There are two types of runners: those who like to talk when they run
and those who secretly plan how to kill the people that talk to them
and disturb them. During the Barcelona marathon, I was the first
type.
My plan was clear: run at 4.50, the average pace of my Vintermarathon 2016. Since I have no sense of pace, during the first kilometre I was running at 4.15 instead. Well done. A boy running at the same pace asked if I wanted to run with him and if my goal was also to finish in 2h 55min. It definitely wasn’t. I had to pay for my mistakes already after five kilometres. My foot was burning due to plantar fasciitis injury. The pain in the foot has been escalating steadily and consequently throughout the race. My strategy was to keep my mind busy by talking to various runners, to avoid thinking about the pain. My co-runners did not appreciate that and I received glances of hatred. The people I talked to were running in 4.30 and had 4h as the dream goal, so that could also be the reason for their sorrow. When a German boy realised that I was running four minutes faster than him, because I started later, he sprinted like a rocket blasting off. He literally vamoosed. I met him twice during the race after his sprint. I was very happy when I met him for the second time at kilometre 15, I waved at him and tried to cheer up with: “Well done, man. Looking strong”. He looked very tired and angry, no longer able to talk. We met after the finish line as well. When I told him that I completed the race 10 min faster than him, he was emotionally destroyed. I did not mean to offend him, but I am a nefarious human being.
There was a lot of drama at kilometre 13. Two men started pushing and yelling at each other. People speculated that the conflict was about a girl. After this event I met a new race buddy, a French triathlete. We discussed his triathlon races and whether Barcelona Iron Man shall be classified as an Iron Man or not. I was impressed by his good manners. At the hydration stops he was making signs, so that people running after him would know that he planned to stop. He repeated the sign when he was about to throw away the bottle. Before drinking his water, he always asked me first if I wanted to have some. Unfortunately, I lost him when we passed the half-marathon sign. After finishing half of the race, I experienced “runner’s high”, because I realised that I would cross the finish line. I was so happy, that I even managed to do a dance for the audience at kilometre 25. The crowd was amazing, aquivered with excitement! However, the comments from my co-runners, such as “joder, una maquina”, were even more motivating. At kilometre 30 there was no more joy. I had hyponatremia, felt week, and generally dead. I crossed the finish line, happy that my foot was still there. I could barely walk, but I have a sedentary job anyways. I finished faster than I honestly expected, but:
“A woman is like a tea bag - you can't tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water”.
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