Okay, so, I ran the marathon in Valencia. Yeah, that’s right, the whole 26.2 miles of it. It was a wild ride, let me tell you.
It all started when I got this crazy idea in my head. I’d been running for a while, doing the usual 5Ks, 10Ks, even a half marathon here and there. But a full marathon? That was a whole different beast. Still, something about it just called to me. So, I signed up. Valencia, they said, was a great place for a first marathon. Flat course, good weather… sounded perfect.
The training, oh boy, the training. It was brutal. I followed one of those online plans, you know the ones. Weeks and weeks of running, gradually increasing the mileage. Long runs on weekends, speed work during the week, cross-training… My legs felt like lead most of the time. I ate pasta like it was going out of style. Carb-loading, they call it. And the early mornings! Up before the sun, pounding the pavement while the rest of the world was still asleep.
Then, finally, it was time to fly to Valencia. The city was buzzing with runners. You could feel the nervous energy in the air. I picked up my race packet, got my bib number – 3487, I’ll never forget it. Did all the pre-race stuff, tried to carb-load some more, even though I was sick of pasta by then. Tried to get a good night’s sleep, but my mind was racing.
Race day. Woke up before dawn, nerves going crazy. Got to the starting line, surrounded by thousands of other runners. The atmosphere was electric. Music pumping, people cheering, the starting gun went off, and we were off!
The first few miles were a blur. So many people, so much adrenaline. I tried to settle into a rhythm, find my pace. The course was amazing, winding through the city, past beautiful buildings, with crowds lining the streets, cheering us on. Bands playing music, kids holding out their hands for high-fives… it was incredible.
Around mile 10, I started to feel it. My legs were getting heavy, my breath was coming in ragged gasps. But I kept going, one foot in front of the other. I grabbed water and energy gels at the aid stations, tried to keep myself fueled.
- Mile 13: Halfway there! Felt a surge of energy, like I could actually do this.
- Mile 18: Hitting the wall. Hard. Every step was a struggle. My body was screaming at me to stop.
- Mile 20: Seriously considered giving up. My legs were on fire, my lungs were burning. But then I saw a sign in the crowd: “You’ve got this!” It was just what I needed.
- Mile 23: Just a 5K left. I could do a 5K. Right? I started repeating it in my head. Just a 5K, just a 5K.
Those last few miles were a battle of wills. My body was done, but my mind wouldn’t let me quit. I focused on the crowds, the cheers, the finish line. I just had to keep moving.
And then, I saw it. The finish line. That glorious, beautiful finish line. I crossed it, and a wave of emotion washed over me. Relief, exhaustion, pride, joy… I’d done it. I’d finished the marathon.
They gave me a medal, a space blanket, some water. I could barely walk, but I had the biggest grin on my face. I was a marathoner. It was one of the hardest things I’d ever done, but also one of the most rewarding. Would I do it again? Ask me in a few weeks, when my legs have recovered. But right now, I’m just incredibly proud of myself. And hungry. Very, very hungry.