The Madeira Reboot

I am on my way back from Madeira to London. The marathon medal is in my bag. While it was my 71st in now my twelfth year of marathon running, it was more than that. Musing over the cause of an ever-worsening running experience for years and eventually not being able to finish my last marathon attempt in April 2022, had led to a blog post that I dropped just before running this one. I had realised that slow, unnoticed change is something to watch out for (like the frog in the water bowl, that slowly heats up). However, once you notice it, you can use it to your advantage and implement small changes that help you. That’s what I had been trying. The most predominant change was to finally fully embrace minimalist running, either barefoot, in thin running sandals or in the good old Vibram FiveFingers toe shoes. But there was more. It had all led me to dare to sign up for this first post-DNF marathon in Funchal, Madeira. This in itself was an improvement, just believing I could run that distance without torturing myself. In sandals. In temperatures 20 degrees higher than at home. And with a current training pace that led me to believe a 4:30 time should be within reach. So, when I made it to the start I was somewhat nervous since it’s one thing to have a nice theory and write about it, and another to actually do it. It came all a bit different than I could have imagined!

When I stood at the start line, once again with constant running buddy Michael (everyone needs a Michael in their life, to keep you accountable to the marathon gibberish you are producing over the years), it felt like, yes, I can do it, but also like, oh no, I am completely delusional with ridiculous running sandals on my feet. 23 km had been the longest distance I had done in those, and that was a month ago. Over the last weeks, my average running pace for easy runs had just dropped slightly under 6min/km, a pace I could not see I am able to hold over marathon distance. The Sunday before the marathon, I had a positive 27 km “freak” run in my FiveFingers, but that was at probably just a good day and at much cooler temperatures. So, when the beautiful island sun, dipped the start line into golden morning rays, I couldn’t say I burst with confidence. And the bit of confidence that I had only lasted until km 5 when my hydration pack lost its content.

I am running marathons with two litres of water on my back for many years. More recently I have been adding 160g of table sugar to it, as my fuel. That’s an energy equivalent to the six gels I previously was running with, and the substitute was inspired by a study that said table sugar is the best form of sugar for endurance sports. So far so well, but at 5 km I felt water running down my bum and legs. The hydration pack completely emptied itself almost instantly. It was less about the sugary discomfort that was all over me, making my sandals slippery and my hands sticky. It was that my whole hydration and fuelling strategy was gone, too. I am not used to stopping at water stations, fumbling around with plastic cups, and then fuelling with bananas and other solid food that might or might not be offered. But I was not given a choice and so I tried to relax into the unknown, waiting for the moment for this accident to come back to bite me. The amazing thing was, that moment never came.

At km 15 the 4 hours pacer overtook me and I had the crazy thought, well, I could at least try to stick with him for a while. He seemed to be quite lonely. There were not that many sub 4 hours marathon runners in this race. Since I still felt surprisingly fresh, I took the challenge and the opportunity just to have to follow someone while focussing on keeping the legs relaxed. It worked, but when we crossed the half-marathon mark, I noticed that we were 3 minutes behind. The pacer must have crossed the start line 3 minutes later than I did. But hey, it was good pacing and I did not expect to be able to keep up with him anyway. When I crossed the 30 km mark, the proverbial man with the hammer was still not there, neither at 31 or 32 km. The marathon route had now transitioned to the flat bit along the port and seaside promenade. And the temperature was now full at 20-plus degrees Celsius. It felt hot, but since no hammer man was there, I thought I pull away from the 4 hours pacer and try to shave off some more of those extra minutes.

The Funchal marathon route is slightly sadistic since it teases you with a three-time loop for the last 10 km, which makes you run next to the finish line twice before you are allowed to pass it the third time. There was also a bit of road paved with upright-laid pebble-sized stones (I am sure, it’s valuable historic paving), which even runners with shoes avoided. In my sandals it was hell. After I had to go through this short hell section for the third time at km 39, and bumped into Michael, who was run-walking his own race, I came closest to what man-with-hammer moments can look like and slowed down. Only to have the 4 hours pacer literally back in my neck and now being very verbal: “Come on, no slowing down!” Me: “Won’t do the 4 hours anyway, you started too late!” Him: “Yes, but come on, you are almost there, no slowing down.” What then happened exceeded my wildest dreams.

I somehow tried to ignore that crazy pacer, but at the same time, I couldn’t. I just happen to keep up with him, without having a clue what pace we were running. Suddenly the 40 km marker was there. “Come on, final sprint!”. Final sprint? Every half-sane marathoner must know that the last two km can’t be seen as a final sprint, at least that’s what I think. It is even more important to know your limits here, otherwise to suddenly find yourself lying in the gutter holding your cramping legs or worse. “Come on, you can do it!” Doing, what exactly? I already had done much more than I ever could have hoped for, a solid marathon pace in around 4:05, when I thought 4:30 is realistic, plus all of this in running sandals for the first time, at now 22 degrees. It was insane, why was I still doing this? Km 41. Me: “You are running at a crazy pace, what are you doing.” Him: “Come on, final sprint, you can do it!”. It was hard to argue about it when you are indeed on the last bit of a marathon, and your legs are still functioning, and if you are honest about it, having fun doing a bit of crazy stuff. Now and then I heard things like: “This guy runs in flip-flops!” or “Look, this crazy man!”. Yes, it is fun. And so I passed the marathon finish line in 4:03 something and in disbelief about the whole experience.

Checking on Strava later I noticed that I ran the last km in something like 4:55 min/km. The overall pace was at 5:45 min/km. Where did all this come from? I could had sworn, that there was no way I would be able to do this. But here it was. It almost felt like a marathon rebirth, but that’s a tad too dramatic. But a reboot maybe? I love to see it this way and will try to continue practising the lessons about slow consistent change. To make it work for and not against me. I’ll keep you updated.