Frankfurt Marathon 2024

I don't imagine Frankfurt ranks that highly on any city-break bucket lists. Raceday aside, this trip certainly wouldn't have lived long in the memory book. Having lived in a few cities over the years, I will concede that it's unfair to form an opinion if you haven't lived there for at least a month. My 3 day verdict however, is that outside the 'Disneyland' Altstadt (a post-war reconstruction of the old town), there's not a fat lot of character to be found, that is, if you don't count the city's red light district - so seedy it makes Amsterdam look quite hoity-toity - as characterful. We got back to Heathrow on Sunday night; it was raining and 5 degrees colder, and suddenly Frankfurt didn't seem so bad after all. Cities in Northern Europe during the months of late autumn are fucking miserable places.

This was my first time giving nutrition into the aid stations before the race. All went swimmingly until the 4th station, at which point I was ahead of a lot of the sub-45 runners doing the same thing, meaning the tables were full of bottles. Turns out my idea to strap little St. George's flags to my own bottles wasn't all that cunning, moreover it's standard practice at a race like this. That said, there was a distinct lack of yellow bottles on show, so I think covering yours with yellow paper would be a good choice if you plan to do the same. When you're on the limit like this, even the most frenzied search could see you spat out the back of your group, and it's a long old slog from then on. At 25k I resided to use the gels in my back pocket - thank God for that last minute provision.

It would be a real stretch to call this course undulating. With a couple of little rises neither would you call it pan-flat, but there's certainly PB potential to be had here. The toughest bit for me was a cobbled section at 40k. After the long drag back into the city on fresh tarmac, it felt as if I was running on an XC course, but I think that had more to do with the elapsed distance than the severity of the cobbles. Winding through downtown Frankfurt, the sound of spectators and brass bands reverberating through an amphitheater of high rises, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck on end. The lonely loop out to the Western suburbs however, which made up the middle chunk of the course, was equally welcome. Here you can settle in to the effort and fix your sights a little further ahead. Conor and Daire took a train out to the 32k point, to be on hand with an emergency bottle/gel. Those brief encounters can seem trivial, but I think they do you the world of good on a race of this distance. I'm delighted I could share this weekend with them.

I left lining up at the start to the last minute, squeezing through a gap in the metal railings, much to the dismay of those already waiting for the gun. After a quick glance at the diameter of people's biceps, and a distinct lack of emaciation amongst those around me (the sad part is I'm only half joking here), I quickly concluded that I was too far back in the sub 2h45 pen. Being all self-conscious and British however, I couldn't bring myself to shove bodies aside and plough forward. No, much better to sabotage 16 weeks of hard training than be considered rude by someone you don't know, who will have forgotten you in a couple of minutes time. The total distance on my Garmin at the finish was 500m more than a marathon, which I'd say was mostly from the meandering I did in the first two miles.

What separates thes East African runners from the rest of the muggle-born elites? Living and training at altitude, as well as the culture and infrastructure of the sport on which those countries pride themselves, are the obvious answers. When you get up close to these superhumans (for the record I'm not implying I was anywhere near their heels, however there were plenty of places where this course doubled back on itself - serving as a cruel reminder that even at your peak, when your legs are silky smooth and you've necked 40 tabs of sodium bicarbonate in a bid for the most marginal of gains, there are levels to this game) it's clear that their physiology also plays a huge part in their performance. The majority of top white runners look downright ill at racing weight, but these guys carry their gangliness with elegance. To watch them run is an art form unto itself. Conor sent me a video of a few of them hobbling through the airport terminal that evening, which gave me some assurance that they too put their bodies through the ringer for the sport.

Having just come out the other end of a chest infection, I went into this race with zero expectations. When I say, 'zero expectations', this is of course a go-to on the list of pre and post race bollocks we runners like to spout to give us reassurance or to give us something to talk about. Also, if all had gone tits up, then at least I'd have something substantial to point to. Racing an unknown distance can be quite beneficial, in that you're more likely to go off feel. I purposely avoided looking at any clock showing splits, preferring instead to monitor current pace, assessing it relative to perceived effort and where I was on the course. I was amazed how easy the majority of the race actually felt - I guess it's true what they say that race-day is simply a celebration of the work you've put in in training. At least is was until mile 22. Then it hurt like hell. As I searched the darkest reaches of my soul, I pondered on what a happy-go-lucky fool I'd been just a couple of miles previous. At mile 22, no super-shoe or sense of occasion will come to your aid. You need a decent why - a mental image which keeps the legs turning over right when they've gone to shit. My why was that if I kept this pace, I'd have kids with the girl waiting for me at the finish. We broke up a week later, but I now have one gnarly marathon PB... Now if I get sad or lonely I simply pull up the Strava activity - it's a surefire way to drive out any need for fulfilment through procreation.