Maranoia in the Mist

Amsterdam Marathon — Two Days to Go

The marathon is upon us.

It's Friday, just two days before the race itself, and what a week it's been. There's been running, travelling, massage, tired legs and the inevitable mental gymnastics that accompany the final days before a marathon. The training is done, or at least there's nothing meaningful left to add to it now. All that remains is to get to the start line in one piece, carrying with me the accumulated miles, the doubts and, of course, a healthy dose of maranoia.

I've earned my maranoia, so I'm embracing it.

Last weekend found us in Reims, France, for the Champagne Run with my running club, Dereham Runners. I could wax lyrical about the trip, extolling the virtues of running tourism, the pleasure of discovering a beautiful historic city on foot, and the particular joy of sharing an experience with good people. There's something rather special about combining a race with travel, allowing the running to become part of a much larger story.

But that would risk a loss of literary focus, and there is a marathon to write about.

If you're interested, I've put together a short video which I hope captures something of the spirit of our time in Reims. Sometimes a few moving images can say what a thousand words struggle to convey. https://youtu.be/M3sGcHjh-xI

The 10K was also part of my first taper week, and with it came the beginning of the mind games. Have I done enough? Will I recover in time? Why do my legs feel so heavy? And is that a slight tickle in my throat, or am I imagining things?

The taper is a curious business. After months of measuring progress in miles, sessions and accumulated fatigue, suddenly you're asked to do less. The body is supposed to recover, the legs are supposed to freshen up, and the mind is supposed to trust the work already done.

The mind, however, has other ideas.

It becomes an unreliable companion, capable of turning a perfectly ordinary sensation into a potential catastrophe. Every ache is investigated, every sneeze considered, and every hour of tiredness scrutinised as though the entire training cycle might somehow unravel before Sunday morning.

Such is maranoia.

The couple of days at home have passed in something of a blur. There was, of course, a session with Charles at Walk to Run. A massage with Charles is never a wasted hour. As usual, I arrived feeling heavy-limbed and left feeling as though I were floating. Healing powers, that's what that man has. I have absolutely no doubt about it.

And then, almost before we'd had time to draw breath, we were packing again.

This time, Amsterdam.

An Ungodly Hour

The alarm went off at 2.30 am.

I'm writing this sitting in the departure lounge at Norwich Airport, nursing a coffee and contemplating the wisdom of anyone who considers a 2.30 am start a sensible way to begin a Friday.

I'm an early riser by nature, but there are limits.

We arrived at the airport at 4.15 am for our 6 am flight. Security was a pleasantly uneventful affair, helped considerably by the fact that there was only one other flight scheduled to depart. Airports have a very different character at this hour. The crowds have yet to arrive, the usual bustle is absent, and everything seems to exist in a quieter, slightly unreal world.

Outside, the ghostly shape of an Embraer 175 stood alone on the apron, illuminated by the terminal lights and emerging from the early morning mist. It was an imposing sight, the aircraft's outline sharply defined against the darkness, its lights catching the vapour in the cold morning air.

I found myself looking at it as a photographer rather than a passenger.

Light, shape, composition. The relationship between the illuminated aircraft and the surrounding darkness. The stillness of the scene. The possibility of an image.

I tend to see the world this way, through the possibilities of a photograph, so you'll have to forgive the indulgence. It's what happens when you carry a camera through life: ordinary moments become opportunities to notice something that might otherwise pass unseen.

There was, unfortunately, no time to linger over the composition. Flour & Bean was calling, and coffee had become a necessity rather than a pleasure.

We're flying with KLM, the blue-and-white-liveried Royal Dutch Airlines, another first for us. It's a short hop from Norwich to Schiphol, one of those remarkable airports from which the rest of the world seems to fan out in every direction.

For us, though, the destination is Amsterdam, and the small matter of running a marathon on Sunday.

The Shoes Must Travel With Me

I'm sitting here clutching my race shoes.

There is no way on earth I'm putting them in the suitcase in the hold.

Luggage can be replaced. Clothes can be bought. As a bloke, I like to think I could survive a few days with whatever garments remained available to me, invoking a strict rotation policy if necessary. It might not be elegant, but it would be manageable.

The shoes are another matter entirely.

My chosen weapons for Sunday are the Adidas Adizero Adios Pro 5s. I like them, and they've behaved themselves throughout the training cycle. Despite the reports of outsole problems, mine have shown no signs of trouble after around 30 miles of running.

They're familiar. They're comfortable. They're the shoes I've chosen to carry me through 26.2 miles of Amsterdam streets.

At this stage, familiarity matters. There is little to be gained by introducing uncertainty into a process that has already occupied months of your life.

So the shoes are travelling in the cabin with me.

If the suitcase disappears somewhere between Norwich and Amsterdam, I'll deal with it. I can probably find a clean shirt and a change of clothes. But finding a replacement pair of race shoes at short notice, then trusting them to carry me through a marathon, is a different proposition altogether.

No, the shoes stay with me.

There are some risks I'm prepared to take, but that isn't one of them.

The Tyranny of the Smartphone

Airports have always been places where my thoughts wander. Perhaps it's the waiting, perhaps the peculiar sense of being between one place and another, or perhaps it's simply the effect of being awake at an hour when most sensible people are still asleep.

This morning, I've been thinking about the way we travel.

We live in an age of extraordinary convenience. Our boarding passes are on the KLM app. Our train tickets are on another app. Our marathon registration barcode is on the phone too. An entire journey, from leaving home to standing on the start line, can be organised through a small rectangle of glass and metal.

It's clever, efficient and wonderfully straightforward.

Until you start wondering what happens if you lose it.

And there it is again: maranoia.

The phone has suddenly assumed an importance far beyond its normal place in my life. It isn't simply a means of communication anymore. It holds the information that allows us to move from the airport to the hotel, get on the right train and register for the race. Lose it, and a series of minor inconveniences could quickly become a rather complicated morning.

I've even considered the possibility of attaching it to my arm with duct tape.

You couldn't make it up.

A man who has spent months preparing to run a marathon, who has covered hundreds of training miles and willingly subjected himself to long runs, tired legs and the occasional existential crisis, is now contemplating the use of industrial adhesive to protect his smartphone.

Crazy? I don't think so.

Well, perhaps a little.

But maranoia is not a condition governed by logic. It's what happens when you've invested so much time and effort in a goal that the smallest things begin to assume disproportionate importance. The closer you get to the start line, the more precious everything becomes.

The training is behind me now. I cannot add another long run, improve my fitness in any meaningful way or undo the work I've already done. I can only look after myself, get to the start line and trust that the months of preparation will carry me through.

And yet, here I am, worrying about my phone.

My phone and my running shoes. At this particular moment, they seem to be the only two possessions in the world that matter.

Sod the luggage.

So Gorilla Tape it is . It would be an unconventional travel accessory, but then marathon runners aren't always the most rational of people in the days before a race.

So perhaps I'll leave the tape in the bag.

Perhaps.

It's Friday morning. The coffee is finished, the aircraft is waiting, and Amsterdam is calling.

Two days to go.

I've earned my maranoia, and I'm embracing it.

My next vlog will be from Amsterdam , have a great weekend.