Let me take you on a journey as I ran the Brighton Marathon for Cardiac Risk in the Young.

Those that know me will already know my jaunt around Brighton on April 12th was my first ever marathon inspired by watching those brave souls running the London Marathon last year.

Call it a midlife crisis, or wanting to knock something off my bucket list, but I was truly inspired by seeing others pounding the streets of London for 26.2 miles and with that in mind I was soon encouraged to begin my journey.

In the end I needed little persuasion to sign up to run for CRY UK in memory of Ben Daniels, someone I never got the chance to meet, but would go on to be my source of inspiration when I needed it most.

Running a marathon is said to be one of the hardest things you can ever do and I can certainly vouch for that, but let me take you back to the start.

With as many miles under my belt in the weeks leading up to the big day, I eased off my training in the final week, doing the Great Lines partkrun a week before in a personal best time of just over 25 minutes, giving me the confidence that I could do it having plodded the streets of Medway for many weeks.

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy going into the marathon and a few niggles had plagued me along the way, no more so than in my right knee, but I didn’t want to let it interfere with one of the biggest days of my life.

A trip into Brighton on Saturday 11th was needed to visit the Expo and to pick up my race pack. I think at this point it all started to get a little bit real.

I certainly wasn’t nervous at all and if anything, was excited about what was going to happen on the following day.

For once I did all the right things leading up to the marathon, ditching my usual diet for some carb loading the night before, having some lasagne, avoiding the dessert and being in bed at a reasonable time.

Getting up at 6am on the Sunday wasn’t quite what I had signed up for, but all necessary to get back into Brighton in time and the lovely people in the hotel I was staying in started breakfast early so I could load up with some toast and juice.

All the way into the city I was trying to turn my mind to what lay ahead, again without any sense of fear. Arriving at Preston Park to be greeted by thousands of fellow runners was a sight to be seen and enjoyed.

It was clear there were many first timers like me and after some milling around, it was soon time to say goodbye to the family and head to our pens ready for the off.

With the elite runners starting from a different start, we watched on as they got their much faster race underway, with the scheduled 9:15am start coming and going.

In the end it was almost another twenty minutes before my journey began, as the organisers sensibly sent off the groups in a staggered formation.

Passing through the start line will be something that lives with me forever, giving Jo Pavey a high five as I set off on the gruelling 26.2 miles that lay ahead.

I’d be lying if I said I remembered every single step along the way, but I will never forget where I went over the coming hours. Hell and back springs to mind!

The first six miles went so well it was almost unbelievable, settling into the pace of the pack and buoyed by seeing my family, whilst being cheered by complete strangers. Giving high fives to the many kids along the way is something I was keen to do and I wasn’t short of takers.

Dipping in and out of the city meant we passed through some more obscure parts of Brighton, but made it that bit more interesting, trotting past the shops with crowds packed on the pavements, sometimes over-spilling into the road, whilst the odd parked car kept you on your toes!

It was a little odd at times to be jogging past someone sat there sipping their cup of coffee outside a cafe though.

Everyone was eagerly looking for their loved ones, but would happliy give you a cheer or clap on the way past. What stood out to me was the way normal life carried on around us, people hanging out of their windows to watch, one lady standing on her doorstep, sipping at her cup of tea, as over ten thousand hardy people ran by.

It almost seemed unfair – I wanted to be the one standing there with a nice brew, but that would have to wait.

Trying to take on fluids as I went proved to be a little more challenging than I had imagined. Regular water stations saw all of us diving over to the wonderful volunteers to grab a cup of water, but have you ever tried to drink whilst running? Needless to say I ended up wearing more than I drank!

It really was a sight to be seen going through a drinks station. The amount of cups and bottles that littered the streets was sure to keep someone busy later in the day.

As the temperature began to soar, it soon became obvious that what lay ahead was going to start getting a little more challenging and as we headed East out of the city leaving Brighton behind us, going uphill presented the first of my problems.

I just started to feel the niggle in my knee that had plagued me weeks before, but thought I’d put it to the back of my mind and it would surely go away. How wrong was I?

At about the eight mile mark, it hit me like a thunderbolt and I began to limp as I ran. Determined that it wasn’t going to affect me, I ploughed on with determination that it was only going to be a short term issue and that I’d soon be feeling as fresh as a daisy again.

Making the turn at the nine mile mark out at Ovingdean, as I headed back towards Brighton once more, I knew I was in real trouble, watching on as people behind me began to pass, whilst others had pained expressions on their faces, showing I was far from alone.

Somewhere between the ten and eleven mile marks it was when the lowest point of my race came. Hardly walking and struggling to move, I had to pull over to the side.

Devastated that my race may well have been over, a lovely guy from St. John’s Ambulance asked if he could help. Unfortunately he wasn’t able to provide me with a bandage – not that it would have done me any good anyway!

At this point he told me they could bus me back in and that would be that. Determined there had to be another way, thankfully, a man I will probably never know the name of came to my rescue. He was one of the paramedics heading in the opposite direction, following behind the stragglers with the street cleaners.

After a quick assessment, he said he could help and knew what was wrong – I had dislocated my knee. Before I knew it, he had popped it back in. I won’t repeat some of the words that left my mouth at this point…

With a few painkillers and ibuprofen popped into me for good measure, off I went again, more than a little cautiously. Up to mile 12 is a bit of a blur as I just prayed that my day wasn’t going to end.

Somehow though, by the time I came back in towards the city once more, I suddenly felt an awful lot better. Whether it was the crowds cheering us on, or the thought of seeing men and women having to pee in the bushes along the seafront, peeling off from the race to get a “comfort break”, I’m not sure what distracted me most.

I think it was about the halfway point that I saw the family once again, delighted to see some familiar faces, meandering across to make sure I gave my daughter a quick kiss on the way past. It was at this point that the crowds were at their biggest and most vociferous.

Lined up on both side of the seafront, spilling off the pier to get a view, there were thousands there, some with banners, music blaring, cheering at the top of their voices. I was completely re-energised. I knew there was no stopping me now.

Turning off the main seafront at about the 14 mile mark didn’t really fill me with dread as I knew what was coming, having driven the route some weeks before.

This is the point where the marathon really does go residential, leaving the plush hotels like The Grand behind you, moving into the shops through Hove, with Tescos and the like carrying on like any other Sunday.

Drummers pounded away, creating a great beat to run to, giving you the sense we were all in it together. I must confess I did a little jig to “Footloose” at about the 15 mile mark – hopefully no one got that on camera!

Once again I began to tire, but was lifted once more by seeing Tony Giles and daughter Lucy with a nice bottle of water for me. Tony is the Race Director at the Great Lines parkrun and had kindly come down for the day to cheer all of us Kent people on.

How I needed a bottle of water that I could actually drink and not wear. The Gatorade that was handed out was great, but with so much spilt on the roads, it was like running through treacle as souls of my trainers began to feel like I had got glue on them.

Passing people’s houses along this stretch brought out the best in humanity. This is where lots around me began to struggle and I was no different. In completely unchartered territory, this is when you needed the support the most and this is where we all had to dig in.

Fuelled by jelly beans, jelly babies, pieces of orange and anything else that was kindly handed to me by the wonderful people of Brighton, I got chatting to a guy called Gary from Dartford.

We seemed to be all but matching each other for pace at this point, spurring one another along, sharing our pre-race stories and encouraging one another to take the next step and then the one after.

Turning back onto the seafront together in Hove, we had just passed the eighteen mile mark and it was so rewarding to see Gary peel off to chat with his family briefly. Needless to say he soon caught me up as I alternated between a slow plod and a brisk walk.

As we all headed out West towards the Power Station and the 21 mile mark, it is fair to say I well and truly hit the notorious wall. The desolute surroundings with few supporters was less than welcoming and this is when my body really began to give up on me.

Every bone in my body, every muscle, every sinue began to complain and all at the same time. Never before have I experienced anything quite like it.

Running head first into a head wind was bad enough, along with the sun beating down and nineteen degree temperatures, but facing the prospect of another five miles was daunting to say the least.

Looking back, miles 21 to 23 will probably go down as my slowest as I struggled to muster the energy to get out of first gear. At some times I even thought I must be in reverse. The turn at 23 proved to be crucial for me as once again it was welcoming to see the friendly face of Tony Giles.

With a shake of the hand and a word of encouragement, I was once again on my way and ready to battle it out for the final three miles.

I could now see the pier once again in the distance and I knew then that I could make it.

Every slow stride along that seafront was done with a grimmace on my face, but in the knowledge that it would all soon be over. All I had to do was put one foot in front of the other.

I was mildly amused to see the choice of jelly babies was now supplemented by a few kind Brightonians giving out chips between miles 23 and 24. I politely declined as I’m sure that wasn’t quite what my body really needed at that point.

The 25 mile mark saw us all meander back from the seafront onto the main road and this is where the crowds really began to swell once again.

Barely putting one front in of the other even without thinking about it, I knew I could do it, but was literally running on empty and needed the finish line as soon as possible. What spurred me on was hearing the endless shouts of “Come on Steve” and “You can do it Steve”.

Complete strangers cheering me on and seeing signs like “Run like you’ve stolen something.” did the job and every relentless step saw me within sight of the pier.

At 26 miles I was completely spent and I needed that final fifth of a mile like a hole in the head. I was asking myself why could they be so cruel and why couldn’t the marathon just stop at 26 miles?

It was at that point that I saw the beaming smile of my daughter Ellie and that was it, I was almost in tears.

Those final few hundred yards will live me forever. Never will I forget the feelings I experienced as I crossed that line. I pointed to the sky and said a few words to Ben as it was for him that I did this.

To say I was proud of myself would be an understatement. Staggering forward as I was conscious I shouldn’t just stop, I had my medal placed around my neck and those brief moments of being stationary saw my legs turn to jelly.

Swelling with pride, I had no idea what my time was. Having had my phone strapped to my arm throughout the marathon so I could take some pictures, I couldn’t believe it when I got a text message to say I had crossed the line on five hours dead. Not a second or minute more, bang on five hours.

It will be a time I will never forget. In a weird kind of way, I’m glad it was five hours as it will be easy to remember going forward.

Having had my picture taken just beyond the finish line was a surreal experience in so many ways and I was delighted to have bumped into Gary once again (a quick man cuddle for good measure).

Finding my family took longer than expected and getting the legs going once again was like a toddler learning to walk for the very first time. En route I had to stop for a pee (I had needed one all the way round, but didn’t dare stop).

After a brief chat with my Dad on the phone (almost brought to tears once again after being told how proud of me he was), I found my way to the CRY UK tent on the beach.

Standing chatting to the wonderful guys and girls there, I was leapt on by my very excited six year old. Having my picture taken with her was again something that will live with me for a very long time.

I won’t bore you with the very long walk around Brighton looking for the park and ride bus, which turned out to be a few hundred yards from the finish, or the delightful little girl that kept kicking my knee on said bus.

The drive home was a long one and sitting in the bath was a treat I thought I’d never enjoy quite so much.

Determined my day wasn’t over, I still mustered the energy to get along and watch the end of the Invicta Dynamos play-off semi-final against Solent Devils and was heartened by the wonderful reception by the great fans there.

Walking like the tin man, I somehow managed to get back up the steps and out of the rink. Needless to say I slept very well that night and prising myself out of bed on Monday morning was less than a pleasure, but it was all worth it.

It has since transpired after an X-ray that I have a stress fracture of my right foot and torn ligaments. Both acquired somewhere along the way through Brighton.

Injuries aside, I’m desperate to get back out running and two weeks without having done so is starting to drive me mad already.

Having seen the thousands take on the London Marathon, I’m inspired once again and am desperate for that to be me this time next year.

I’m sure I will no doubt be told I am mad after what I have gone through this year, but when have I ever done as I am told?

 

The journey starts now and this time I will be more prepared. I’ve just got to get a place and hopefully CRY UK will let me run for them again (pretty please).

It was for them and Ben Daniels that I ran this race and without the support of dozens of family and friends, I wouldn’t have been able to raise the £1300 that I have for such a wonderful charity, so if I haven’t already done so, thank you.

There is still time to sponsor me if you have read this and felt inspired, go on, you know you want to: http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/SteveWolfe