What Matters is the Journey
Last week the London Marathon ballot places were revealed, ahead of what is planned to be the biggest running of the event, with 50,000 runners. The disappointment of the many thousands of unsuccessful applicants was compounded by the race website collapsing under the weight of demand on announcement day.
Cue a witty twitter spat between London Marathon and Manchester Marathon. The latter revelled in London’s misfortune, pointing out that Manchester places were available and its website was up and running. London retorted by pointing out that although its website was down, at least its course was the right length – a none-too-subtle reference to the three years from 2013-2015 when the Manchester course came in at something under 26.2 miles. Manchester shot back with an image of a runner dressed as Big Ben failing to get underneath the finish gantry at London. It was a reasonable riposte, but to my mind, London got the better of this exchange.
I’ve had the good fortune to run the London Marathon twice. Most recently in 2019, the last time it went ahead IRL. It’s an unforgettable experience that I would recommend to anyone. I’ve also run Manchester Marathon, in 2015, the last of the “short-course” years. I’d trained for months to beat my PB from the year before at Edinburgh. And despite a dehydration-fuelled blow-up at 17 miles, I’d shaved off nearly two minutes. Joy turned to gloom several months later, when the measurement error was revealed and UK Athletics expunged Manchester PBs from Power of 10, its official online record. It was like finding out the nugget for which I’d spent months prospecting was merely fool’s gold. (Check out Rage in Harlem, the fabulous novel by black crime writer Chester Himes, to see why that image was in my mind.)
I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten over that disappointment. And perhaps it played a part in my gradual move off the road and onto the trails. Of course, trail running can be and is competitive, but it’s a competition based less on PBs. Each trail course has a unique profile, and weather and underfoot conditions have a greater role to play. The same course can be almost unrecognisable from year to year. For the most part, PBs are not particularly meaningful. And as races move into ultra-territory – 50km, 50 miles, 100 miles – the idea of accurately measured courses becomes rather abstract. One Race Director of my acquaintance makes a point of including in the race briefing that any complaints about the course being short or long according to a runner’s GPS watch will be summarily dismissed. No-one cares. A hundred mile race I ran last year is well known as coming in at around 103 miles!
Similarly, trail races (with one or two notable exceptions: we’re looking at you, UTMB and Hardrock) are not yet so popular that they feel the need to use ballots or lotteries to manage demand. Sometimes you have to be fast on the ‘submit’ button (Lakeland 50, anyone?), but determination and organisation are generally more important than mere luck.
This is part of the appeal of trail running. It’s not how fast you run, or how far you run that matters. What matters is the journey. Moving through the landscape, through forests, across meadows and over mountains. Being in the outdoors in all weathers. Putting one foot in front of the other. Experiencing the natural world up close.
We’ve all got one or more tickets in that ballot, and if we choose to get out there and run, we can all be winners.
One day I may try again to run 26.2 miles through Manchester to claim a legitimate PB, but in the meantime, when lockdown eases, I’ll be with you on the trails.