ROAD TO PRAGUE: A humbling experience

I’m confident I’ll never experience the latter, but it must be some pain to rival the agony I felt during the last 5k in Prague.

Yet, despite telling anyone who’d listen at the finish that I was never putting myself through that again, two weeks later I’ve entered the ballot for London in 2016.

The pain was quickly forgotten, the sense of pride and achievement will no doubt last a lifetime.

I slept surprisingly well the night before the marathon and by 8.15am on the Sunday morning I'd joined my friend, via a long wait for the portaloo, for the start in Old Town Square.

What a sight; the sun shining on Prague’s Astronomical Clock, inspirational music blaring out and runners from more than 100 countries gently jostling for their spot.

With five minutes to go the nerves started to kick in, but I was excited. ‘Time to shed this hoody’, I thought, and tossed it over the railings towards the portaloos – all clothing discarded at the start was going to a Czech homeless charity.

I was feeling good, yesterday’s salmon risotto had gone down a treat, my St Rocco’s vest was matching my shoes and my gel belt was fully stocked.

Then the countdown, runners start to jostle forward, ‘better tighten that gel belt, actually’. Cue panic. ‘You’ve loosened it, you clown, and now you’re crossing the start line – it’s round your knees, you’re going to have to carry it’.

So, now carrying my gel belt in my hand, off I went.

Runners went flying by, but I tried to remember the advice I’d been given – don’t spoil the race in your first six miles – and remain calm as I crossed the spectacular Charles Bridge early on in the route. There was a long way to go, after all.

Starting to settle into my target pace I felt comfortable, soaking up the atmosphere on what was a warm morning in the Czech capital, taking on board plenty of water and clocking consistent splits for 5k, 10k and 15k – even managing to wave to friends and family at the latter – they looked confused by the belt carrying.

Having stopped for a brief toilet break, I reached the half-way mark in 1 hour 31 mins and was still feeling strong. ‘This is easy’, I lulled myself into a false sense of security.

We had looped around the main part of the historic city criss-crossed the Vltava River before entering into an out-and-back down the river bank.

Heading through 30k my splits started to drift a little, but I knew I’d see my supporters again at 35k and I picked up; passing them in 2:33.

Soon after I saw my friend during another out-and-back section, heading in the other direction, and knew he was a minute or two behind.

He shouted to me, I returned with a bumbling flurry of nonsensical noise – the pain was beginning.

Then it really kicked in; ‘I think my feet are on fire?’, ‘why are there SO many cobbles?’ ‘Another bridge? They told me this was flat!’.

I’d written some names and inspirational words on the palm of my hand to keep me going, but through sweat and water stops they’d washed off.

My watch beeped, ’25 miles’ it read and the relief was instant, my aching limbs were lifted at the thought of home until a sign 200m later, ‘40k/24.85 miles’ – ‘urgh, marathon runners will sympathise, I must be taking the scenic route!’ Contemplating tears, a friendly voice filled my ears.

A Geordie, spotting my St Rocco’s vest and offering words of encouragement while taking the time to lambast Newcastle United’s season.

It was just the boost I needed; nothing could be as bad as Newcastle United’s season, running this marathon was an OK alternative after all.

Turning down the final straight, legs cramping, I knew the 3:10 I needed to break my dad’s personal best (a secret target until now) was just out of reach, but I managed a smile for the thousands again adorning the streets to welcome each runner home.

My legs were cramping, ‘just don’t fall over in front of all these people’ I thought.

Moments later I was back in Old Town Square, crossing the finish line in 3 hours 11 mins 49 secs and 377th out of the predicted 10,000 entered.

A RunCzech volunteer slipped on my medal and handed me a foil blanket – ‘that’s it’, I thought, ‘you’ve ran a marathon’.

The next hour or so was a blur, waiting for my friend (who broke his target 3:15), finding friends and family and trying not to be sick – it was only over dinner, a Pilsner in hand, that I began to reflect.

I was truly humbled; by the event, by the atmosphere, by all the people who had given me advice and help over the past four months, but most importantly by the generous contributions made by so many, making a real difference in raising more than £600 for St Rocco’s Hospice.