Tag Archives: Running

Valencia Marathon 2025 – The Quiet Fire….

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Before the Start Line……..

And so here we are again.

Another marathon weekend.

Another city.

Another starting line I once absolutely swore blind I would never stand on again.

Life is funny like that. It nudges, it whispers, it prods, and before you know it you’re pinning on a race number and realising, with a mixture of disbelief and excitement, that you’re here again. Running 26.2 miles on a winter’s morning in Spain, chasing a dream you don’t quite know how to define anymore — only that you feel it, deep down, and that’s enough, for now at least. 

Anyway, I’m not there yet – I’m sat at Gate 50 at Manchester Airport at 3:45 on a December  morning, waiting for a Ryanair flight to Spain. And it is flipping cold, and right now I’m just pondering life choices with myself. 

I only started running about 12 years ago. I was never even capable as a kid: badly asthmatic and taking inhalers many times a day, I could never run more than a short sprint. Then when I became an adult (if that ever really happened 😳), life took over. Work, kids, and ‘balance’. I was always too busy to exercise. Actually that’s complete bollocks – I never even tried other than hiking now and again. I also didn’t look after my body. I smoked, drank (too much), burned candles at both ends. I stopped smoking when I was about 45 and discovered I didn’t need that inhaler anymore. I was reborn, but won’t get either all preachy or remorseful about anything. “Don’t look backwards, you aren’t going that way……”. 

I owe running at all in fact to my son Dan. Round about 2012 or so when I’m already the ripe old age of 48, he called me and asked if I’d do the Great North Run with him. It took me less than a nanosecond to say yes, driven by two things, and in no particular order as they say. 

One, the Great North Run had been the one big motivational and exciting thing I’d always followed, albeit on TV (I’m from the North East and fiercely proud of it). And it had always been my Dad’s excitement too, he being a former semi-professional footballer and athlete. I didn’t know it at the time, but in just over 12 months from then he’d die from cancer. Life is short. And secondly Dan wanted to do the run and for me to help train with him and all the rest of it, even if we did live several hours apart. He’d become a bit overweight up until then (I’m being kind, I’m his Dad 🥰), and was about to start his own journey to a completely different place in terms of fitness and lifestyle. And that Great North Run story is told elsewhere…..https://aquavista.me/2012/10/

And so let’s fast forward to New York in 2019, when after quite a few more Great North Runs, I decided to step up and do my first ever full road marathon in New York. Go big or go home! I didn’t think I was capable at first, and although the body (even mine) is resilient and can be put through all sorts of torment if we push and train it hard enough, I didn’t know just how much of a step-up from the half to a full marathon would be for me. It was like the difference between walking to the pub and climbing Everest in a storm. 

After recovering from New York (it took a while!) and then Covid and all that fun, I entered my second marathon, Berlin, in 2022. It was harder still than New York, as this time I pushed myself for a good time (for me, this was 3:37). It took every ounce of discipline, effort, and everything I had to get to that finish line. And then only about 8 months later I thought I could hopefully beat that time before I got to my 60th birthday, and life then presumably started going back downhill again. We can’t forever push against the sands of time after all!

So when I crossed the line in Manchester for my last marathon in 2023, I said – quite emphatically – that I’d never do another one. It had taken too much out of me, and my time of 3hrs 35mins was every single bit of sweat and tears that I had inside me. I trained hard, doing around 800 miles of structured, no, regimental, training en route. And so that was supposed to be it: the final bow, the last medal, Finito Benito. I meant it at the time, too. But here I am. And if I’m honest, I’m glad the universe didn’t listen. I may think differently this coming Sunday afternoon of course 😬. 

So why then? Well, I’m nothing if not stubborn and determined for one. I’m also easily influenced at times, and I’m also acutely and increasingly more aware of my own mortality as I get older. Life really isshort – it is no cliché. 

I’ve been so very very fortunate over the last few years to be able to do more or less what I wanted when I wanted. I’m more or less retired from a career that has taken its toll in terms of stress and fatigue, but it also has given me that ability to be where I am. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, and never take life for granted. There I go again with those clichés!

But since I moved to the Lakes and my absolute lifetime dream of being in my favourite place Ambleside, a different sort of running took over. I got, quite literally, into the mountains. 

In the last two years or so I’ve done four big mountain ultras of around 50 miles. Another of 35 or so in Thailand, had aspirations of getting into the biggest ultrarunning circus of all, the UTMB, and then realising I was deluding myself. It has been hard (and gets harder!) to push myself, and in last years Lakeland 50 I did that, completing around 9,000 feet of climbing and 50 miles of the Lake District’s punishing terrain in 13 hours and 20 minutes of busting a gut. Type 2 fun indeed!

My main fun though in fitness terms is now the Social Running Group that I’m a member of in Ambleside. Every week, usually twice, we go out in the evenings come rain (which is often the case in the Lakes) or shine for shortish (usually 5k, sometimes 10) runs on the fells with a pint (better, two!) at the end. It is wholesome. It is with like-minded, wonderful, friendly people. It is entirely non-competitive. It is perfect, and I love it dearly. I intersperse that with the occasional half marathon (ok, I’ve done four this year so far, including the ever-present Great North Run), and that’s (way) more than enough. But that’s my balance in life now. I can still go for a pint down the Golden Rule, eat somewhat less than optimally in terms of diet, and get out on the fells. I walk those fells too. They fill my soul with so many endorphins. 

So anyway, a couple of months ago I was sat on the sofa watching Countdown (as you do), and was suddenly feeling a bit sorry for myself. I had had toothache that wouldn’t shift for about three weeks despite visits and treatment from the dentist, including root canal work. A friend of mine asked, I’m sure quite meaningfully, if it might be something more than just toothache. Like jaw cancer for example? Well that didn’t play on my overthinking brain one bit I can tell you 🤯😫. At least the toothache didn’t get worse when I ran. So I did. And then, disaster, I pulled a calf muscle. Only a type 1 tear, but recovery would/could take 6 weeks I was told by a physiotherapist. Fuck-a-doodle-doo! I was confined to a lifetime (or so it seemed) of daytime television. 

So I did what any self-respecting (or rash, impetuous and idiotic, you choose) man-possessed would do, got straight onto the nearest internet booking site and found me a marathon to aim at. I needed something to aim for, get myself fit and rehabilitated as quickly as I could. Something to keep me alive. I found Valencia which was about 7 weeks away. Putting then a search into ChatGPT which said “devise me a training plan for a full marathon, except I’ve got only six weeks to train and have a type 1 calf tear and told I shouldn’t run at all for the time being” confused it no end I can tell you 😳. 

Anyway – I’m here. I got healed quickly in about two weeks of persistent and dogged calf raises and physio. I did a bit of running on the treadmill and got up to 18 miles in the next four weeks. I didn’t get anywhere near a proper structured training plan, but then I’m not here to go for a time. I just want to get round. I’m hoping I can still manage under 4 hours though, as I have to set myself something to push towards. I’m like that, you see 🙂. 

So Valencia is a marathon for the soul. My soul. 

It’s also a late-year punctuation mark if you will. It has also been a funny old year in terms of several things in the rest of my life, which I won’t bore you with or go into detail here. And I’ve wittered on for long enough after all, and my plane will no doubt board soon too. 

Suffice to say it is a line drawn under the past twelve months – all the joy, the mess, the hard miles, the surprises, the frustration (with myself, mostly), the quiet triumphs, some people who came and went, and being grateful for the ones who stayed.

It’s a chance to step forward into whatever comes next… with purpose, with breath, with clarity, with heart.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned – sometimes the marathon you’re most ready for isn’t the one you’ve trained perfectly for. It’s the one you enter with humility, honesty, and an acceptance that you will give exactly what you have on the day, and no more.

My Garmin, that ever-optimistic little liar, tells me I’m due a 3:58.

We will see.

I suspect it will come down to heart, legs, weather (which at 23 degrees C in the forecast is a long way from being in my favour and way too hot for me), luck, and whether the red wine I inevitably drink tomorrow night decides to bless or curse me.

But mostly, it will come down to this:

I want to get to the finish line. For me, for my kids, for my Grandkids. For the memories. For the knowledge that I’ve given it what I have on the day. 

And I want to feel done. Done in the best way – the way that makes Christmas feel even sweeter on the other side.

And because life is too short not to chase the things that pull at you.

Because standing in a crowd of thousands, waiting for the gun to go, hearing your own heartbeat and knowing that you chose this – that is one of the most grounding, life-affirming sensations a person can have.

Because this race is part of a longer arc.

A journey that began long before Valencia and will continue long after it. Because I’m not done. 

It’s not even really about running at all. 

It’s about choosing to live with passion.

To keep stepping forward.

To keep saying yes to the things that move me, even when they scare me or stretch me or arrive at inconvenient times.

It’s about remembering that we only get so many chances to stand on a start line in this life – literally and metaphorically. And I don’t want to waste mine. My body is definitely not a temple and never was. More a bit of a train wreck most of the time – but I’m lucky, so very lucky, at my ripe old age to be still able to do these sort of things. Very blessed indeed. 

Wish me luck, I’m going to need it. 

Setback!

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Having been a bit on the quiet side for a month or more on my blog now, here’s an update as to why:

On the 16th September I competed in a half-marathon, the Great North Run. It’s the world’s largest half marathon, and I was running for a number of reasons, not least of which was the need to keep up fitness levels for my forthcoming trip to the Southern Hemisphere’s largest mountain, Aconcagua, in December.

I had ramped up my training to where I completed over 100 miles in the three weeks prior to the run itself. Excessive maybe (or it is for me), but I took the advice from various running forums and websites which said that that was the sort of distance I should be covering that close to the run. Sadly with one week to go, I developed a fairly intense pain below my left ankle. I self diagnosed this, after much frantic googling, to be tendonitis, and a subsequent visit to the doctors suggested the same. Armed therefore with a bunch of painkillers and some anti-inflammatory drugs, I decided still to do the run, and told my self that I could/would quit if the pain got worse during the event.

Myself, Dan and my good friend Mel, immediately prior to the Great North Run.

Not long after the start of the run however, something strange happened. My left foot, where the pain had been coming from, was basically sore, a dullish pain without being too bad. I thought to myself that I could live with this if this was the worst that it was going to get. My right foot however, after about three miles, began to scream at me. It was agony, and I could hardly place my foot on the ground at all. Now limping on both feet, I thought to myself how ridiculous, that it looked like I was getting tendonitis in my right foot as well.

By mile six, the pain was horrible, and I should have stopped, but just didn’t want to. Plenty of people had sponsored me to do this event, and I was running for Bowel Cancer, which means so much to me. I just didn’t want to let anyone down, didn’t want to quit, it just seemed like the easy way out. I told myself to grin and bear it. The second half of the run is all a bit of a blur, but to cut a long story short, I made it to the finishing line, and in a time of two hours and two minutes. The last mile felt like someone was hitting me on the bottom of my heels with a chisel, and I half limped and half walked in.

To cut then an even longer story short, I discovered afterwards, following first X-rays and then an MRI scan, that I had what in the medical field is termed bilateral calcaneus fractures. To the layman (which includes me) that means “two broken heels”. To boot I have a torn tendon just below my right ankle, and the right foot is considerably more sore than the left, as perhaps is illustrated more clearly by the pictures below, which are from the MRI scan:

MRI scan of my left foot

In the centre of the above picture you can see a dark serrated line jutting down from the middle of my heel bone. That is a fracture. Bummer, as they say.

MRI scan of my right foot.

Towards the right of the above picture you will see that the heel bone has basically split – the back part is apparently separated from the remainder. That might explain why it hurt so much! As if to add insult to injury, I also have post-traumatic arthritis in my left heel, and the torn tendon in my right.

So anyway, the upshot of all this is that I was unable to even put any pressure on either foot for about three weeks. It was just too painful, and I got around in a wheelchair, even in the house. The bigger upshot is that I have since been told that I need to wait a further six weeks before I can load bear at all, and then three months before I do any repetitive strain type activities on either foot. If I told you that I was gutted by all this then it would be a ridiculous understatement.

So the biggest setback of the above, apart from the immobility and the waiting around for what seems like a lifetime to be able to walk around unaided again, is that my trip to Aconcagua is off. There was no way I could have gone, as the trip starts in less than six weeks from now. There’s also no cycling, no nothing in fact, until probably January until I can dare doing something strenuous again, and that’s if I get the all clear on my next hospital visit, when they MRI scan me again in November.

Aconcagua will therefore have to wait. It’s not going anywhere of course, but the frustration is then that I have to wait another year for it to happen. The ‘window’ to climb is only open in December and January, which won’t now happen this season obviously.

It’s all too easy to feel a bit down when you are essentially housebound, cannot walk unaided, and have had to cancel the thing that has driven you all year, i.e. the biggest mountain, at 7,000m, that I will probably ever get to attempt. My overriding emotion through it all so far though, is that in overall terms I am lucky. I have my health in overall terms, and there are millions upon millions of people out there a lot worse off than I am.

I have been helped by quite a few people in my recovery period so far, and my thanks to all of them, but very special mentions to Anna and in particular to Mel for all that you have done. I’m extremely grateful, I really am.

It’s difficult to use time productively when you can’t really go very far or indeed stand and bear your own weight, but I am doing what I can, and trying to not let daytime television get the better of me. I have bought myself a home gym, and am trying to use it as diligently as I can to at least stop too much muscle wastage on the rest of my body, not that I was overblessed with muscles in the first place. I think I’ve come to the conclusion overall though that running is just not my sport!