Go Gaucho, go, go, go
Everyone had told me that Edinburgh is a lovely city, but the orderly Georgian New Town still managed to surprise me with just how pleasing it was. Compared to London, the city is a manageable size and lacks that exhausting, demented frenzy of life down here. However, on the Friday morning we arrived , we didn’t even spend enough time in the town to have breakfast. We hired a car and headed straight out of town, so our first meal was supper. I hope this carbo unload didn’t hinder my running efforts, I don’t think so.
I had to pick up my number and timing chip on Saturday, which meant driving to a sports centre by the Firth of Forth. Afterwards, we investigated Edinburgh - hopefully without exhausting the legs. This meant walking up the Royal Mile, after a pasta lunch, watching some of the street performers that litter the street and idly looking at tweed jackets in the tourist shops. We saw Super Scott, a youthful chap in a straight jacket, work the crowd and slag off Americans. There were plenty of living statues, some of whom were also rude about Americans, a bag piper and a disabled person painting with her foot.
After all that excitement we hurried home to book an Italian restaurant for an early supper. Not an easy task before a marathon, because I think we must have called about 10 before we found one that wasn’t completely booked up. Bruce and Claire, two fellow marathon running friends joined us, and Claire told us that two weeks previously she’d found out she was pregnant. We all had huge piles of pasta plus puddings, with no guilty feelings. I also promised to cook breakfast for the three of us the next morning.
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8.30 Sunday morning: milling with a few thousand other runners, some wearing bin-bag tank tops like me. It’s overcast and windy; the weather feels Scottish. My tummy’s filled with porridge, bananas and coffee. Six energy gels hang around my waist and my heart rate monitor is strapped around my chest. Pinned to the front and back of my brand-new shirt, two pieces of paper say ‘Gaucho’ in marker pen. Vaseline covers my nipples and around my armpits. My trainer laces are double knotted over lucky ‘1,000 Miler’ socks. I wear a support on my right knee, just in case. A crackling, Scottish voice floats over the crowd from the tannoy. The man next to me hasn’t run in four weeks, ever since he came down with ITB Syndrome.
We’re off, I press the start button on my watch, and we shuffle forward. It’s a few minutes past 9 by the time I reach the starting post. We head past Holyrood Palace and wind through the streets of Leith. The top left hand side of my knee hurts, but I’m taking it easy. Now we’re by the seaside, stormy grey clouds hang over the estuary, solid white waves break on the dark beach. Now the bottom-right corner of my knee hums with a gentle pain, it feels like it’s going to lock straight. The knee continues to flex. I can see runners curling around the bay to its furthest most easterly tip. Running into a strong North Easterly wind beside the grit coloured buildings it’s hard to picture this place as a holiday destination.
At last a wall to pee against. Then at Musselburgh Racecourse we leave the beach and follow the coast further inland, past a piper playing the Star Wars theme. I’ve run 10 miles, a mere 16 to go. We head past a huge power station, a featureless block protected by a single chimney. More small towns and water stations, and the clouds begin to lighten. We run past sound systems playing Magic FM classics, and a folk band with accordion.
It was a good tip to put my name on my shirt, as now I get the odd shout of encouragement which perks me up. I always try and smile and give a bit of eye contact back. Around the two hour ten mark, I’ve run 12 or 13 miles and I see the first runners coming back towards me and the finish line; they seem to be sprinting. We’re running down hedgerow lined roads now, and a lush green golf course (Longniddry, it turns out).
16 miles and I’m feeling good and smiling; the going can only get hard.The route now takes us off the road and on to an aggregate covered path through green arable fields. The sun is out now, and we pass 17 miles. I run past some bushes, through the stinging nettles and have another pee. Did I really need to drink at all those water stations? We run past the sandstone porticoes of a country house - Gosford House- and finally loop back down towards the race course… 8 miles away.
By now I’ve completely forgotten about my knee and any problems it might have. Everything is just plod-tastic. I’ve been taking my gels every 45 minutes and have three left. The run’s getting harder now, if I have a gel at 20, 22 and 24 miles that should help.
21 miles and it’s not far to go, but isn’t so easy now at all. A couple of miles ago I saw a man sprawled in front of an ambulance, skin grey, eyes crossed and out of focus, with a huge yellow stream of mucus flowing from his nose. Later there were a few more runners on stretchers or collapsed next to ambulances.
There are more supporters on the road now as we head back through the coastal towns. At 24 miles, I take my last gel, grateful it’s almost over. My legs are aching, but my knee isn’t bothering me at all. More people are walking now and I’m passing some runners.
The road is edged with more and more supporters. It’s the final funnel, 500 or so yards thronged thick with people. ‘Go Gaucho, go’, ‘Gaucho’. I remember Will’s advice to raise my arms beckoning support with my hands - football player style. The sporadic cheers of ‘Guacho’ coheres into a chant: ‘Gaucho, gaucho’. I’m accelerating now, filled with energy and passing whacked out runners and grinning maniacally. The thought occurs ‘why should they be cheering me? I’m no more worthy of this than all these other struggling runners.’ I put my arms down and sprint past the finishing line. Two minutes later, I can barely walk.
Tags: Edinburgh Marathon, knee problems