September

Sex and running

In a book about public speaking, I once came across a chapter about sex. Regular sex, it suggested, improved concentration and generally put the speaker in a better mood. My first thought was: well, damn, apparently you can work sex into absolutely any book.

You see where this is going?

Many city dwellers spend the day sitting at a desk. Poor circulation in the pelvis can affect erections. Running gets that circulation going, so there's another reason to move: it can help prevent problems and get things working again if they've gone off track.

I think we can leave the subject there. No further details required.

At the track with Yasso

Track running doesn't offer much variety. The same laps, the same flat surface. Nothing gets in the way, except the boredom. Even the route map looks bored.

On the other hand, a track removes many obstacles to speed. If I can keep boredom at bay, it's a good place to find out how fast I can run a chosen distance, whether 5, 10, or 21 km.

A standard lap is 400 meters, making a track ideal for Yasso 800s, an interval workout named after runner and coach Bart Yasso.

The idea is to run hard for 800 meters, then take an easy jogging recovery.

The memorable rule of thumb links the interval time in minutes and seconds with a marathon time in hours and minutes. An 800 in 3:40 suggests a 3:40 marathon as a possible target; under four minutes suggests aiming under four hours. Recovery takes about as long as the fast interval. It's a training comparison, not a guarantee of a marathon result.

Repeat the intervals several times. Start with two or three early in the training cycle and gradually build to ten. There's no need to go beyond ten. As race day approaches, bring the number back down to two or three.

I like the neat link between minutes on the track and hours in a marathon. But it's a rough training comparison, not a reliable forecast. A few fast repeats won't tell me how my endurance, fueling, or race-day conditions will affect the full 42.2 km. Twenty or thirty minutes on the track won't reveal my marathon time. I still have to run the race.

It's a demanding workout, and there's a risk of injury. Take the warm-up seriously: run an easy 2 or 3 km and get properly warmed up before starting the intervals.

After that faster running, marathon pace can feel almost easy. The session works on strength and aerobic capacity. It might even make you like the track.

Shirts worth paying for

Organized races often include a shirt in your registration. Bright colors, the race name across the front: an instant souvenir. Wear it among thousands of other runners and you feel part of something. I enjoy that.

But how good is the shirt? It was probably bought in bulk with price in mind. Or supplied by a sponsor who may not have chosen the most expensive item in the catalog.

For an important race, I prefer a shirt I bought myself and have already tested. I want to know it fits, handles sweat, and doesn't chafe. Race day is a lousy time to find out your shirt isn't up to the job.

The souvenir shirts can join the collection and come out on ordinary training runs. Seeing another runner in a shirt I recognize is a pleasure: I was at that race too, buddy!

So I made sure I had at least a couple of shirts I'd chosen myself and could trust completely.

Nipples

An unexpected running subject, but a practical one. During a long run, fabric rubbing against a man's nipples can break the skin and cause bleeding. Some runners tape them beforehand to prevent it.

I owned a soccer shirt that felt great and looked good. Somehow it was excellent for exactly ninety minutes. The length of a soccer match, conveniently enough. Keep running beyond that, and it began to rub.

An untested shirt on a half marathon or longer can leave a pair of alarming red streaks down the front.

Short toenails

A tiny detail I learned the bloody way. Literally. Before a long race, I trim my toenails. On a short run, a sharp edge may just annoy me. Over a half marathon or more, it can cut into the skin. The evidence is on my socks afterward.

A nail pressing against the shoe can also become badly damaged, even come off. An ugly sight. I'd rather avoid it.

Before a big race, I set a reminder to check and trim my toenails carefully, even if they don't look long.

Entering the Big Race

Big doesn't have to mean long. It could be a 5K, a 10K, a half marathon, or a marathon. What matters is that it's your big race. You'll build your training around it, aiming to arrive in peak shape and run a personal best. Once you've done that, of course, you'll want to beat it.

The entry form asks for name, age, sex, and an expected finish time. This is no place for unnecessary modesty. I enter a realistic target rather than automatically repeating an old training result. Ambitious, but honest. Wild optimism is no more helpful than false modesty.

Runners are assigned to starting corrals, generally faster first and slower farther back. Predict too slow a finish and the first kilometers may be spent weaving through a dense crowd moving below your pace. Those lost seconds or minutes can haunt you later. A 3:59 marathon feels very different from 4:01. That's why I try to avoid excessive modesty. Only the excessive kind.

For an out-of-town race, I prefer a hotel close to the start and finish. I can stay warm and comfortable a little longer before stepping into the wind or rain. If I can't get a cab, I can still walk to the start.

Preparing for the Big Race

Before an important half marathon or marathon, I need to arrive rested. I've trained for months and logged hundreds of kilometers, but I still have to run the race. Over a long distance, anything can happen. Marathons are often held on Sundays, so the calendar starts revolving around one particular Sunday.

Those final weeks of reduced training before a big race are called the taper.

A tempting mistake is to cram in the work I missed. Too late. I can't make up for missed training by piling on extra runs now. I'd rather arrive a little undertrained than spend the energy I need for the race.

Before a race where you plan to give everything and run your best time, you need to cut back your training and arrive in peak shape. You can't carry on as usual and simply turn up at the start. Race day needs its own preparation.

In the last couple of weeks, keep your runs easy, at a low heart rate, with only very short bursts of speed. Very short. That gives small injuries a chance to heal, even the ones you haven't noticed. A massage or a visit to a manual therapist can help release tightness and tension. Your body can replenish the minerals you've used up and restore its hormone levels and glycogen stores. The aim is to arrive at the start recovered and ready.

I tried several approaches, including stopping completely for the last few days. That didn't work very well for me.

Cutting my running in half all at once wasn't ideal either. I felt as though my body adjusted to the lower workload without the growing sense of stored energy I wanted. The drop was too sudden for my liking.

My best final week was a gradual step-down:

Monday, my usual 10 km; Tuesday, eight; Wednesday, six; Thursday, four; Friday, two; Saturday, one. Then 42.2 km on Sunday. A little less running each day. Those were my numbers, not a universal prescription.

This is where less running pays off. You cut back, and for a while you have more speed and endurance at your disposal. The trick is to time it for race day.

The taper plays tricks on my mind. There’s a name for this: taper tantrums. Apparently, anxiety doesn’t taper. I start feeling that fitness is slipping away. It's tempting to test myself. I try not to. This is a time to trust the plan rather than every passing sensation, like flying by instruments in poor visibility. Calm and confidence help. My feelings have fooled me before.

During a taper, I kept thinking something was wrong: I'd race badly, I'd made a mistake somewhere. But cutting back had always worked for me, as it had for millions of other runners. I had to remember that.

The final days

On the Friday before a Sunday race, I prioritize rest. No heroic sightseeing walks. As little stress as possible. No dramatic experiments with food or the daily routine.

In the days before the race, increase your carbohydrates: oatmeal, bananas, pasta. Ease off protein-heavy foods such as fried meat, eggs, and cured meats, along with cultured dairy products, seafood, and dried fruit. Otherwise you may spend more of the race thinking about digestion than you'd like. Sorry, but it needs saying. Drink plenty, too, more than usual.

Runners have some funny pre-race rituals. One is taking a picture of all your gear laid out: shoes, shirt, bib, gadgets, gels. The flat runner: somehow, the clothes always look calmer than the person who’ll be wearing them. It has a purpose. That photo doubles as a checklist and a dress rehearsal. Besides, there's something reassuring about doing what the other runners do.

Then there's the pasta party: runners gathering over spaghetti and other carbohydrate-rich dishes. A tradition I find easy to support.

Please remember the toenails. I'm begging you.

My firm rule is nothing new on race day. Shoes have to be tested, even expensive racing shoes with a short racing life. I run in them beforehand, then set them aside. The same goes for socks, compression wear, and everything else. I want to know the size is right and nothing rubs. A long race offers enough surprises without adding my own.

My race-day checklist:

• Running shoes I trust.

• A tested, non-chafing shirt or top.

• Shorts or tights.

• Familiar, comfortable underwear.

• Running socks.

• Compression socks or calf sleeves, if I plan to use them.

• Phone and headphones.

• Sports watch or heart-rate monitor.

• Running belt.

• Familiar fuel: gels, a sports drink, or an energy bar.
• My chosen cap, headband, or bandana - in my case, usually a light hat.

• Sports sunglasses for sunny weather.

• A rain poncho if the forecast calls for one.

• ID, race packet, and bib.

• Dry clothes for after the finish.

• Roomy, comfortable shoes to change into.

• A bag for the clothes I leave at the start.

I usually pick up my race packet a day or two beforehand. While I'm there, I find the changing areas, bag drop, and bathrooms, including any tucked-away ones that might have shorter lines. I work out how long it'll take to get there on race morning and check which roads will be closed.

The evening before, I aim for a couch, a book or movie, and very little else. Rest comes first. I go to bed early, without expecting perfect sleep. Even a confident person may feel nervous. Going to bed early at least gives me more time to rest if I toss and turn.

From the couch, I study the course. Which sights will appear at which kilometer? Where are the climbs, descents, turns, bridges, and aid stations? Organizers often provide an elevation profile. I want a rough sense of where I can relax and where I'll have to work harder.

I choose a playlist, or set up the metronome.

Then I run the course in my head: 5, 8, 10, 16, 21, 40 km, imagining myself moving through each point calmly. A pleasant thought to fall asleep with.

Race day

I set two alarms five minutes apart. Sleeping through the race I spent half a year preparing for is a runner's nightmare. I'd rather not rely entirely on my internal clock.

About two hours before the marathon, have a carb-rich breakfast: oatmeal, rice porridge, or pasta, plus a banana and sweet tea.

I check that the phone and headphones are charged. Until bag drop, I may keep the phone connected to a power bank. One less worry.

I try not to overdress. Running faster generates more heat, and an extra jacket or long-sleeved shirt can become a nuisance. If my bib and timing chip are on that outer layer, taking it off gets complicated. A disposable poncho, or one I can pack away, keeps me warm while I wait without leaving me stuck with another layer during the race.

I don't want to arrive so early that I become cold or bored. Roughly an hour to an hour and a half before the start usually gives me time to change, drop off my bag, and still have thirty or forty minutes to get ready without rushing.

Use that time to stretch, more carefully than you've ever stretched in your life. Bounce around a little, do a few short runs of twenty to fifty meters to warm up, and get in line for the bathroom. Losing minutes to an urgent stop later would be frustrating.

Running a little late isn't always a disaster. At many races, getting everyone across the start takes time, and later waves still get an official time. I check how the race handles this rather than panic over every minute spent in line. Better to be ready on time, of course.

I'll probably meet someone I know. A quick "Have a great race!" is enough. Neither of us needs a long conversation breaking our concentration.

Marathon

Marathon is a small town in East Attica, Greece, with roughly seven thousand residents. So only about seven thousand people can claim to be Marathoners by birth or address. The rest of us, millions of us, have borrowed the name. Me included.

I suspect the town's name is spoken around the world more often than Athens. We runners have something to do with that. For many people who take up running, the marathon is the big dream: the race you want to finish, the distance that earns respect.

Once I began running, I wanted to visit Marathon. Eventually I did. Friends and I drove through low hills, across streams, and along tree-lined roads. I imagined the ancient messenger passing through something like that landscape to announce victory over the Persians. I expected a shrine to the running community, something that captured what running means to us. Instead I found a seaside town, ordinary Greek restaurants, and a modest statue of a warrior commemorating the battle. A monument to a military victory, rather than to our modern obsession.

According to the Greek legend runners keep telling one another, we owe the marathon to a soldier and messenger named Pheidippides. In 490 BC, the Greeks defeated the Persians, and he set off for Athens to announce the victory. Apparently he never stopped. He must have been running at a ridiculous heart rate, with no aid stations and dying of thirst. He reached Athens, shouted the news, and dropped dead from exhaustion. A sad story that historians have attributed to Plutarch's imagination. Still, it refuses to die.

When the modern Olympics began in Athens in 1896, following Pierre de Coubertin's revival of the Games, the program included a race inspired by that route. Spiridon Louis won in about two hours and fifty-eight minutes. The course was approximately 40 km.

Early Olympic marathon distances varied, roughly from 40 to 42.75 km, as routes and finishes were arranged around local conditions and the stadium spectacle. The marathon became one of the Games' most prestigious events, traditionally placed near the close of the track-and-field program.

The 1908 London race used the distance we now recognize, 26 miles and 385 yards. The route from Windsor Castle to the stadium, with its carefully positioned finish, produced that unusual total. Subsequent Games still used other distances, but in 1921 the governing federation standardized the marathon at 42 km and 195 meters.

Today the world offers hundreds of marathons and half marathons. Literally hundreds. Perhaps one of them will become yours. I hope so.

The Abbott World Marathon Majors now span eight cities: Tokyo, Boston, London, Berlin, Chicago, New York, Sydney, and Cape Town. Cape Town's first race as a Major is scheduled for 2027. For many runners, the thought of running them all is a dream of its own.

A strategy for the Big Race

The night before, it's too late to train. It isn't too late to think. I can decide how to approach the half marathon or marathon I have prepared for.

The tempting beginner's strategy: run hard while you've got the energy, bank a little time, and somehow survive the rest. Trouble is, you burn through that energy early. Somewhere along the way, you hit the wall. Moving gets hard. By the end, I'm wondering why I ever signed up, dragging myself forward on willpower, sometimes walking. Those slow final kilometers wipe out every second I thought I'd saved at the start.

A bad strategy. Possibly the worst. Naturally, it was the one I used in my first marathons. Reading about other runners reassured me that I wasn't uniquely foolish. A small comfort.

A more promising approach is the negative split: start conservatively and run the second half faster than the first. Many outstanding performances follow that pattern. For a beginner, it can sound almost impossible.

If I've finished a race barely able to move my legs, I find it hard to believe the second half could ever be faster. Surely it must be harder and slower? Yet experienced runners do accelerate later. If they can learn it, perhaps amateurs can too.

I also considered dividing the distance into thirds. First, a little slower than target pace, which suits the crowded start. Second, settle into target pace and begin passing people who started too fast. Third, accelerate if possible; otherwise hold the pace from the middle third. It's a compromise rather than an elegant formula, which naturally made me want to try it. Sometimes I managed neither a controlled start nor a strong finish.

The simpler advice was to start a little slower than my realistic target pace and build from there. That works with a crowded start anyway: the field takes time to spread out. A slow start doesn't have to ruin the race. I'd tried several approaches, and this one worked for me.

Say you're aiming for a four-hour marathon. You'll need to average about 5:41 per kilometer. It's a long race, with time to make up a few minutes. Start gently and you won't lose control of your breathing, send your heart rate soaring, or use up your strength in the first half. Exhausted muscles won't recover before the finish. Once you're warmed up and your breathing and movements have settled into a rhythm, you can gradually pick up the pace. Then a little more, as long as you've got the strength. Hearing your app announce a faster average pace is encouraging. Hearing that you're slowing down can be crushing: the goal is slipping away. And it probably is. Listen to your body before things get desperate. I find it helps to break the distance into checkpoints. Rounded down to 42 km, it's a convenient number: halves, thirds, or quarters.

Nothing complicated.

For example:

At 4 km, roughly 10% is done. It still feels easy.

I remind myself there are about nine more chunks that size.

At 6 km, about 15% done. That's the first chunk plus another half.

At 10 km, almost a quarter is behind me.

Three more familiar tens, then a little extra.

At 14 km, a third done. Good. Maybe time to pick up the pace a little.

21 km: halfway. Yes! You've covered this distance in training, though the finish will be harder than usual. 28 km: two-thirds done. Not much left; time to see what you've got. 40 km: nearly there. Use whatever's left in the tank.

I like the three-part strategy best. In the first third, I make myself slow down, watch my heart rate, and enjoy how easy it feels. In the second, I panic that I won't hit my target and speed up. By the final third, I feel as if I'm running late. Time to push and win back those lost seconds. It's a familiar, urgent feeling: don't miss it, get there in time. Like running for the bus when I was young.

I like competing. Sometimes I want to pass the runner ahead of me just for the hell of it. Usually there's no point. I'm not racing for a podium spot. The race that matters is against my own previous times. Better to settle in and let my body do what I've spent months teaching it.

The little personal disasters usually come late. Walking when all I want is to run. Feeling I've let myself down. Seeing other runners drop out. Hitting the wall.

I need some plan in my head. A pace band on the wrist can help too, saving me from doing complicated math with kilometers, minutes, and three-digit numbers.

For a first half marathon or marathon, there's another comforting thought: any finish establishes a personal best. There's no need to set the bar impossibly high. Next year's self will want something to improve. Leave that future runner a little room.

What to do during the Big Race

When I learned to drive, the number of things to manage seemed impossible: accelerator, clutch, brake, gears, speed, road signs, traffic, lane markings, engine temperature, fuel, turn signals, wipers. Later I could handle the essentials while also listening to music, talking to passengers, and noticing the world outside. The task had become familiar.

With practice, I stopped having to think about every little thing. My brain knew what needed attention.

A race has its own dashboard: pace and heart rate, hills and turns, how far I've gone and how much is left, the next aid station, cadence, foot placement, arm swing, breathing, pacers. With experience, I have room to notice more: music in my ears, an attractive runner, someone in a ridiculous costume, a beautiful building beside the course. I can even think about tomorrow's work or a new workout to try. It all becomes as natural as driving.

The runners around me are interesting to watch. The elite field is far ahead, though an out-and-back section may let me see them coming toward me. The slowest runners are behind. Most people nearby are at roughly my level. I watch how they run, looking for wasted effort: a bobbing head, an awkward landing, excessive arm swing. Then I check myself for the same thing. Economy matters over a long distance. When my own form starts falling apart, fatigue is taking over. "Pull yourself together," I tell myself, and try to get my form back.

Make some decisions beforehand so you don't waste time and energy debating them on the course. Which aid stations will you stop at, and which will you skip? Plan your drinking rather than leaving the decision until you're thirsty. Will you run your own race or stay with a particular pacer? Settle those questions now.

Some situations leave no room for debate. If you feel unwell, stop and ask for help. Let's be honest: an amateur race isn't a matter of national honor. We're mostly here to enjoy ourselves. Seriously, unless you're a professional, this is a hobby. No personal best is worth risking your health. Sadly, you often see medical teams helping a runner who misjudged their limits. If you feel ill, don't waste time wondering what to do.

A useful mental game is to count what remains instead of how far I've already run. The app says 25 km, then thirty, and the mind responds: that's so much, no wonder I'm exhausted.

I try the reverse: only 10 km left, one last familiar ten. Now just three, perhaps twelve or fifteen minutes. Then I can stop, eat a banana, take a selfie, smile. Hold on. If I have the strength to pick it up, I'll be there sooner.

Another thought amuses me. A four-hour marathon means four hours of effort, doubts, bargaining, and discomfort. The champions run for only a little over two. In that sense they have it easier! Less time to hold their nerve, fewer minutes of questioning everything, earlier access to drinks and selfies. One more reason to get faster: the ordeal ends sooner. Two hours sounds better than four.

Cross the finish line and one thing is certain: there's life after 42.2 km. I'm here. I'm alive. I'm a marathoner, not just someone who hopes to be one someday. I belong to that worldwide club now. All those months of doubts, early alarms, aching muscles, and battered toenails have an answer. Whatever the clock says, I've earned this medal.