Implosion

As featured in Issue 24 of LikeTheWind Magazine.

It’s happened a few times. The last was on the unforgiving cold concrete of the famed Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. A naive and poorly executed pacing strategy meeting it’s timely demise - searing cramp decimating any remaining hope of meeting the time objective - the shooting sensation tearing up my glutes, rendering me rooted to the spot in the 23rd mile of the 2016 New York City Marathon. It’s commonly referred to as ‘hitting the wall’ but I much prefer the term ‘implosion’.

A surge of panic descended as my lower limbs refused to function without excruciating spasm, 5K to the finish and blown to smithereens, hundreds of the 55,000 collective streaming past. “Keep going” squawked a bystander, her unkempt, hooded appearance etched in my consciousness still to this day. My response was genuine - “is that medical advice?” Bereft of a solution, I knew little of what to do for the best - stretch? Walk? Leave town?

It seemed an eternity, yet in reality didn't perhaps exceed even a minute, but the damage was already done. A shuffle tentatively turning to a walk as the agony marginally subsided, a pitiful slog through the Autumnal climbs of Central Park and beneath what became an underwhelming finish gantry. 

The distance between the event finish area and the return to civilian territory is around a mile of unnecessary torment -  one spent chuntering to my broken self, cursing the ignorance at (once again) chasing an ambition well above my station. I harboured hope to never again experience such a death march, I’d not previously been so broken as I was leant against a graffitied subway pillar, willing to be carried away from such a monumental humbling.

It wasn’t the first time and, unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last. Yet on the most recent occasion - it came in the least likely of places and, even more implausible - my own idiocy wasn’t to blame.

There are sparse parallels between the Big Apple and the great Yorkshire countryside other than the partial-title bestowed upon them - the luminous lights of the urban metropolis a stark contrast to the endless rolling emerald of God’s own country. A local, humble trail race was held three months after I was finally able to resume training following an injury that obliterated a years running aspiration, an optimal opportunity to ease myself back into some form of competitive running.

There was little deliberation choosing between the 10K and 5K variations of the course - psychologically, the shorter the distance, the lesser time spent in excessive discomfort, regardless of the variation in intensity. Additionally, my technical prowess on trail being even more mediocre than that of the road made for an easy decision. Conversing with a friend, many times a previous participant, during a half-hearted warm-up, he cited the course’s tendency to “usually measure a little long”. 

I really should have asked him to elaborate. 

A few meters here or there, races frequently measure long on GPS, as likely attributed to a miniscule satellite inaccuracy as the organisers’ purposeful intent to make it longer, thus guaranteeing the stated distance is met. Better slightly long than short. 

5K, in my novice experience, generally consists of functioning a mere fraction below the limit of capability for the entire duration of the distance - my legs don’t physically move much faster than I’m currently striving to sustain. By the fourth kilometer mark any pace blueprint is discarded and the concept essentially becomes ‘hold on for dear life’. That balmy, early summer’s morning was no exception, and with 800 metres remaining I found myself alone in the woods, clumsily hurtling down a beaten path, wheezing, perspiration-a -plenty. A glorious solitude as, absurdly, I was leading the race, and several tentative glances over the shoulder suggested a decent gap. Any regard for the paltry number of entrants (66) was discarded, being first over the line would be a welcome novelty following such a lengthy lay-off. 

400 metres. A rare compliance to the pacing plan had seen a smooth ride but now, right on cue, my rusty engine was steaming at absolute capacity, only the impending end kept the pistons firing. The finish would present itself at the very point of exhaustion. Terrain meandered between weathered timber and overrun shrubbery, lighter shades of green ahead suggesting an exit from the woodland was nigh.

The tone of my watch sounded for the fifth time as an opening in the trees presented itself. My friend was true to his word, yet the course’s additional 150ish metres were of little concern, for imminently I would emerge from the copse, glistening, to a kaleidoscope of colour, the Finish Line a victorious beacon before me. 

Bursting from the foliage my pupils strained in the brightness, but the refocus did not bring about the desired vision before me. There was no gantry, no adoring throng - just a farm track, stretching into the golden horizon, the Finish Line nowhere in sight. 

Bollocks.

What followed was a systematic physiological and psychological meltdown on a spectacular scale. Forget the wheels coming off - the entire chassis crumbled, cogs flew, dense black smoke billowed from the exhaust, hazard warning lights blinking furiously.

The temperature appeared to have suddenly reached that of a small Ethiopian village, sweat cascading from my pours akin to the Canyon Lake Dam break of 1972, enough bodily fluid to penetrate the most robust flood defence. Rural birdsong was drowned out by my desperate gasps, grazing cattle turned expectedly - the heaves greater suited to their breed than my own. A further panicked scan over the shoulder, still no-one. A similar absence of humanity ahead - no marshals, nothing, the only reassurance of accurate navigation were the amber arrows pointing into the way, synonymous with such events. My wrist sounded again. By now the pace had diminished pitifully, the sixth kilometer a good third slower than its predecessor -that familiar ‘survival mode’ adopted in earnest. We had reached Defcon One. Evacuate at once, detonation imminent.

Whilst the level of physical incapacitation wasn’t quite of Fifth Avenue devastation, the cognitive turmoil within was just as debilitating. It’s said that one should never make a significant decision when tired - the fatigued brain unable to adequately rationalise, and inevitably the choice made will likely be unwise. My choice at that particular moment was to walk. To walk in a 5K race. My inner narcissist was going absolutely ballistic. The logic laid in the absence of witness - no-one would be any the wiser, and the lead was seemingly great enough that even should a fellow competitor gain significant ground, I could simply (attempt to) fire the engine back up again. 

Leading the field granted a further obstacle - perspective was distorted and I was now far too invested in winning an entirely insignificant fun run. Had I sat in 2nd or 3rd place I’d have just faded backwards into obscurity with little detection. Yet the front of the pack brought with it a perceived exposure, damning scrutiny and defamation should the number one spot be relinquished to a younger, fitter, more astute model. Not that anyone would have noticed, nor cared. Not that there actually was anyone to notice or care.

Walk. Get over yourself, there's no shame in walking. But at the decisive moment my cadence slowed and stride began to shorten, an illuminous vision appeared in the distance. If it were a mirage, it was an odd one - in the guise of a middle-aged pot-bellied male, the untucked, gingham shirt beneath his high-vis vest hanging loose from his spherical abdomen. A marshal, a bloody marshal! 

Ecstasy collided with despair - while the presentation of an actual physical figure offered comfort, it also meant any design (hope) to walk were abandoned - if the evident condition I was in wasn’t humiliating enough, I’d look (even more of) a dick should I slow to a stagger. As I approached, now emitting sounds akin to that of an ocean liner, his hearty clap reduced to a polite patter before wiping his bespectacled brow. I’d doubt he’d ever before seen such a sorry sight. “Almost there lad,” he offered as I lurched past. I’d have requested he be more specific had I had the facility to breathe.

There was blatant conflict in our definition of ‘nearly there’ as a further 600 metres, seemingly much of which ascended a lawned Kilimanjaro, was covered before a weathered, somewhat disenchanting Finish banner came into view. Any attempts to compose myself before the onlooking 20-strong assembly proved dismally inadequate - the final few expletive-laden steps undertaken in outright shuffling anguish. There was a demoralising absence of any vociferous applause, replaced with hushed voices and numerous looks of awkward concern, the handful offering a half-hearted ovation doing so in reluctant obligation. Why would you do that to yourself for a glorified village fete jog?

I decided not to argue my case, any attempt to do so would have undoubtedly proved fruitless and likely met with further mortification and ridicule. Approached by the Race Director, the acute infuriation eclipsed only by the sheer relief it was over - “how was it?” he inquired. A simple “Long” seemed favourable to the mammoth tantrum threatening to erupt, veins protruding from my steaming temple. Being known as ‘that guy’ would not have been a desirable addition to the days debacle. The rationale behind a 5,000 metre course measuring 7.8 Kilometres remains an enigma, no explanation cited but, in fairness, I wasn’t comfortable requesting one. 

Standing triumphantly (bunglingly) atop the podium (a trio of upturned pallets) beside my slain victims (a pensioner and pre-pubescent boy), I took receipt of a small hand painted porcelain trophy, the labour of a local Primary School pupil - potentially the juvenile stood to my right. The adolescent misspelling of the word ‘Winner’ was remarkably apt - the race may have been won but was done so in a somewhat farcical, undignified, fashion. Or perhaps the spelling was perfectly correct and they just thought I was a Weiner.

Justified self-deprecation aside, regardless of the depth (or lack of) in ability and field, ‘Winning’ a ‘race’ is always nice, a welcome confidence boost which, particularly when you’ve been unable to even partake for so long, suggests you’re doing something at least vaguely right. That said, I was (and will perpetually cease to be) under no illusion whatsoever that had anyone possessing even an ounce of running competence chosen to roll out of bed, they would have laughed heartily into my pathetic, burgundy face. Parkrun is a prime example - courses produce unfathomably fast times on a weekly basis, folk putting up numbers in the low teens - the physiological requirements for which I cannot even begin to comprehend. The occasions I’ve enjoyed ‘First Finisher’ status at an event cannot be attributed to being the best runner there, but rather the ‘least shit’ who chose to participate (or actually try) on that particular day.

A conventional conclusion would offer a moral to this whole dismal episode - a noble lesson learnt perhaps, but the unfortunate reality presents a startling absence of any wisdom acquired from the experience whatsoever. ‘Pace oneself’ doesn’t apply, and ‘don't trust the Race Director’ would probably be a little harsh.

Callous though it may be, the saving grace in this particular tale of woe are those of similar, yet far greater, misfortune - Marathon participants sent miles off course, competitive Ultra runners wrongfully forlorn in the wilderness - their weary carcass already battered from the abundance of miles behind them. Regrettably I cannot extend any advice, proverb, adage or encouragement of any form to those unfortunate to have suffered such an unjust hardship, but I can offer something -

My heartfelt sympathy.