We’d booked a week at Club Lasanta at low season, when you can get a lot of sun for your money. And on impulse, I typed Lanzarote Marathon into Google. Two words that I knew must go together, but hadn’t expected them to be an item while we were there. But there it was, a proper hot marathon while we were there on the other side of the island. These things are sent to taunt us, and it couldn’t not be done.
So instead of being at Aykley Heads on the 10th December we found ourselves driving South towards Costa Teguise, to check it was OK for Gareth and Catherine who would be visiting there in a few days time. I’d been nervous about parking but my fears proved to be groundless. Although this was a typical combo weekend, with 10K, Half and Full, we were all starting at different times and from different places. So for the early starting marathon runners, things were nice and quiet.
It wasn’t so long after Palma and I’d rested and trained and thought and thought, and on the whole I was feeling fine. The number of marathon runners was a lot less than I expected and there was no need for seeding pens, self-regulated or otherwise. I wandered around the starting area content in my own little world thinking I was a Stranger in a Strange land, until out of the corner of my eye I spotted George Routledge! Last time I saw him was when I heard him shouting me on in Palma. We had to stop meeting like this.
The gun went and about 40 seconds later I crossed the Start Line. That was the
busy bit over with. Then we headed along the coastal paths on the straight out
and back Marathon route. I was feeling pretty comfortable but had the discipline not to push things and settled in with the 4:15 pacer somewhere on the horizon. That suited me. I let him go and he drifted in and out of view from time to time. No worries. Past the airport where bemused passengers looked down on us from the windows of the taxiing planes, then the turnaround where the half-marathoners would be starting soon.
The psychological half-way point done, I considered my strategy on the home run. I was feeling fine and the 4:15 pacer was within easy reach should I wish to step on the gas. Closer and closer I edged until at 18 miles I was sitting comfortably in a little 4:15 bus. 7 miles to go, and it was time to leave the pacer behind.
It was, as Seven of Nine might have put it, to be my undoing. Looking at my HR graph I can pretty much see the exact point in which over-confidence kicked in (at 18.65 miles), the pace went up, as did the HR, and then, a mile or two later, the radiator boiled over. I knew I’d blown it. I walked a bit, put on the hazards, pulled over and took an enormous interest in some roadside palm trees which were, quite literally, very supportive. I suppose it was in these last few miles that the pacer must have passed again, along with perhaps fellow Strider Stuart Barker (doing the half) who I never saw but I see finished well within 2 hours.
I didn’t recover from my ill-judged effort and walk/jogged to the finish clutching an empty bottle of water like a comfort blankie all the way to the line. I was 12 minutes faster than Palma but didn’t feel particularly clever about it. I reckon I would’ve been faster if I’d just stuck with the pacer and not made a dash for glory. If you can’t stand the heat, don’t push your luck.