From back spasms and 'maranoia' to finding peace at the Valencia marathon
VAMOS: Athletes competing with the Valencian regional flag is displayed at the starting line during the Valencia Marathon Trinidad Alfonso 2024 last Sunday. Pic: Angel Martinez/Getty Images
The Valencia marathon is one of the fastest growing races in the world. It’s a stunningly beautiful city, the course is meant to be as flat as the proverbial pancake and what better way to escape the bleak midwinter than to take on the 42.2 kilometres at roughly 42.2 years of age?
Two years ago, I ran the Cork Marathon for the third time. The first time I had crawled around like the naïve novice that I was and the second time the course bested me after 14 torturous miles. Preparations for the third attempt were perfect, and then came that rarest of things in Ireland; a heat wave. It scuppered all my best laid plans and dreams of running a time I could be at peace with, as just getting around became the priority.
I did, just about, and as I recovered at home by watching Cork win the All-Ireland U20 hurling title, the recommendation from Martin McCarthy to try one abroad was dancing around in my mind. I liked the idea of it, but where to go? My utter mediocrity reduced the options from the start, but while trotting around Ballyduff in North Kerry on a St Stephen’s Day 5k charity fun run, I fell in next to a man from Kilmoyley. He told me how he and a few of his friends had signed up for the Valencia marathon, so I returned to the home of my in-laws and did the same.
And so it was that Valencia became the terminus, but the journey had begun long before that.
It started on a whim. The corridor of uncertainty that presents itself when you come out of minor, and you just want to keep playing but you’re not very good, is where many young players get lost. I didn’t want to be lost, but I certainly wasn’t helping myself. As enjoyable as the life of an epicure was, there’s only so much you can do. As the nights out clocked up, the already poor level of athletic performance declined as the waist expanded expediently. Something had to be done.
While you can, and do, get used to being lapped in training, it still saturates you in humiliation and promotes a self-loathing that can be overwhelming. Running didn’t seem an easy option, because I couldn’t really run, but it was easy because I could do it on my own, in the dark if necessary. And so, off I went, in my Nike astroturf runners. That was my first mistake. Three weeks later, I experienced my first back spasm while walking through the door in work. I am, and would have been, more likely to fall on a sixpence as turn on it, but the about turn that morning would have hit the banks of the Suez Canal.
Thankfully, a trip to John Buckley Sports rectified the problem, and on I went. And on, and on, and on. Quickly, it just becomes part of your life. When you don’t get out, it upsets your rhythm. Early on, it was a pastime spent in solitude but as time went by, I began to realise what a welcoming community the running one is. It’s deeply satisfying to take part in something for which the responsibility lies completely with you and you alone. Paradoxically the communal nature of the individual pursuit that comes to the fore on race days brings with it a buzz that will always drag you back in again, no matter how the race went.
The routine in between sporadic races is that three mornings a week, three of us tip our away round Blackrock and watch the seasons change before our eyes both in darkness and in light. It grounds us for the week and the company certainly helped quell the that is never too far from the surface.
That peaks just before the starting gun but once you get going, you know you’re going to be okay, for a while. I’d promised myself I was just going to enjoy the ride, and so I did.
Valencia herself takes the best supporting gong for the course. It starts and finishes around the and it’s hard to imagine a more beautiful urban setting. The modern architectural wonders lie far enough from the old town to give both places enough space to breath and the balance is perfect. It was resplendent at 9:05, the guts of four hours later it loomed as a haven for a broken body. However, throughout the course, every time that it felt like it might all be too much, Valencia gave you something to marvel at. The , the , the Romanesque splendour of the bull ring, the infinite number of beautiful churches, but the star of the show were the Valencians.
On Saturday night, my wife and I watched them march in protest at the reaction, or lack thereof, to the generational floods that devastated the region a month ago. On Sunday they came out again in their droves, enthusing every last runner to get everything they had out of themselves. I’ve always thought that events like a marathon bring the best out of people; the positivity, the support, the buzz, the pride of place. Valencia will be hard matched.
Their generosity continued after the event. Bus drivers were more than forgiving of the laboured crossing of the wide-open boulevards and the sense of collective achievement lingered long into the evening and night. A jug of the dangerously enjoyable Agua de Valencia and some tapas helped to bring things back to an even keel and the aching wobbles of fellow runners as they tried to get up from their seats were greeted with knowing smiles.
The whole experience was greater than one could have wished for, and it brought the peace I was looking for. The following morning my wife asked me if that was my last one. With five miles to go on Sunday, I’d promised myself that it was. “For a while, anyway” I said.
It just keeps dragging you back in.
