Last Exit to Cambridge

After today, I declare my love affair with marathon running as a dysfunctional one. One of those love-hate things. Toxic, abusive, yet, you can’t let go. I know, I know, I have been banging on about this for a while: June 2020, the game-changer month (in a negative way) where my running stopped following all previously perceived wisdom and experience. Is it physical, is it psychological, is it age or just how it is…? I have been searching for an answer, I still haven’t got one. I was over the moon though, that the four marathon attempts late last year went exceptionally well and against the trend. Then came South Devon and I thought I had just misjudged the hills. And now Cambridge. Where do I start?

Maybe with the event itself: organised by the University of Cambridge’s running club, it was really nice and the idea of running a marathon course around the boundary of Cambridge sounded rather charming. And it was. I was initially intimidated by the number of runners who wore seriously looking trail kit. Like proper trail shoes and even gaiters. My worries that my old non-trail Nike Free trainers with zero grip will mean acrobatic forward movements through slippery mud, turned out to be unnecessary. Most of the route was bliss, but maybe the mostly dry weather had contributed to that.

The journey was 70 min from London by hired car. A thing I rarely do for marathons. Initially, I planned to come a day early and do a bit of Cambridge tourism, but since all accommodation close to the start line was booked out, I decided to make a day trip out of it. I went down the M11 and then exit 13 to Cambridge, with the University’s Sports Centre just a few minutes away. No, I am not superstitious, but in hindsight, “Exit 13” feels a bit like an omen, and the reference of my post title to Hubert Selby’s disturbing Brooklyn novel is intended.

The first half of the race wasn’t even bad. If anything I was running a bit too fast. Maybe that’s a silver lining? I run sometimes a little bit faster again. But two-thirds into the race, it was over. My legs went on strike, very similar to what had happened in South Devon a few weeks ago, but there it was already at half point. (And no, the fact that this time it lasted a bit longer does not mean I progress, since Cambridge is an easy course and in December in Pisa, my legs went all way through in under four hours, thank you very much.)

It did take a while until I realised there was nothing left. First, I thought, well, let’s recover a bit and then continue to run. But even walking turned out to be draining. At some point, I tried to improve my walking pace by doing 20 steps walking and 20 steps tiny jogging steps. Pathetic. And it is so boring if you have to walk. And so discouraging. And so not what I signed up for when, 10 years ago, I started to do marathon running and fell in love with it. Cambridge was now my 70th marathon, and the slowest road marathon to date (well, not quite “road”, but almost).

Is it time to draw a line under this relationship that takes too much out of me and where I feel I don’t get back in return? I have been giving and giving and giving since June 2020, and all I get is a kick in the backside. I feel like I had enough. Stupid running, stupid marathons. I don’t need you. You will see! I will start giving swimming a go, or rowing, or… Phew. I don’t think I sound very convincing, but hey, it’s out now. And if marathon medal number 70 is the last one, who cares. – And this is what you call “closure”. Ha!