Jane Tomlinson’s Yorkshire Marathon played host to over 10000 athletes as part of their marathon festival: relay runners, the wheelchair marathon, and the Yorkshire 10 mile all taking place on the same day. Never before has the BBC weather app been as frantically checked and refreshed in the week leading up to Sunday the 20th, with much cursing and last minute purchasing of supplementary fleeces and base-layers.
Race HQ was based out of the University of York central campus, a rather sprawling affair but with an impressive array of portaloos at every corner. A rather ominous heap of emergency foil blankets were on offer for folk to grab; a sure sign that we were in for a torrid time. I managed to find a cold but excitable Jolene loitering at the signage for the 4 hour group, and very begrudgingly removed my toasty fleece for a quick snap in SRC colours; the canary yellow certainly providing a stark contrast to the grey skies overhead. 9.15 and the gang from Leeds TRIB3 warmed the marathon runners up, with much awkward squatting, lunging and generally trying not to tread on fellow runners. I spotted two 4 hour pacer flags and made a direct beeline towards them, instructing them to not allow me out of their sight on pain of death. Both pacers were super cheerful and loud, and as 9.30 rolled around we set off through York city centre. The 4 hour group was a large one, and as we rattled past the cathedral we were met with cheerful and noisy crowds; clearly Yorkshire folk are not put off by rain and wind.
10k came by quickly enough, but the size of the 4 hour gang was starting to cause problems. With everyone wanting to stick to our pacers as closely as possible there was inevitable (if inadvertent) elbowing, treading on heels, and general jostling for position. I resolved to run 5 metres ahead of them at this stage, glancing back every km to check that I hadn’t gone too far. The shelter offered by being part of a large pack was gone, and I was smacked in the face by a robust wind. No matter; I’m a sturdy girl. Multiple bagpipers and cheerful choir groups saw us shuttle past the halfway mark, and then began a climb back up towards the 32km. I’d spotted a couple of photographers in the distance, and despite being somewhat soggy (code for absolutely soaked) decided to deploy a cheerful heel click – never take yourself too seriously. On the climb up I saw a cheerful Jolene coming down the opposite side of the road, and then a shout from Nick Wright – a sneak entry who I didn’t realise was running! Loud and joyous shouting of “come on then Stocksbridge, let’s ‘av it” ensued.
At 32km there was a small downhill section: knowing I had some gas in the tank and remembering coach Richard’s advice of ‘the race proper only starts when you have 10k to go’ I pushed on and quickened my pace. My shockz headphones were deployed at this stage, but within 12 minutes the hail and rain had killed the left one and Queen’s ‘hammer to fall’ died slowly in my right ear some 4 minutes after that. Choosing to negative split the thing did provide a sense of achievement; it was encouraging to be zooming past folk in the last ¼, especially given my experience at Manchester in April where I was dying on my arse at 34km+. All that was left now was a cruel cruel hill (in reality not horrendous, just horrendous in the context of the last km of a marathon) and the final straight. The crowds had been steadily building again as we wound our way towards the finish line, and I knew that the magical sub 4 hour target was mine if I could hold on. A sprint burst down through the finish line, and immediate ugly crying ensued. I’m not sure why marathons are so emotional, but it probably has something to do with the hours and hours of graft and training that you’ve had to put in, all coming down to that one day. In a fit of madness, I chose to somewhat dramatically take a knee in front of a bemused but friendly volunteer, who placed a reassuringly heavy medal around my neck. I felt like a King.
Friends were called, parents were Whatsapped, and I deployed the foil blanket whilst I navigated the crowds to find my very soggy husband, who’d come down to the finish line to cheer. After much damp crying into his shoulder, I shuffled off to the VIP section (of course I’d bought a VIP ticket) and ate 3 slices of banana cake, 2 tuna sandwiches, and guzzled 4 cups of tea. Initially I’d planned to get the medal engraved and find a post race massage, but 45 minutes after the finish and I still couldn’t feel my fingers, so I trudged the 1.3 miles back to the hotel for victory champagne and a nap instead.
Thanks to the Jane Tomlinson gang for organising a great race, the city of York for hosting us, all the pacers and volunteers for making it possible, to coach Richard for whipping me into decent shape, and my long suffering husband for putting up with my constant marathon wittering. 3:51:30 was the official time, and 108th in my category (FS). I’ll take that.