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    Bonking in Berlin

    How a race that started with so much hope turned into soul-crushing sufferfest
    Oct 6, 2014
    A race that started with so much hope and optimism turned into a soul crushing, quad and calf shredding sufferfest that taught me a few things about preparation and perseverance.  But that’s getting ahead of the story.
    sidelines to start lines

    THE 41st Berlin Marathon last September 28, 2014 was supposed to be my A-Race for the year— the race that would bring me a convincing sub-four hour marathon that would erase my dubious 3:59-and-change Melbourne personal best from three years back. Instead, it turned into a soul crushing, quad and calf shredding sufferfest that taught me a few things about preparation and perseverance. But that’s getting ahead of the story.

    Prepped and Primed

    My training began in earnest months before the marathon, with the anticipated disruptions caused by social obligations, racing, and travels for work. None of these did much long-term damage (I think) to my preparation, because I managed to jump right back into training days each time, even more determined to stay the course. There were days when I did feel out of sorts; I shared this with my coach, who always provided encouragement bundled with reality checks on how I would probably finish.

    In all my years of running, this was the first time I was set to a program that included tempos and intervals, drills which I learned to hate with a passion. But I told myself that if I wanted to run my fastest, I would have to put in the time to run fast. Easier said that done, because the tempos left me anxious while the intervals left me gasping for dear life. Some days felt just like it wasn’t worth the effort, but the end of the run would often leave me feeling stronger and more confident.

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    Long runs were more of a challenge, since they required me to run faster over a longer distance. My more recent races being ultra marathons had taught me to pace myself through a run-walk formula, so getting back into a continuous running pattern required a different discipline of energy conservation, hydration, and nutrition. I did a couple of full marathon distances for my long runs on weekends, but not at the target speed, something my coach reminded me to ease up on (mileage), as I was straying from the program at that point. I quickly got back on track, and with a week left, felt good about making a respectable sub-four.

    Ignoring The Signs

    Looking back at the days leading to the race, the one variable I failed to address already served notice as early as the plane ride from Abu Dhabi to Berlin. The momentary twitching of my calf muscles while catching a few winks on my reclined seat wasn’t any cause for alarm at the time. It’s just the altitude and a little dryness in the air, I told myself (and my legs). Go to sleep and you’ll be fine.

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    Berlin is a beautiful city with a fascinating history, so the missus and I quickly took advantage of it by going on a half-day walking tour upon arrival, followed by a bike tour with teammate Ed the next day. Every night in Berlin before the race, I would be jolted from my sleep by cramping calf muscles, which I would quickly silence by pulling my foot/feet toward me. A swig from the bottle of water on my bedside table, and I was back to dreaming about dropping to my knees and kissing the finish line carpet after convincingly breaking four hours.

    The temperature was a cool 12 to 15 degrees most of the time, and this caused me not to hydrate as much during the tours and walks around the city. I also wanted to avoid having to go so often, since finding WCs (water closets) was like playing ‘Where’s Waldo,’ and most of them required coughing up one euro for access. Frugality trumps and impairs logic, I know.

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    Race Day Cometh

    Waking up and getting ready on race day is normally a hectic and frenzied affair for me. The marathons I’ve joined in the past almost always have an unreasonably early start for reasons of weather (cooler temperatures early in the day), logistics (clearing and cleaning the roads so that they’re used later in the day), or tradition. Berlin’s race starts at 8:45 AM, and gives everyone time to get a good night’s rest, enjoy a leisurely breakfast, and take a relaxed trip to the start area.

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    My usual breakfast of coffee and peanut butter sandwich was a little more packed this time around. I had toast with Nutella, some soft scrambled eggs, mixed fruit juice, and a sausage to top off my nutrition and provide some insulation. The two-kilometer walk to the race venue was light and easy, and provided a sufficient warm up before finding my starting corral. While sitting on the pavement watching the runners arrive and queue at the loos and corral entrances, I felt a strong twitch along my right calf. Clearly not a good time for that to happen before a race, so I quelled the anxiety by taking more sips from my water bottle. I waited until five minutes to the start before entering the closed off G section for runners who estimated to finish within 3:50 and 4:15. Before that, I had made four bio breaks to empty my bladder, intermittently sipping water from my bottle or from the cups handed out by the aid station to replenish any lost fluids.

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    In a matter of minutes, we were off and running.

    Pace, Effort, and Panic

    Amazing weather, great crowd support, and adequately stocked/manned aid stations. This looked like a great day for personal bests. And with a flat and fast course where world records have been constantly rewritten, it’s hard not to get carried away by all the euphoria you feel at the start, and that includes me.

    Control your pace and don’t go out too fast. I took these two principles and practically burned them into my brain since I started my training, reminding myself that shunning them in the past had led to disastrous outcomes. I kept a steady 5:30/km pace and occasionally checked my heart rate monitor to track my effort. I was fine and flying nicely through the first few kilometers. The ambient temperature was cool and there was no chance of overheating in my single layer compression shirt and shorts ensemble.

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    Stopping for some hydration at the first of many aid stations, I quickly downed a cup of water and dodged past more than a few runners, finding a Danish pair in matching outfits to mark as my (pace) rabbits for the race. Running at a steady pace, we passed more runners without having to accelerate from kilometers eight through twelve. As promised the course was flat as a pancake, and even featured some down hills, which made me smile all the more, filling my confidence tank to maximum level.

    And then it happened.

    Somewhere before km 15, my right calf began tightening up. Minutes later, my left calf followed. I reached into my race belt and pulled out a salt tablet, getting that into my system upon reaching the next aid station. The tightness continued to intensify, even as I took in an energy gel after about a kilometer or two. By then, it had taken on a throbbing and throttling grasp to both calves that forced me to slow to just below 6 min/km. There’s still a way out of this predicament, I said, talking to myself and trying to rally my legs to keep pushing. Maybe if I slipped off my compression sleeves, it would somehow ease the pressure by loosening my calf muscles.

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    So I pulled to the side and slipped my compression calf sleeves to just above my ankles and resumed running. That seemed to stem the pressure, as my calves felt the cool, freeing embrace of the morning air. The muscle-warping sensation now reduced, I tried to pick up the pace once more. Here’s where it got complicated; and I’m not quite sure anymore if one seeming corrective measure contributed to a cataclysmic one, or if my stubborn ignorance to early warning signs was the singular reason for my ruin.

    Too Far Gone

    In freeing my calves and getting temporary relief from the stranglehold on them, I may have unleashed a more sinister force that threatened to end my race altogether. At a little past km 18 came a rippling sensation up the front of both thighs that felt like my quad muscles were wet towels being wrung dry. My upper legs locked and I waddled forward, stunned at this latest dilemma.

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    Breathing deeply and desperately (but foolishly) hoping that getting more oxygen to my legs would help, I stumbled towards the next aid station for additional hydration. I took in another salt tablet and drank two cups of water and a cup of isotonic drink. You’re too far gone as far as dehydration is concerned, I scolded myself. No amount of fluid or food is going to stave off the cramps from here on in. And there’s more than half a marathon to run. You idiot.

    Those of us who have run marathons will affirm that humility hits at the 35-kilometer mark onwards. This is the point in the race where a world of hurt either ambushes you or creeps up menacingly, climaxing with pain in places you only read about in medical journals and war chronicles. In my case, it happens somewhere between km 19 and 20.

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    I am forced to slow down and take breaks, massaging my quads and applying pressure to the knotted fibers underneath, hoping to get lucky and hit trigger points that will somehow miraculously make the cramps disappear. I take furtive glances at my watch, grimacing at the display that declares I won’t make my target. Like a train wreck happening in real time, I can’t look away from the watch face, which displays a different morale-mangling message every time I check my metrics. ‘You’re not going to make it,’ ‘You’ve failed—big time,’ and ‘All that training down the toilet’ are some of the winners.

    I’ve been through a number of tough races in recent years, but the suffering of running through cramps for over more than 21 kilometers was something new. Mentally, I knew this was a done deal, that I would easily be able to finish the race. The problem was finishing it with revised expectations and with decent time. With the constant stabbing in my legs slowing me down to a depressing 6:30 min/km, I was at close to thirty kilometers by the time I decided to fight through to a far-from-ideal sub-five hour finish.

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    Finishing With Flourish

    This decision did not make things any easier for me, since I was beating myself up for not having listened to my body when I should have. But once I adjusted my finish time, I was able to enjoy the course a bit more. The cheers from the spectators were more appreciated, the music from the bands sounded more upbeat, and my feeling of gratefulness for being able to race returned with flourish. I even finally remembered the tip from a friend, who told me to follow the three blue stripes in order to run the shortest possible race distance. Forget that I was already running over the course distance by two kilometers; I had found my way back, figuratively speaking.

    Walk? The crowds wouldn’t hear of it. They just kept cheering and prodding all the runners to keep running. There was even a runner who had finished, sitting on the sidelines with his medal around his neck shouting, ‘No walking! Keep running!’ Even then, I still stole a few minutes every so often, to walk and actually stop; but running seemed to be the better alternative, even if every step was agony.

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    In the end, I managed to cross the finish smiling with relief, running the last two kilometers on one part grit and one part evading the embarrassment of walking. I did finish under five hours and came away a little wiser and humbler. A new world record was set (2 hours 2 minutes and 57 seconds) that day, breaking the previous record by almost half a minute, and everyone celebrated another successfully run Berlin marathon by toasting with non-alcoholic beer on the lawns fronting the Reichstag.

    It was a good day.

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