A new pair of legs, a bone stress injury and a hungover personal best
Though my friends would probably disagree, I’ve never considered myself “a runner”. Running is something I’ve learned to enjoy gradually over the last 10 years, but it has never been a core part of my lifestyle, or my identity. I’m the kind of guy who’ll spend two months training for an event, then four months hardly touching my running shoes. I’ve fudged my way through three road marathons over the years, each time slightly less blasé about the training and with slightly better results to show for it. Though I prefer the sense of adventure that trail running brings, there is definitely some appeal in the universality of a road time, and the once-unthinkable sub-three hour marathon wasn’t feeling quite so far-fetched anymore.
In August 2019 I moved to Edinburgh after four months hiking around Europe. I was the fittest I’d ever been, after walking 1,800 kilometres through seven mountainous countries, and was chomping at the bit to get back into some running. Part of me wanted to build on this base and train for another marathon, but I also didn’t want the training to take over when I knew I had to dedicate myself to starting a new life in a new city where I didn’t know anybody.
So I let my legs decide. On my third run back I got a little carried away and ran 21 km, in a time I would’ve been pretty happy with in a race a couple of years ago. It felt like I’d been given a new pair of legs for free and I couldn’t let that fitness go to waste. So I set my sights on the Amsterdam Marathon – three months away, on a fast, flat course, with the added motivation that my brother Josh would make his marathon debut in Auckland on the same day. Then I hit the pavement.
I gave myself over to running in a way I never had before – following my training programme to the letter, running six days a week and quickly building up to my first ever 100 kilometre week. I finally let myself become “a runner” – devouring running podcasts and watching documentaries about greats like Lydiard, Snell and Halberg for inspiration.
I had worried about running being a distraction during my fresh start, but in reality it was exactly what I needed to get me through a tough time. I was going through the back-to-reality come-downs after a year and a half of travelling, I’d just broken up with my long-term girlfriend, lost a close friend to a motorcycle accident, wasn’t having much luck finding a job and was doing my best not to exhaust the last of my savings. Running became my distraction, my focus, my purpose in what could otherwise have been a very difficult time.
A month into my training I lined up at the start of a local half marathon to really test my legs. I’d never quite managed a 1:30 half marathon before (in fact the closest I’d come was during my previous full marathon) but I knew I’d have to be able to do it comfortably to have a chance at a sub-three hour full marathon. I knew exactly what I had to do – start off at 4:15 per kilometre (a pace I normally struggle to hold for one kilometre) and hang on for 21.1 kilometres. The starting gun went off and I soon settled into my pace. But the course was hillier than I expected and my legs were soon aching. Halfway through I was losing precious seconds with each kilometre and thought my goal was slipping away from me. But at 15 kilometres the long straight down to the finish area came into view and I knew I could do anything for just a few more minutes. I crossed the line with 24 seconds to spare, knowing I couldn’t have kept going, but that I still had a month and a half of training to get to that point.
Two weeks later and I was attempting to do the same again, this time at the Scottish Half Marathon near Edinburgh. I wasn’t expecting much – mildly hungover from birthday Long Island iced teas the night before, and with fatigued legs from a big training week – I thought I’d be very lucky to sneak under 90 minutes. I let my expectations go and told myself just to enjoy the ride. And something magic happened. In contrast to my textbook run two weeks before I did everything wrong – I ignored my watch and let my legs run how they wanted to, and let myself get carried away in battles with other runners. I glanced at my watch and told myself that four minute kilometres weren’t sustainable, but kept running them anyway.
Approaching the halfway point there was a short out-and-back section, and I got a huge boost seeing the leaders – including eventual second-placer and fellow Kiwi Sam McCutcheon – gliding past in the other direction. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to keep this up, but suddenly I was halfway through and all I had to was hold on for another 45-ish minutes. I said to myself “even if Amsterdam doesn’t work out, it’ll all be worth it for this run”.
Then, out of nowhere, a crippling stich at kilometre 17 reduced me to a hobble. My dream race shattered before my eyes as fellow runners cruised past me. I resolved that I’d have to be content with 17 of the fastest kilometres of my life, knowing deep down that risking that sort of pace was never going to pay off anyway. But, just as quickly as it had appeared, the stitch dissolved. Relieved, I launched my final attack – surprising those who had recently overtaken me – figuring I was probably still on track for about 1:28 and another personal best. Sprinting down the finishing chute, I couldn’t believe the time on the clock – 1:26:38 – almost three minutes faster than my previous race. Not only was it my fastest 21.1 km, but my 10 km personal best as well. I celebrated with a punnet of hot chips then, surprising myself with my quick recovery and dedication to my training programme, walked/ran the 10 kilometres home.
But the post-race high quickly faded to a distant memory. Though I didn’t realise till a few days later, I’d given myself the runner’s worst nightmare – a bone stress injury. A piercing pain in the shin bone from impact and overuse. I’d made every mistake in the book – building up the mileage too quickly, not resting enough, not replacing old shoes. I thought I was young and invincible, and my naivety caught up with me. It was with mixed excitement and frustration that I watched the Amsterdam Marathon from the sideline a month later (on the other side of the world, Josh smashed the Auckland Marathon in 3:09:50).
Just when I’d come to rely on running so much, it was ripped away from me. But at the same time, things were finally falling into place for me in Edinburgh – I got a job and a flat within days of the injury. While it was tough to watch my fitness fade away, I was able to channel all that frustration into the motivation to build back up again. After six weeks of rest I progressed to two kilometre walk-runs twice a week, adding 10 per cent each week. I was even more dedicated with my recovery programme than I had been with my training, knowing that any missed mileage one week would prevent me adding more the following week.
It’s now over a year since that dream race and that nightmare injury. I never could’ve imagined what 2020 had in store for us, but running has been my release throughout. I threw myself at my injury recovery to distract myself from the state of the world, but it never felt like a chore as I was constantly grateful to have my mobility back. I’ve managed to pull off some big hairy audacious goals here in the UK, when I might’ve been too busy travelling the continent on the weekends if I’d had the option. I’ve learnt a lot about my body, my limits (including when to ignore them), what running can do for me and what it can’t. I guess that means I’m a runner now.
Stubbornly Optimistic 