Run like you stole it

Emma Wheater | 07 Jan 2010

Bitten by the running bug, Emma Wheater wasn’t content with pounding the streets around Perth. She went the whole hog and took aim at the marathon. And where better to tackle a runner’s greatest challenge than mighty New York?

Three years ago I hadn’t run, ever. Back then I said I hated it, which was true, but more accurately, I was afraid of it.
Afraid of how bad it made me feel, how much I would hate myself for feeling unfit, afraid of feeling the jiggly bits of me jiggle that little bit harder. So I never ran.
I’d refuse to run for trains or buses, I’d write sick notes to get myself out of Phys Ed at school (sorry, Mum). I wasn’t the sporty type.
Then something changed. I took part in a “kick start your fitness” type program at my gym because I wanted to get this monkey off my back. I decided that by the end of the 10 days, I wanted to be able to run the three-kilometre time trial that we were pushed through on the first day (that cold August morning saw me walking most of the three kilometres and even taking a short cut. Oh, the shame).
And you know what? By the end of those 10 days I ran the whole distance. And after that I
decided that because it had been such a fight to run it, I was never going backwards. The childhood monkey had been lured off my back with whispers of fields of bananas, and had gunned it.
I’m still no Sporty Spice. I love nice clothes and high heels, and wine is as much a part of my life as air.
But I’ve learnt that without something to work towards, I’ll do nothing, because nothing is actually quite fun. Nothing is sleeping in and having ham and cheese croissants on Sunday. But nothing can make you drink too much, eat out too much, and get fat and lazy.
And what’s life without a challenge? Why not do the things that make you scared?
So that’s sort of how I found myself getting up at 4:45am in New York City, walking to 42nd Street, past the last Halloween revellers, piling onto buses, and being driven to Staten Island to run a marathon on November 1.
Months before we set out in that cold
November rain, I’d run a half marathon (21.1km). As I crossed the line I proclaimed, “I’m never doing a marathon”.
Two weeks later I was figuring out what to do next, and for some odd reason, the New York marathon seemed to fit perfectly: Train for some big, crazy race you don’t even know if your body can handle (tick), and get a great holiday too (tick and tick).
So my husband called the travel agent. We paid our money, and with a few mouse clicks, we were signed up. Like buying stuff on eBay, it was instantly gratifying – and then we immediately regretted it.
The race was about 18 weeks away. I researched and devised a training plan. To my horror, a running website suggested that a first-time marathoner should have a base of 40 to 64km (about five runs over 12km) each week. I’d be lucky to run the dog 10km a week total. Of course, I see this after we’ve signed up so there was not much I can do but lace up my sneakers.
I’m a big fan of asking experts, so when I ran my first half marathon in May I had running coach Gina Greyson-Cassey help me out. Gina is a warm, funny coach, who also happens to be a brilliant runner. Her advice to me as I whined at her about how I could be better at this lark was simple. “To be a better runner, you have to run.” Damn.
Using Gina’s training advice and info found online, I devised my own preparation plan for the marathon.
Each week I would have one interval set (this is short, hard bursts of fast running usually done at a 400m track), one hills session, two easy short runs (varying distances of anywhere from 4km to 8km), one Sunday morning long run (what Gina calls “your bread and butter run” ie miss any run but this one) , and a couple of yoga sessions thrown in.
Each week the long run would get longer until, two weeks before the race, we would run our longest distance of 32km before starting to taper down for the race. It’s not necessary to run the full distance before a marathon (thank Buddha).
While I was slightly concerned about running 10km less than the marathon distance, just about every program I saw had 32km as the biggest run, so I put my faith in the running gods and went with it. Plus, I really didn’t want to run any further than that.
So the training began in June. Then it stopped in July while we went to Europe. Hello cheese.
Four weeks later we came home with only five runs under the (expanded) belt. Now with just 12 weeks left, we got to business. I’d planned five runs a week, but looking back, I think I averaged only three to four runs a week.
With around nine weeks to go, I was feeling good, and keeping up with most of my sessions. However after a great (but tough) interval session, I tweaked a glute muscle. I didn’t do what I should have done, which is immediately book in to see a physio. I was crazy busy with work and couldn’t see my way to giving up an hour out of my day. So instead I stretched it and thought it would heal quickly. Which it didn’t.
So I missed over a week’s training and missed running the Fremantle half marathon (still glad you didn’t give up an hour to get help, Emma?) Finally I went to get a sports massage to calm it down. Lesson: deal with injuries quickly to avoid losing training time.
Once over the glute, I had a few more good weeks of running. Unfortunately I got injury number two about three weeks before the race. I was experiencing pain on the side of my left knee during runs, so I trundled off to the physio who told me it was my ITB – a long, important muscle that runs down the side of your thigh from hip to knee. I received an eye-watering massage from my super nice physio (I swear he is, pain aside) and some acupuncture, and was given home stretches to do. I hoped this would fix it. It didn’t.
I had two more rounds of acupuncture and massage and more stretching. Just before I flew out the decision was made that I had to have a cortisone injection in my ITB. I couldn’t run again until the Thursday before the race.
However, injuries aside, the exciting time had come to leave for the States. So after several sports massages, a new pair of shoes, rounds of physio and the injection, I was ready to go. Terrified, but ready (ish).
We landed in New York a few days before the race. On Thursday and Friday I tried a little run on the hotel treadmill, and the ITB felt fine. Thank you, running god. Part of the pre-race schedule (other than pawing at the Christian Louboutins at Saks Fifth Ave) included heading out to the race expo to collect our goodie bags (incluing race number, timing chips, t-shirts, pen, other guff), and register to get on the bus that takes you (and 43,000 other runners) to the start on Staten Island.
As with anything on race day, you want to minimise surprises. This means you don’t put on a pair of shorts you’ve never worn, run in new shoes, or eat tacos for breakfast when you normally have toast. Before our long training runs we would usually eat white toast with honey – easy to digest and high GI.
With all this in mind, we found a local market, bought white bread rolls and honey and made up our own breakfast to take on the day. Bagels, coffee and tea would be provided but it’s best not to rely on them, especially if they’re new to your system.
The night before the race we went to a local Italian restaurant for a bowl of pasta. My better half had a glass of red (I was maintaining a distance from alcohol), and we were early to bed. I woke every two hours through the night. When we finally did get up (after a false start at 3:45am thanks to husband’s incorrect alarm), we showered, dressed quickly and grabbed our bags.
The sight at the bus departure at 42nd Street was incredible – it was just after 5am and pitch black but there were people and traffic everywhere. Coaches stretched along Fifth Ave as far as I could see, each one with “Marathon” up in lights. There was a bit of rain, but not enough to dampen my excitement.
We shuffled on to buses and there was quiet excited chatter as we rolled out of Manhattan. Crossing the Verrazano-Narrows bridge, our bus fell silent as we saw what we would be running across at the start of the marathon in a few hours time.
Arriving on Staten Island, we were herded into Fort Wadsworth, an army base set up in three “camps” for the race. Waiting in the blue camp, we sat on plastic bags on a kerb and drank hot tea, ate an early banana, had a free bagel, our prepared breakfast and chatted with our neighbours.
The four-hour wait was long and cold. My toes went numb. I was grateful that I had packed my gloves, rain poncho and extra plastic bags to sit on, however something cushy to plant my bum on would have been wise.
We’d bought cheap tracksuits which we planned to wear right up to the start and then ditch – all clothing thrown off by competitors is donated to the homeless – so we were able to keep relatively warm right up to the start.
Extra belongings are placed in your expo goodie bag (they come labelled with your name and race number) then placed in numbered trucks, which meet you at the finish. I felt a sense of panic placing my bag in the truck knowing I’d have to run 42.2km to get my stuff back.
Around 10am our wave start was called, so we made our way to the corral. Of course, here we found ourselves standing next to a couple from Perth. We nervously chatted as we filtered through to the start, jogging over to the bridge until finally there it was – the start of the New York City Marathon.
Running out across the Verazzano-Narrows Bridge was incredible. I felt elated, finally starting the race that I had trained for, worried about, and thought I couldn’t do.
The Manhattan skyline stretched out to our left, and all around us runners were cheering and excited. Apparently the bridge is steep, but I didn’t notice. It was just great, and I was walking on air.
The first spectators were waiting for us in Brooklyn. Waving signs and shouting “Welcome to Brooklyn!”, the crowds lifted you up and carried you along. I could’ve hugged them all and I couldn’t stop smiling. The first 10km felt like a spacewalk, it was brilliant.
Less brilliant was that after two kilometres, my ITB was hurting. Unbelievable. I decided I wasn’t stopping, and that I would just blow it out if I had to.
As we ran through Brooklyn I felt like crying – not from pain though, I was overwhelmed by how generous the crowds were, throwing all this support and love out to a bunch of nutcase strangers.
By the halfway mark I was really hurting. My left leg was incredibly tight and the pain in my knee was extreme. I was compensating with my right leg, which I knew would end up hurting too.
People around us were flagging, and we’d left the happy Brooklyn crowds to run with no crowds across a big silent bridge, heading for the Bronx. I was worrying about how I was going to get through the next 21km.
I can hardly remember big parts of the race now. I do remember thinking over and over again “this is gruelling” and it’s a description I’ve clung to since, even though I can’t remember the pain itself. At times I was reduced to a shuffle.
By 32km I think I was high from pain. I can’t remember a lot of the scenery – I can remember a gospel choir and a fantastic brass band, I can remember people playing Black Eyed Peas. I can remember thanking people as they called out my name, and trying to sound more cheerful than I felt.
We had visited Central Park the day before the race to see how the course would finish – so I knew that we had a long, uphill finish. The crowds were going mental at this point, but I was in my bat cave, and I wasn’t coming out until I crossed that line.
With a few metres to go, and with the flags of all the different countries on each side, my husband grabbed my hand and we ran over the line together. I was so relieved to have finished. A medal was placed around my neck, a thermal blanket was thrown around my shoulders and a finisher’s pack was shoved into my hands. I couldn’t speak, and I didn’t know if I wanted to cry or throw up or cheer.
But it was done. I was in pain, but we’d done it, and we’d run the whole damn thing in 4 hours and 38 minutes.
That night it was room service burgers, chips and wine, and the next week was filled with constant reminders of the race (limp down stairs, limp up stairs, limp, limp).
I wish I’d done more long runs in training, and I wish I’d run more in general. But what I wish most is that I’d shouted out “thank you New York” as I ran. It’s cheesy, but it’s true. And I wish I’d told the volunteers on the drink stations how fantastic they were, rather than just gasping “thank you”. And even though I’ve still got a sore knee, I’ve entered the ballot for next year.