I can be a bit dramatic at times, so if you’re wondering why I can be sooking about having a fucked up ankle one minute, then running a marathon the next, it’d be a fair question.

The 100% honest truth is I DO have a fucked up ankle – ligament damage, joint damage, fracture etc. And as recently as a few weeks ago I was looking at having an ankle recon and may still need to do that. But one of my surgeons basically told me that if I felt like I could still run on it, I may as well do that and then he’ll fix it if it goes again. I’m not entirely sure running a marathon in a few weeks time was what he had in mind but he wasn’t overly specific so here we are.

Of course, to be sensible, coming off almost 8 weeks off with minimal running during that time, I decided NOT to run the Leconfield Wines McLaren Vale Marathon but then my bib turned up in the mail and… well, if you’re a runner, or a different variety of idiot, you know what happens next. Would be a shame to waste that perfectly good race bib, right?

So I decide my race plan is to bank the first half, which I’m fairly confident I can do, and then worry about the second half then. I do all my prep, duck in to the porta loo to apply a bit of vaseline, then pop out to find a guy smack bang in the middle of the grass field with his hand down his pants doing the same thing and I think, ah, mate, get a room.

I then wander over to the start line to watch the Covid safe start waves and sorry, but those start waves are still shit. I suppose they’re good because they ease up congestion as well, but shit.

The half marathoners go first which is kinda fucking weird, and in fact, that morning I have a panic attack and text someone to make sure it’s not a typo that the halfers start at 7:15 and the full marathon starts 45 mins later as I imagine rolling in an 7:30 and everyone’s already gone. But nope, it’s legit, so I’m there on time, nether regions are vaselined up, and it’s time to go.

Weather seems pretty much perfect til we round the corner and what. the actual. fuck. Has that hurricane from WA hit McLaren Vale already? Cause that head wind is not pleasant. Thankfully, when we go around another corner it becomes a side wind, and another corner and booyah, it’s a tail wind… Not that you’d know, because a tail wind NEVER makes up for a shit headwind.

At this point, I have to confess, that other than a really quick look at the course map, I had, and still have, very little idea where we ran. All I know is that we double back, loop around and do random bits that has us passing half marathoners on their way back the other way and full marathoners running back the other way and if you’ve ever seen that Monty Python skit about the race for people with absolutely no sense of direction you’ll know what I mean. But somehow, instead of being annoying as fuck, it manages to be quite cool that we get to see, say hi to, and cheer on, all sorts of people, faster and slower, at various points of the race.

Early on Michael Slagter (who is possibly the person who measured the course and is a pretty handy runner himself but is it a coincidence he’s not running THIS course in this wind and I think not) rides up on one of those stupid fucking two people tandem bikes and asks if I want a ride as the back seat is empty. Thankfully he didn’t also offer me lollies. And I gotta say, the bike seems like a good option even then, and I’m kinda bummed I didn’t at least jump on for a quick photo. But if he’d offered again later I may well have taken him up on it. Also, who even has those bikes? Michael, obviously.

Before I’m even at the half way mark the race ambo speeds past. Probably to rescue one of the faster, thinner runners who have blown away in the wind. It’s at about the same point I say to the guy behind me that he can pass any time. I mean, it’s a fucking two lane road so there’s plenty of room but he explains he’s using me as a wind break and fuck. you.

There’s a few minor undulations in the course but nothing serious, which turns out to be fucking bewildering that on the way back there’s all the fucking hills and seriously, fuck this shit.

At one point I see a random sneaker on the side of the road and wonder if it belonged to the person who got blown away? I also see some yellow tail black cockatoos fly overhead and that was possibly the highlight of my race.

A few times I manage to run at the same pace as someone else and we have a little chat before one of us edges ahead. It’s amazing how much this helps take your mind off how much everything fucking hurts. One of them was a guy called Tom, and another guy had bought one of my Tshirts, and thanks Tom and Tshirt guy for the chat.

My race plan goes pretty well and I knock over the half way mark in around two hours, get to 30kms in about 3hrs and then, as expected, the wheels kinda fall off. I play leap frog with two people running together and although you’ll find this difficult to believe I end up abusing the woman for being an asshole as they run past. In my defence, I may just have been agreeing with her suggesting I probably think she’s an asshole, and honesty is the best policy and all that.

The mighty Micky D Mick Dwyer is out there supporting someone and because of the twists and turns of the course, I pass him no less than 452 times, and finally I yell out “tell us a joke” and he says something like “What do you call someone with a stick up their ass? An ambulance” And either I heard that wrong or it’s the worst fucking joke of all time because I still don’t get it and how does that guy even make a living out of being funny? Also, your dog is a cunt.

(UPDATE: OK, I get it now. You call him an ambulance because he has a stick up his ass and… oh, nevermind, you probably all got it the first time and OK, it’s a fair joke and did I mention how tired I was?)

The last 10kms is, predictably, absolutely fucking shithouse. I’m run/walking by this stage, desperately trying to hang on to a decent time by a) not slowing down more than necessary and b) not dying.

EDIT: Adding this bit later because I had zero recollection of it happening, but checked my phone this morning – the day after the race – and found a picture of myself pretend running mid-race and remembered that one of the guys at one of the drink stations I passed several times said he wished he had a camera to take pics of me since I’m usually taking pics of everyone else. So the last time I passed I handed him my phone and told him to put his money where his mouth was and take a pic so he did! And I just found the pic this morning and it made me laugh! Will post it later.

Somehow, the no real hills from the first half of the race have turned into some pretty serious hills on the way back (I checked, my strava data and OK, they were not serious, but fuck did they feel like it at that stage) and there are no less than THREE Photographers all positioned in the last 4 or 5 kms and fuck them for doing that. Especially the one who did what I would have done and perched right on the ridge of the rise to get a good background but ended up taking pics of us going up hill and that is just a shit thing to do. And I’d know, cause I do it all the time.
One of the photographers David Fielding Photography is on one of the last of the 2,678 corners, and someone suggests I do a jump shot which is a really, really fucking shitty thing to suggest at this late stage of the race and I’m hurting all over and feel like I’m gonna spew and have literally no energy left but… JUMP SHOT!

With about 400m to go I decide I should probably race off the guy I’ve been running close to for most of the last few kms so I take off at a slightly less embarrassingly slow pace, cross the finish line, get baby giraffe legs, and go to lean on the fence only to be told to clear the finish chute and fuck mate, I just ran a marathon with a fractured ankle after 8 weeks of minimal running and OK sir, I’ll move and a nice lady comes and gives me a cup of water and I’m magically better except not really. Until I see there’s a stand called Two Fat Blokes Pizza Mobile Catering Service and hello pizza. And I think we can all agree pizza is your friend. Any day, really, but especially after a marathon.

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