RAK it up to experience

Sometimes, you go into a race feeling nervous, undertrained, achey, unsure, and you cross the finish line in a cracking new PB after a performance that almost felt easy. Other times, the opposite happens; in short, this weekend was a bit of a disaster for me.

As you’ll know if you read my last post, I was happy and confident going into this weekend’s half marathon in Ras Al Khaimah, feeling fit and hoping to go sub-1.30 for the first time. The first clue that not everything would go perfectly came on Wednesday, when I woke with a bit of man flu and, later in the day, started having quite bad stomach aches.

Thursday, neither of these things had become any worse although I only got a couple of hours’ sleep on Wednesday night and that is usually a decent sign that illness is on its way for me. Friday morning, I woke at 4, got ready, picked up my friend Lou who was also racing, and drove to RAK (an hour or so north of Dubai). I didn’t feel good, but I didn’t feel bad. I thought I’d be OK.

Let’s skip now to the 16km mark. At the Creek Striders half marathon in December, that I was less well prepared for, the 16km mark is where it really started to hurt. Here in RAK, sticking to the required 4.15/km pace, it’s now been really, really hurting for, well... hmmm... er, divide by two, carry the one... approximately 15.9kms. It’s a horror show.

Reasons for the horror show:

a)      There’s a sandstorm blowing in. While this, helpfully, obscures the view of RAK city, it makes running unpleasant and breathing even more so. And running into the wind is tiring.

b)      Due to big swimmers’ thighs that have a natural propensity for chaffing, I’ve usually run in lycra shorts in the past but, recently, slimmerline Matt has been fine in normal running shorts. This is the wrong choice. At the 4km mark, there’s actual blood... I’ll not go into any more detail in case you’re eating.

c)       The tummy bug is paying a return visit and my stomach now feels like I’ve done 16 pints and 16 rounds with Ricky Hatton – not 16kms of a run.

d)      Whether it’s a combination of the above or something else entirely, I’m feeling flat.

So, I stop to do a little mini chunder at the roadside and then start to define victory as making it to a portaloo. By this point, I know the sub-1.30 is out of the question and feel so sore and despondent that I think about  pulling out entirely. But quitting sucks. Plus, I’m right at the furthest point from the start/finish, so there’s only one way back. I have to walk a little longer but then break into a jog.

I’m fine on around 5min/kms but then I do a little mental calculation and work out that a PB could still be on the cards anyway. So I jog my way back in to a 1.33 finish and, I think, a PB by a few seconds. I jog straight through the finish line. I jog past the medals and the drinks. I jog past the young lass removing timing chips from shoes. And I jog to the nearest portaloo. Then I jog to the car where a pair of tracksuit bottoms await. And then, knowing that Lou will be another 20-30 minutes behind, I put the car seat back, curl into a foetal position and nap. It’s pathetic. And I’m sure any ladies reading this will mock horrifically... but I’m in real pain!

But wait, didn’t I say the whole weekend was a bit of a disaster – not just Friday morning? Ah, how observant you are! So, I crawl into bed early on Friday night, sleep like the dead, and awake at 6.20 on Saturday morning. I stand up, sheepishly, testing my body for aches and pains. Sore legs – of course. Stomach feels like I’ve been on the receiving end of a gangland beating? Oh yes. But...

And so I head down to the beach for the morning sea swim session with the rest of the team (or the ones who aren’t over in Sri Lanka absolutely destroying the rest of the field in the inaugural IM 70.3 over there). Everyone’s in good spirits and, as ever, that lifts mine too.

Meanwhile, somewhere up above, Mother Nature scratches her matronly hair-do. “I’ve given him a cold, a stomach bug, stirred up a sand storm and gave him thighs that could chafe in a vat of Vaseline, but he’s still not getting the message. What do I need to do to make this idiot stop?” she ponders.

After just four laps of the buoys (we’re aiming for 12 in total – each lap being around 250-300m), Mother Nature has decided to drop all semblance of subtlety and makes her next move... a jelly fish stings me all over the face. It’s tough to scream like a little girl when your face is underwater, but I think the sound I make goes something like: “GNHHHHHHHHHHHEEEUUTHYYYYYYYAAAAAEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”

Being a bonafide moron I do, of course, attempt another lap but by now my eyes are watering so much my goggles won’t stay on. I admit defeat and head to Starbucks to make an early start on the team breakfast. With the wind once again running riot outside, I decide against the steady bike ride I had pencilled in – it would have surely lead to riding into a ditch – and swap it for a steady two hour spin on the turbo trainer instead.

And so to Sunday morning. I awake with a head that is purplish in colour and perfectly spherical. Whether this is a reaction to the jelly fish that tried to snog me or the hideous bout of man flu that landed on my head during the night, I really can’t tell and am passed caring.

Message received. Time for a few days off, I think!