Campbell Reid's
Blackmores Sydney Marathon experience
Campbell
moved to Brisbane from Sydney in early 2005 to take up his
position at Queensland Newspapers. Campbell regularly attends my
Brisbane group sessions and has taken the time to provide us a
insight into his debut marathon.
When I was
a kid my dad knew an Olympic marathon runner and I remember him
bowling up to this bloke one day and asking him how he was. He
thought for a moment then replied gravely: "My urine is very
dark." I clearly recall thinking: "These people are completely
mad".
Nearly 40
years later I'm standing at the start of the 2005 Sydney Marathon
and my opinion hasn't changed... except now I'm one of them too.
I should know better. I grew up around distance runners and I
can do hilarious (I think) impersonations of some of New
Zealand's notable marathoners from the Sixties. God knows, I
spent long enough watching them from the backseat of the family
station wagon. I've seen them collapse on the side of the road;
I've watched fascinated as they popped blood blisters with
needles then pulled their Dunlop Volleys back on and limped off
down the track; I've gagged sneaking a sip of their secret
concoctions of sea water and brown sugar.
So, I'm
standing at the start line beside the Harbour Bridge and there’s
a bloke next to me with half-a-dozen energy gels gaffer taped up
his arm and I'm kind of hoping the men with the butterfly nets
and white coats get me before it’s too late.
I'm
worried. Because it's humid. Because the rain isn't going to
last and because as I ridiculously remarked at training the
Thursday before, it does look like an awfully long way. But
there's no backing out now and for the next endless hours it's
like watching a video of myself in the zone of the totally
self-absorbed.
Over the
Harbour Bridge:
Is the pace OK?
Mrs
Macquarie's Chair: Why
am I panting like I'm running 1km reps instead of easing Myself
into 42km? I always have my worst moments in running races in
the first few kilometres and I really feel awful.
Oxford St
7:45am:
The drag queens are a welcome distraction. I think: "lucky that
guy's arse is so big otherwise the weight of those eye lashes
would have him face down in the gutter." But on more important
matters, "why is my ankle so sore when it's my knee that felt
buggered yesterday?"
10km:
48mins. A few years ago that would have been a 10k PB. Not bad.
Randwick
Race Course:
This is getting ugly. The cloud's clearing and the wind’s
picking up. It's going to get hot,hot,hot.
Anzac Parade: The bloke coming third passes by the other
way. He looks terrible: "But he's a lot further down the road
than us", points out the cheerful bastard beside me. Wave to
Michael from Pat Carroll's group coming the other way. He looks
good.
Halfway:
One hour, 42minutes. And the guy with the 3:30 balloons is only
100m in front. For the first time I think, "I can do this”
Back in
the city:
It's up and down and lots of corners but cool at least in the
shade of the buildings. But why do they put drink stations
halfway up the hills?
Pyrmont:
The 3:30 groups are only 20m away. Prancing about like Julie
Andrews and the Von Trapp children. I'm sure they're lovely
people but right now I've appointed them as my own personal
enemy.
photo supplied courtesy of
marathon-photos.com
32km drink
station:
Bang. I can't do this anymore. So this is what it feels like.
From OK to shattered in the space of 100 yards. Welcome to THE
WALL.
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