet sipping from the still-steaming ceramic, she observed many others already pitching up, marking their territory early, and abandoned any hopes of a few hours peaceful solitude, instead making her way through the growing throng to secure the best view available.
From a purely visual perspective, her position was ideal, but she would come to lament declining both a bathroom break and the opportunity to procure sustenance prior to acquiring her spot. Following the devastation of the terrorist attack at the event two years prior, the area in which Amy found herself was deemed ‘High Risk’, and Federal agents soon arrived and duly announced that should any inhabitants choose to leave, they absolutely would not be permitted re-entry.
26.2 miles away, the race hadn’t even begun but already she was cold, sodden and hungry, and her need to visit the lavatory had reached an agonising height. The cordoned area was devoid of any restroom, or catering facility, and the length of Bolyston Street now appeared four-deep with spectators. Her desperate pleas to briefly leave to “go behind that dumpster right there” were met with a polite, yet stern “absolutely not Maam’.
So there she stood - a ravenous, shivering, bursting, wreck, for well over 360 minutes. It should have been a miserable affair, but she maintains it to be one of the most inspiring, affirming experiences she’s ever had the privilege to enjoy.
The sheer magnitude and spectacle of the event was enchanting from the moment we’d landed at Boston Logan four days earlier, an Olympics for the everyday man (or at least those who had qualified), the entire City geared up for Patriots Day and their beloved road-race. Amy ran a fair bit herself, for enjoyment, up to the 13.1 distance, and had joined me to spectate/support for my previous Marathon endeavours in Barcelona, Paris, Milan and London, but agreed they all paled into insignificance to this mammoth Massachusetts marvel.
The monsoon refused to cease, but her wait for my arrival, and the bathroom, came joyously earlier than anticipated, as I gleefully bounced past with 2:55 on the clock, finally under the three-hour goal that for so many years had proved elusive. Her euphoria at sharing my achievement was only met by the relief at finally visiting the nearest available WC. She’d taken in the spectacle of the world’s greatest footrace, witnessed thousands of exhausted personal victories on the asphalt before her, and watched her beloved finally realise a long-sought ambition.
The seed had been sown, and now she wanted a piece of the Marathon pie.
Amy wouldn’t be starting from scratch, the foundations she’d established from the regular, shorter efforts would provide a sound standing from which to progress, and thankfully she was under no illusions her current competency would be adequate to step up the distance. I too was vocal in my adamancy she commit and train properly if she were to undertake the challenge. Now my wife, she’s too stubborn and headstrong for me to dictate what she should do, nor would I ever attempt to, but I’d suffered too many an ill-prepared humbling at the marathon distance, that I was determined she wouldn’t be dealt the same fate.
It wouldn’t be a rushed process; six months to steadily develop, adopting a basic, common-sense approach, allowing for any potential setbacks. Expectations were kept realistic and cautious, a time-goal left undetermined until well into the plan, only once we could accurately gauge her genuine degree of fitness.
I didn’t preach, I wasn’t (and still am not) in any position to do so given my gross ineptitude at a sport in which I’ve physically and emotionally invested so heavily, but what I could legitimately offer was a vast wealth of experience in what NOT to do, given I’d previously made every mistake in the book.
We could have chosen a race closer to home, there's numerous within an hour of our doorstep, but I’ve a penchant for a big-city destination marathon - fostering a firm belief that the dedication and commitment a serious marathon attempt demands be rewarded with a jolly at the conclusion of the process. Frankfurt ticked many a box - renowned German efficiency made for a well-organised event, on a fast course devoid of elevation, in a city we’d not before visited, and with an airfare less than a decent night out.
Amy enjoyed 25 weeks of solid, concentrated, consistent training, with only a few minor injury niggles, and with a cautious confidence we touched down in the German financial capital during the final weekend of October for her debut bash at the distinguished distance. She wouldn’t partake alone - I’d run with Amy, the ghosts of my Marathons past would ensure there to be no reckless pie-in-the-sky pacing plan.
Conditions throughout the weekend were ideal - cool and calm, mirroring Amy’s halcyonic demeanour. Excitement in abundance but nerves absent, well rested and physically primed, and despite the geographical disparity she was able to adhere to a familiar nutritional approach that had served well during her diligent preparation.
Race morning arrived and the serene composure endured, autumnal shades adorned the tree-lined road as a brief yet sufficient warm-up preceded our positioning at the back of our allotted pen. As her training had evolved so had her mindset - from ‘just get round’ we would now embark to finish under 4:30. The pace at which she’d comfortably fulfilled several 20+ milers in training suggesting it to be a perfectly reasonable, even perhaps a somewhat conservative, goal. My fiancee looked awesome - she was in the shape of her life and radiated a stunningly healthy glow - she’d worked hard and the time had come to reap the reward.
Shuffling over the line, the first miles played out as with every big city race - crowds clapped, horns honked, slogans swung, and folk around us set off way faster than they should. Occasion provokes delusion of grandeur, and can sabotage logical thought, but that wasn’t a mistake we’d be making today. Establish the pace and relax, stick to the plan. Pleasantly premature, the gradual thinning-out of fellow participants began within the first ten minutes, another example of the flawless logistical prowess of the organising body.
The event’s numerous affiliates were prominent in exposure during the opening stages, logos brandished upon every possible visible surface, no more so than Duracell and their ‘power-up zones’ - basically a gazebo under which the Energiser Bunny bounded vigorously to a baseline so deep it reverberated through the tarmac. I willingly high-fived his outstretched pink paw as we passed - bless his over-enthusiastic, buoyant cavorting, it made people smile.
We smiled too, but it was to be the last time we did, for no sooner had the booming beat left earshot, things took a turn for the worst.
We passed the 5K marker and Amy declared she didn’t feel “too great”, not a muscular anomaly but mildly nauseated, upon which she was unable to elaborate or specify the source of her discomfort. We cast aside any concern and assumed it to pass with time, or simply be ridden out - it could be nerves or a touch of gastric distress, we needn’t concern ourselves with something we’d have forgotten within ten minutes.
Ten minutes later it wasn’t forgotten. Thirty minutes later it was pretty evident it wouldn’t be forgotten for some time. Within the space of the next five kilometers, Amy’s enigmatic condition had somewhat deteriorated and become a cause for genuine concern. The glow had fled from her face, her temple now a gaunt shade of granite, and despite the timid temperature and seeming absence of any over-exertion, she was sweating profusely.
She was correctly fuelled, sufficiently hydrated, sound of mind and physically prepared. We’d set out at a pace perfectly befitting her current level of fitness but were just an hour into the race and already in trouble. She’d managed to maintain the pace but it was proving far more taxing than appropriate at such an early stage, but still we harboured hope the grasp would loosen and we could get back on track.
We approached a section of the course where tram lines crossed the tarmac before us, a minutely raised obstacle which I observed early and duly offered verbal warning. Amy stumbled over the first steel rail, then immediately again over the parallel second. I questioned if she’d heard my caution to which she slurred a negative response. My concern began to escalate but was interrupted by the blaring melody ahead of us - the glaring gazebo returned to view and there again was the rollocking rabbit - arms aloft, pink paws windmilling with gross overenthusiasm. I managed a distracted, confused, half-hearted hand-slap, my thoughts divided between the welfare of my spouse-to-be, and how the manic mascot had managed to make a second appearance given we’d made no obvious out-and-back or loop on the course so far. Did he have a bunny buddy? Or a bunny bike?!
We reached the half-way mark and miraculously the pace had slowed just a fraction, though her incessant weaving across the road did no favours as fatigue began to set in. Not only were we now competing against the typically monumental task of the marathon distance - the heavy limbs, the cramping legs and the emotional turmoil, but we were also battling an unforeseen and additionally debilitating foe. If we could identify the source of the issue we may have possessed a solution, but the mystery lay in its emergence only once the endeavour was underway, and the manner of it’s intense and rapid manifestation. I had no idea what to do for the best.
The sensible option would have been to step off the course and withdraw from the race but, for all we knew, a resurgence could be just round the next corner - we’ve all seen a horrid long training run rescued by a second wind. Additionally, Amy’s devotion to the entire process over the preceding months would have left her devastated with a DNF. On this occasion, however, that wasn’t a particularly responsible, nor realistic, rationale.
By now I too was tired - regardless of pace or ability, it’s still a bloody long way. Whilst we’d run ‘together’ from the off, there were occasions when one of us had strayed a few meters whilst staying in sight, but now I kept her at close quarters, within touching distance for fear she could stumble and hit the floor at any moment. The likelihood of her becoming pals with the pavement grew considerably when she began closing her eyes for several seconds at a time - stuttering that she “just wanted to sleep”. We’d conversed beforehand how she’d cope when things got tough, to expect the intensifying lethargy and physiological breakdown, but this was a new one on me. It was an unprecedented quandary, the thorough preparation was beneficial in part for the running, but was insignificant and ineffective for the ‘really poorly’ aspect of the endeavour we’d not anticipated.
I’d purposely kept Amy talking, whilst taking on liquid and fuel, in a bid to distract her from the recklessness of our continued participation in the race. I ranted about an ‘underground network of tunnels’ the Energiser Bunny must possess as he appeared for a third time at the 30K mark. “Where?” “Who?” Amy questioned, because an 8ft dancing fuschia forest figure sporting sunglasses is obviously easy to miss. I declined, however, to announce we’d ‘only’ have an hour or so of running left - it probably wouldn’t have been too helpful given the circumstances.
The pace didn’t appear exceedingly laborious, Amy was adequately able to hold a conversation, even if the majority was slurred and made little sense. I’ve felt the same myself, the difference being my incoherence was after 18 pints, not miles. But during one of our exchanges I noticed a crimson trickling down her chin - she’d begun to bleed from her mouth. Her excessive perspiration could have given her dry and cracked lips, or she could have bitten her tongue, but the mere sight was enough for me to demand she pull to the roadside. I’m devoid of an elegant manner in which to say it ‘scared the shit out of me’.
We’d got engaged a year earlier, around a month after I’d had ‘the talk’ with her father. He’s a good bloke, the conversation wasn’t nearly as anxiety provoking as it could have been as we enjoy a sound relationship, and I had every intention of keeping it that way. Yet, here we were, 12 months after I’d assured him I’d “always look after” his daughter, and I’d allowed the situation to escalate to such an extent that medical intervention had become a very realistic possibility.
She lurched over the kerb and took residence against a parked car, her head resting on the roof of a clapped-out Volkswagen. Like the vehicle, Amy’s running had seen better days. With a hand on the small of her back, I explained it was perhaps time to call it a day, that there was no shame in pulling out given her condition. From the sidewalk a middle-aged woman approached, petite and snowy-haired, rummaging in the handbag adorning her shoulder. Her soft local dialect was lost on our English ignorance as she thrust a bottle of water into Amy’s clammy palm. We expressed our gratitude and Amy took a mouthful from the plastic rim before promptly vomiting before the startled benefactor. A few heaving gasps later she took a second swig, again immediately depositing the contents of the bottle, and her stomach, on the paving slab beneath the woman's feet.
Amy handed the bottle back to the horrified samaritan, offering a heaving “thanks” before reeling off back onto the road and breaking into a jog. The unfortunate humanitarian held the article between two fingers with an expression that cried “What am I meant to do with this”, as I offered a bungling apology and briskly fled the scene.
I increased my cadence to catch up with Amy, pulling alongside to reiterate my opinion that we abandon the ill-fated venture. Her response was brief, but still managed to include several expletives - we weren’t stopping now. It appeared her technicoloured yawn had provoked a galvanization - a rousing regurgitation, a power puke, a hurl of hope. Still she shook, stuttered, sweat and swayed but onwards we progressed.
25 miles. The stagger home from our local hostilery is shorter than the distance that remained, a statistic appearing to rally Amy - the end was nigh and the day would be hers. But there was time for one final insult. Like the theme from a Hollywood slasher flick, the villainous, haunting pounding became audible once more. We turned a corner and there he stood again - ears erect, monstrous fists billowing together in faux-encouragement, mocking us in his gaudy polyester tee. The big pink burrow-dwelling bastard.
The satanic rabbit was shot a grossly unwarranted profanity-laden verbal assault, partnered with an equally offensive hand gesture, a slight transcending any language barrier. The hare had been slain, his reign of terror was over, and the focus was now solely on the towering arena looming before us.
The Finish Line at Frankfurt is located indoors at the colossal Festhalle, a red-carpet stretching from the streets into the immense event and concert hall. The 26.2 miles reaches its conclusion within the gargantuan dome to thumping German Hard House music, flashing neon, smoke machines, strobe lights and intermittent ticker-tape explosions. On a good day it would be magnificent. That day it was just laughably absurd.
Runners streamed into what was effectively a makeshift nightclub - limbs waving, laughing, dancing, whooping triumphantly, like revellers on a Balearic Island passing through the doors of Manumission. Amy was that rogue punter who had somehow evaded the bouncers, obliterated before she’d even set foot in the place. It could easily have been a return to her University days, minus the overwhelming aroma of stale fags and Carlsberg Export.
She took the final unsteady steps beneath the finishing gantry in 4:26:15. She’d endured everything thrown at her and had still implausibly met the time objective. There was no ecstasy, no elation, no celebration, but the immense sense of relief was overwhelming. Amy draped over a railing, her head hanging over the aluminium pole, salt crystals abundantly visible on her steaming scalp. For a few minutes she remained, collecting her thoughts and attempting to cipher what had just transpired, before finding a quiet spot to lay down and slowly devour the abundance of refuelling fare on offer.
It had been a strange day. Had it happened to someone else, the theatricality of the entire episode would have been gripping, but playing the co-star in this peculiar production wasn’t particularly enthralling. Amy was even less so enamoured at her leading role. The succeeding hours saw her mystery ailment gradually improve, to the extent we enjoyed several ‘celebratory’ drinks into the early hours -the only lingering symptom her distinct inability to get warm, evident in her reluctance to remove her coat even when in the comfortable climate of the nearest public house.
Five years have passed since the farce of Frankfurt and we’re still none the wiser as to what actually occurred that morning in central Deutschland. It could have been a freak infection that struck at an outrageously inconvenient moment - numerous research attempts made to establish the source of the ‘illness’ have proved futile, so should anyone be able to offer an explanation or theory, we’d be most keen to hear it.
Her marathon debut was one to remember but for all the wrong reasons, yet fortunately this particular saga is blessed with a happy ending. We married in the Summer of 2016 - I recounted this very tale in my Groom’s speech (barfing and all) and we ran the New York City Marathon that Autumn as part of our Honeymoon celebrations. Fearful of repeat misfortune, she again trained with meticulous aplomb, but carried no time target as she ascended the Verrazano Bridge at the Start Line in the Big Apple. Her sole intention was to enjoy the experience and she did just that - absorbing the incredible ambience and phenomenon of the 42 kilometers spanning five boroughs, accumulating in the glorious rolling hills of Central Park.
It was a ‘Personal Worst’ but she had the time of her life.
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