Reykjavík Grapevine - 24.08.2012, Blaðsíða 49

He did it! He actually ran a marathon!
Whoa, Bob! We owe you several beers!
49 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 13 — 2012SPORT
One night last November in a 101 Reykjavík bar, I was enjoy-ing several drinks with some
friends. Everything was normal when,
out of the blue, one of our party (a f lame
haired Canadian woman who shall
remain nameless) suddenly quipped,
“Hey you know what we should do?
We should run in next year’s Reykjavik
Marathon!” to which I replied, “Well if
you’re going to do it, then I’m going to
do it too!”
And in one short moment, that was
how I came to run this year’s Reykjavík
Marathon. It was never a conscious
decision made out of a sense of duty,
or charitable altruism, but a challenge
made under the influence of alcohol
that, for some unfathomable reason,
seemed to stick and take on a life of
its own. It was even more inexplicable
when I actually started training...
Back in the UK I played rugby and
had run a few 10k runs, but running
a marathon was like nothing I’d ever
done before. A whopping 42 kilometres
of long, arduous running, not at all
helped by the fact that I had the body
shape you wouldn’t associate with
someone who runs marathons (my
standard jumper shape is “egg,” and I
have man breasts that could put Ásdis
Rán out of business).
HARD MILES
So if I was to complete this race, I had to
be serious in my training. I started off
by watching all the training montage
clips from the ‘Rocky’ movies back to
back. When I realised that this was
going to be of no use to me at all, I
contacted my brother (who had run two
marathons) for advice. “There’s no other
way around it. You have to put the hard
miles in,” he said, laughing as he put
the phone down.
But here’s the thing they don’t tell
you: running is BORING! Sure, guys
like Haruki Murakami may get a Zen
kick out of long distance running, but I
bet he never had to run along Sæbraut
during a January snowstorm where
the wind whips your nipples to bloody
shreds. And then there are the shin
splints, tearing muscles, and the exorbi-
tant cost of running gear. Yes, running
is hell. End of story.
“DuDE, yOu ARE GOING TO DIE!”
But as the weeks ground on and my
distances increased, things started to
improve. To stave off boredom, I found
myself rekindling a long dormant love
for ‘90s drum and bass music, creating
long playlists with fast paced ambient
beats from the likes of Photek, LTJ
Bukem and Source Direct. I slowly
began to cut out alcohol and reduced my
bacon intake to five times a week. All
the while I was motivated by the word
of encouragement I received from my
social group:
“You know, if you want to change to
a half marathon, I wouldn’t think any
less of you as a man,” my wife said.
“Run a marathon? HAHAHA!
That’s a good one. Oh wait you’re SERI-
OUS? Why the fuck would you want to
do that?” my co-workers said.
“Dude, you are going to DIE!”
Grapevine intern Byron quipped.
THINGS FALLING APART
On race day itself, I was a bag of
nerves. What if I don’t make it? What
if I collapsed and was found wheezing
in a ditch after only a few kilometres?
However, when I gathered with the
thousands of other runners I felt a
strange sense of confidence. True, there
were loads of serious looking, cross-fit
addicted, athletic types, guzzling on
sport drinks, but there were many other
people of different shapes and sizes, all
trying to do their best and looking to
have a good time. Maybe I can do this,
I thought.
As mayor Jón Gnarr started the race,
things started off well. I forced myself
to go slow and steady. And after 10km,
I was actually going well and feeling
OK. Then at 15K, it began to slowly fall
apart. The muscles behind my right
knee slowly started to ping and cramp.
I put it out of my mind and ran through
the pain, although at a slower pace.
Then at about 22K, my left calf muscles
started cramping up. “OK, this is not
so good,” I thought, “but I have to keep
on going.” That was a great idea until I
hit “the wall” at 26K, where everything
cramped up and I slowed to a crawl
before stopping and stretching for five
minutes.
Somehow I managed to get back to
running, although by this time I had
adopted the running posture of those
old guys who look like a tortoise on their
back legs. And then, somewhere around
the 33K mark, the muscles at the back
of my right knee completely gave way,
forcing me to walk the last nine kilome-
tres in excruciating pain.
NICE GuyS FINISH LAST
But despite this, when I approached
the finishing line, I naturally had to
sprint the last 200 metres, pain carved
over my face and limping. But I did it! I
actually ran a fucking marathon! As my
wife hugged me, I turned to the sky and
screamed “DRAAAAAGO!” whereupon
I went straight to the pub and had a
pint. Well I think I at least deserved it!
So how do I feel two days after this
event? I’m not sure. Physically, my legs
are in bits. I can’t bend my knee that
well, and I almost need a hoist to get out
of my chair. But the sense of achieve-
ment that you get from doing some-
thing that only 674 other people had the
guts to undertake can’t be discounted.
Will I do it again next year? You are
joking, aren’t you? - BOB CLuNESS
íslandsbanki Reykjavík Marathon
Run, Fatboy, Run! Like a mountain, Bob Cluness ran this
year’s Reykjavik Marathon. Because it was there.
18
AUG
08:40
RUN!
Reykjavík
All over
marathon.is reykjaviksexfarm.wordpress.comAlso on offer:
10k, half marathon 42.2KM
Catharine Fulton
reykjavikjazz.is
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AUGUST 18
– SEPTEMBER 1