By Paul Gallagher
Falling onto the toilet seat and reversing downstairs is no craic, but it was very real, and it’s part of the trade-off if you decide to run 26.2 miles after five weeks of training. Stupidity lies within. This roly-poly decided late that it would be a good idea to take on the recent Phoenix Belfast Marathon after a number became available due to a friend’s friend getting injured. That I had only weeks to get this watery frame to the start line on Stormont Avenue added to the nonsense.
I’m lucky to have the best friends and cheerleaders at my running club, Murlough AC. Some are seasoned campaigners with 40-odd marathons in the legs. Some had just returned from Boston and London, while others properly prepared for Belfast with their 20-week training block! This eejit, however, was going in on a wing and a prayer.
I get out 3–4 times a week, but it’s usually up to 10k and rarely more than that, which begs the question: why a marathon, and why now? Valid questions, and all I can say is there has always been an itch to do a proper marathon, and today is the youngest I will ever be – which is currently 51. I did a virtual Edinburgh Marathon during Covid in horrendous conditions in January, but I wanted to experience a proper race day, enter the hurt locker, and soak up the pain and the buzz in equal measure.
So, the plan was set: get the miles up and see what the body can do. Ten miles became 12, 12 became 16, and the longest run I did ahead of Belfast was 20 lumpy miles around the countryside of my hometown, Newcastle, two weeks before Belfast. Could I tag on another 6.2 on race day? Who knows, but with the clock against me there was no other option but to lean into it.
I had no idea of the prep required for a marathon: fuel and gel tactics, water stations, bag drops, 5am starts, and don’t get me started on the Vaseline and the places it must be applied! That said, application of said lube might have been the most important job carried out on race day. No chafing or bleeding nipples for this ginger warrior!
Race Day
The 5am alarm was set on race day – not that any alarm was needed because paranoia meant seeing every small hour. The early start gave enough time for one last fuel, constitutionals, and kit check before meeting the rest of the Murlough crew on the minibus for Belfast. I’m usually fairly chipper in such company, having the craic and plenty of banter.
There was nervous energy spilling from the bus as it sped towards Belfast and another date with running destiny. My quiet demeanour disguised an inner fear. Knowing that there was no turning back, the window for excuses or a fake injury was closed. We were 90-odd minutes from lift-off, and I needed to get my big-boy pants on, quick-sharp. Others were buzzing, but I sense nerves feature in everyone’s psyche, even the veterans of 40 marathons and more. Tramping 26.2 miles commands respect every single time.
We sneaked into the Stormont Hotel and gathered around a soft seater adjacent to the toilets. Bags had been dropped, and now it was a case of checking and rechecking gels, numerous visits to the toilet, until it was time to step onto Stormont Avenue and through the inflated arch at the starting line. Like ants spilling out of their colonies, runners emerged from everywhere. Last-minute warmup loops, equipment checks, darts to the trees and cubicles for last-minute toilet stops – and then it was time.
We moved from grass verges, past the metal barricades, and onto the red tarmac on the arrow-straight avenue. Watches were set, look forward, look back, and all that could be seen were throngs of runners huddled and waiting for the starting gun.
In the full article Paul goes on to explain that he thought if he got to mile 20 he would be okay. But he says he was wrong!
