Tower running has enthusiasts, elite athletes, worldwide contests and dedicated internet sites. In fact it has all of the trappings and paraphernalia that one would expect of a serious sport. I knew all of this before going to Vienna but still could not treat the concept with the respect it deserves. At its lowest point Grandstand would not have filled the void between the 4.15 from Haydock and Final Score with tower running. They would have chosen bowls or water polo or lumberjacking, if Eurosport had not got that first. In my mind it is something organised by a company based in Canary Wharf on a team building/charity fund raising day. Even the chairman joins in, donning the tennis shirt and shorts he was inspired to buy just after Bjorn Borg first won Wimbledon, each man made fibre of his t-shirt desperately clinging to its neighbour to avoid exposing a paunch born of his expense driven lifestyle. His face turns puce by the 5th floor but he makes it to the top and all the ambitious executives comment on what a good sport he is at the buffet, hoping he hears them and moves them down the sacking league table.
So curiosity, rather than trepidation was the emotion that encouraged me to be at Kaisermuhlen Ubahn station at 7.55am on a gloriously crisp Viennese winter’s morning. I had not actually worked out where to go next, it I expected to easily identify Austria’s tallest construction and then head in that general direction. The problem was that Kaisermuhlen is the gateway to a business area with several tall buildings. The one I suspected was my destination, based on it being the only one that looked to have a rotating restaurant at the top, did not look much taller than all of the others. I was underwhelmed just long enough to reach the start of the business park and realise perspective was playing a joke. To transmogrify a line from Father Ted* “Those towers are small, that tower is far away”.
As I walked through the business park, and then the normal park beyond it, the tower took on an increasingly intimidating loom. It's true I’ve seen bigger, the Donauturm is less than half the size of the Empire State Building and Eiffel Tower and about two-thirds of Canary Wharf. But I’ve not (yet) faced the prospect of running up any of those. I was disappointed to see that there were no windows in the concrete cylinder that separated the restaurant and the ground. I had quite liked the notion of seeing the world winding away from me like a cork separated from its bottle. Unsure whether I had helped the environment I was leaving to develop character or just tainted it.
I, like, I suspect most people, cannot help but assess the other competitors at the start of an event. It is reassuring to identify some people you are confident you will beat (and so not finish last). At the bottom of the tower there was not one person about whom I could confidently draw this conclusion. Not even the chain smokers huddled by the changing shed. I realised this was no charity event. The only people that happily give their Saturday morning to exhausting themselves in this manner take their fitness and/or tower running seriously. Or they are bumbling around finding pointless challenges in an attempt to give reason to an otherwise puerile existence.
The usual procedure followed: registration, pin number to top, timing chip around ankle, hang around until the start. My age group (30-39) was scheduled to run between 10.45 and 11.10 (competitors went up one at a time, 20 seconds between each). It was too cold to stand outside so I decided to watch the under 30s at the start.
Again I was caught out by the standard of the set up. The starters were all filmed, a commentator announced what was happening and a large flat screen television flicked between images of the start, half way up, the 135m landing and the finish. Two timer displays were set up, one repeatedly counting down 20 seconds, one showing the time of the most recent finisher. These tended to be 6 minutes or less, 6 seconds per flight of steps. That seemed very quick to me.
The queue of people waiting to climb did not reflect the under 30 demographic I had expected. Everybody in a running kit was jostling for position. I decided I wanted to get on with things so added my frame to the hubbub. Several minutes and some careful manoeuvres later I was watching my 20 seconds count down to zero. The man recording who had run jovially pointed out to me that I was the 100th competitor of the day. I watched the clock and smiled.
0 seconds, I went. My tactic was to go as quickly as possible the whole way, fully anticipating that my “as possible” would continuously decrease. Each landing was numbered, starting at 60 and counting down. I managed to “run” to 40 but with two thirds of the tower left my legs insisted that I walk. So I walked, and hauled myself up by the banister (a painful place to be hauled). The sound of heavy breathing echoed around me, it was my breathing. The man immediately behind me bounded past at 37, the man immediately behind him did the same at 17. I did not care particularly, I only cared about two things – getting enough oxygen in my lungs to stop me feinting and that I had just overtaken the guy starting immediately in front of me, I would not be last.
Finally level 1, out from a claustrophobic, artificially lit tube and into the bright sunshine of the observation deck with a view of Vienna. It meant nothing to me. 6:51:05 said the clock, I desperately gulped for air like a goldfish floundering on a carpet.
Challenge complete.
This was a painful challenge. For the rest of the day my throat felt as if I had woken up following a night of straight spirits in pre-smoking ban pubs and clubs of Bristol, shouting over music and finally eating the contents of an ashtray. I would imagine. But, even though it was agonising and I was relatively slow - finishing 176 out of 289 men – it was over quickly and it was fun. If I was in a city at a time that coincided with running up its tallest building I would try to get involved. Mind you, at €16 per person I may just organise one myself. There was nothing about the competitors, consisting of Austrians, Poles, Germans, Hungarians, Swiss and a Brit that indicated they were any more eccentric/crazy/foolish than any of the other people I have met this year. I think it would be embraced in this country, it would appeal to our sense of quirkiness with a purpose. It’s too late to save Grandstand but I believe lumberjacking season has just finished so Eurosport might have a gap to fill. I just need to find out where I filed the number of that chairman. He seemed like a good sport.
*Sorry Jen, I only plan on buying one glass of wine.
Monday 17 November 2008
Thursday 13 November 2008
My Marathon Career
It’s 6.20am and I have just made my contribution to the crowd of people jostling to board one of the 30 odd busses that lined Vas. Konstantinou in Athens. Deep Heat and liniment forms a fug around us. Behind us, lit up against the last remnants of night sky is Panthinaiko Stadium.
Historical note: The stadium was originally used in ancient times to host the athletic events in the ancient sporting games. It was rebuilt in 1896 for the Olympic Games and is constructed entirely of white marble.
My note: the stadium is now used as the end point of the Athens marathon. It looks nice, but only has three sides (well marble is expensive).
Having worked out that queuing is not a word of Greek derivation I elbowed my way onto a bus and took one last look at the stadium. Logic pointed out how ridiculous it is to travel 42.2km by bus only to be dropped off and run back to where I am now. Far easier just to disembark now. Sense of occasion told me that logic was being a dick. I agreed, told logic to shut up and tried to sleep. I did not want to see the course, whilst making my porridge that morning a Canadian couple had told me that it is all uphill after the first 10km. I decided that, as I could do nothing about that, ignorance of what was to come would be better than trepidation.
By the time we were dropped off in Marathon the sun was coyly peaking over the side of the mountain and the morning breeze made it feel a lot cooler than the 16 degrees Celsius indicated on the board by the start.
Historical Note: Marathon was the place where, in 490BC, the Greeks and Persians had a battle. The Greeks won.
My note: In 2008 AD Marathon is a scrubby village with a nice sports stadium. Every tourist who has ever visited it has, in their head at least, made a joke about calling it Snickers.
With over an hour until the start I decided to find some shelter from the wind. I chose a position that allowed me a good view of the meticulously prepared starting area. They had held an opening ceremony the day before with a flame being lit just like in the Olympics. There was also an old stone by the flame.
Historical Note: The old stone had been excavated when the stadium in Marathon had been rebuilt for the 2004 Olympics. Some writing on it indicated to the clever Greek archaeologists that it was the very stone that had been used as the start of the marathon in 1896.
My note: I am no geologist but it was a nice looking stone. The writing looked suspiciously recent.
The whole event had been very impressively planned. The registration process the day before had been quick and simple. Today had gone as smoothly as the marble that was about to chill the posteriors of the VIPs waiting at the finish line. It was clear that this event meant a lot to the Athenian authorities. They wanted a proper marathon, they wanted to reclaim their event. Not for the first challenge I found myself wondering how a chump like me had got into an event like this.
“Bet you wish you were wearing long sleeves”, an American accent brought me out of my self-deprecation. That was good, I had just decided to find somebody to talk to and he had saved me the much needed energy. However, it turned out this was not soi much a conversation as a soliloquy. Uninvited information I discovered (and I am sparing you his supercilious detail) included, this was his 20th marathon this year, he had done 50 in total because amrathons were his warm up runs because he is an ultra runner who preferred to travel 50 plus miles across deserts and other wilderness. Marathons did not exhaust him and his ex-girlfriend was even more into it than him (man, she had energy). He fitted his exercise around his job in television. He had just had a dump but there was no toilet paper and he hadn’t had breakfast, which did not worry him because he did not need the energy as amrathons are so easy. Also he had got laid last night.
“Do you travel as part of a team?” I asked him.
“No, man” he replied, making an exaggerated mime of tugging at his crotch, “I don’t want hangers on taking y glory”.
I nodded, but thought that it would at least give him someone to talk to. The announcer finished telling us about the stone for the third time and asked all those who had not yet dropped their excess clothes off to do so immediately. I didn’t need a second invitation to escape.
Bang on 9 o’clock a gun was fired, a load of balloons were set free and several thousand runners shuffled forwards. The bunching spread out surprisingly quickly and soon we were running. And it was hot. My tactic was to just plod on. I had not taken a watch, I though I would listen to my body, and take stock every 10km, hoping that by splitting the run up like that it would seem less daunting.
0-10km – hot, mostly flay and I felt quite comfortable. At about 6km there was a statue of Fidippides and several runners stopped to have a picture taken with it.
Historical note: After Greece won the battle Fiddipides was the soldier given the task of going to Athens to spread word of the victory. He ran all the way, passed on the information and died.
My note: The statue has been erected at a point where the route doubles back on itself, indicating that if we are following in his footsteps Fiddipides did not have a great sense of direction. Also, apparently there is a shorter flatter route to Athens – maybe if he had followed that he would not have died.
We passed through a village where the local school’s brass band was playing for us. I distracted myself by observing the different nationalities taking part. Just about every country in Europe seemed to be covered and USA and Canada had a lot of representatives. Clearly the majority were Greek, and in their singlets they revealed just how hirsute a nation they are. You could have knitted several jumpers from the hair on their backs and shoulders. And the men were even worse (boom tish). Official Time to 10km 55:03.
10-20km – Hotter, mostly uphill with one short, steep downhill. Feet hurting from the pounding but otherwise fine, I knew I was going well because the song that popped into my head was good – Painting and Kissing by Hefner. I spent much of this spell talking to a very pleasant guy from Essex/Andover/Middlesborough who was running with his army unit in aid of the Poppy Appeal. He told me that he had done the London Marathon a few times, almost always with a time of 3hours 30 to 3 hours 45 but this course was tougher and he would be delighted to beat 4 hours. I left him behind at about 17km, although I am not sure if he was fading or if he stopped for the toilet. Official Time to 21km 1:54:31
20-30km – Hotter still, all uphill, Out of Jail by They Might Be Giants. For the most part I was still feeling pretty good and was getting excited at the countdown for the last 10 that was approaching. I had been distracting myself by trying to work out what the Latin Alphabet equivalents of Greek letters were. I was still managing to smile at the old ladies shouting “bravo”. But then, at about 27km my left knee started to hurt and my right calf felt very tight. Both legs deciding to give me trouble together. I tried to change my gait to take pressure of the left knee and right calf but in reality I think this just meant slowing down a bit. I had no intention of stopping until the pain made it impossible to continue so just hoped I could run it off. Official Time to 30km 2:42:54.
30-40km – very hot, the downhill started at about 33km and did not stop. I was counting down to the end and whilst my legs were feeling the pounding, I was not out of breath. I was beginning to look out for the distance markers and the songs had stopped completely. By about 35km the aching passed in both knee and calf and I picked up the pace a bit, I was overtaking more people than were overtaking me.
40km – finish – I felt pretty good, no wall hit and the end very much in sight. I picked up the pace with the intention of accelerating significantly at 41km, but then did not see the 41km marker. By the time the stadium came into view I was travelling quicker than anybody else around me and put on as close as I could a sprint finish for the end. Grimacing and shouting at people to get out of the way. I went under the finish line as the clock ticked 3.48.59. I hoped there had been more than 4 minutes between the gun and me crossing the start line. As it turned out I had been 3minutes and 53 seconds crossing the start line – Official time to finish 3:45:06. Those 6 seconds do irritate me.
Challenge complete.
So what to make of marathons? I hate to sound like an American ultra runner but they are in my opinion* overrated. I certainly had an adrenalin rush after finishing and my legs ached for a couple of days but I was not out of breath and did not feel as bad as the media images make you think you will. In fact, as far as I can tell they are designed for one thing only, damaging your legs. I am very glad I have done it but unlike a lot of the other challenges, which were equally demanding, if not more so, I have not come out of this thinking I may do another one. Paula Radcliffe did not finish this course, Fidippides died at the end of it. I might as well quit while I'm ahead.
*Although I am not sure who else’s opinion you were expecting.
Historical note: The stadium was originally used in ancient times to host the athletic events in the ancient sporting games. It was rebuilt in 1896 for the Olympic Games and is constructed entirely of white marble.
My note: the stadium is now used as the end point of the Athens marathon. It looks nice, but only has three sides (well marble is expensive).
Having worked out that queuing is not a word of Greek derivation I elbowed my way onto a bus and took one last look at the stadium. Logic pointed out how ridiculous it is to travel 42.2km by bus only to be dropped off and run back to where I am now. Far easier just to disembark now. Sense of occasion told me that logic was being a dick. I agreed, told logic to shut up and tried to sleep. I did not want to see the course, whilst making my porridge that morning a Canadian couple had told me that it is all uphill after the first 10km. I decided that, as I could do nothing about that, ignorance of what was to come would be better than trepidation.
By the time we were dropped off in Marathon the sun was coyly peaking over the side of the mountain and the morning breeze made it feel a lot cooler than the 16 degrees Celsius indicated on the board by the start.
Historical Note: Marathon was the place where, in 490BC, the Greeks and Persians had a battle. The Greeks won.
My note: In 2008 AD Marathon is a scrubby village with a nice sports stadium. Every tourist who has ever visited it has, in their head at least, made a joke about calling it Snickers.
With over an hour until the start I decided to find some shelter from the wind. I chose a position that allowed me a good view of the meticulously prepared starting area. They had held an opening ceremony the day before with a flame being lit just like in the Olympics. There was also an old stone by the flame.
Historical Note: The old stone had been excavated when the stadium in Marathon had been rebuilt for the 2004 Olympics. Some writing on it indicated to the clever Greek archaeologists that it was the very stone that had been used as the start of the marathon in 1896.
My note: I am no geologist but it was a nice looking stone. The writing looked suspiciously recent.
The whole event had been very impressively planned. The registration process the day before had been quick and simple. Today had gone as smoothly as the marble that was about to chill the posteriors of the VIPs waiting at the finish line. It was clear that this event meant a lot to the Athenian authorities. They wanted a proper marathon, they wanted to reclaim their event. Not for the first challenge I found myself wondering how a chump like me had got into an event like this.
“Bet you wish you were wearing long sleeves”, an American accent brought me out of my self-deprecation. That was good, I had just decided to find somebody to talk to and he had saved me the much needed energy. However, it turned out this was not soi much a conversation as a soliloquy. Uninvited information I discovered (and I am sparing you his supercilious detail) included, this was his 20th marathon this year, he had done 50 in total because amrathons were his warm up runs because he is an ultra runner who preferred to travel 50 plus miles across deserts and other wilderness. Marathons did not exhaust him and his ex-girlfriend was even more into it than him (man, she had energy). He fitted his exercise around his job in television. He had just had a dump but there was no toilet paper and he hadn’t had breakfast, which did not worry him because he did not need the energy as amrathons are so easy. Also he had got laid last night.
“Do you travel as part of a team?” I asked him.
“No, man” he replied, making an exaggerated mime of tugging at his crotch, “I don’t want hangers on taking y glory”.
I nodded, but thought that it would at least give him someone to talk to. The announcer finished telling us about the stone for the third time and asked all those who had not yet dropped their excess clothes off to do so immediately. I didn’t need a second invitation to escape.
Bang on 9 o’clock a gun was fired, a load of balloons were set free and several thousand runners shuffled forwards. The bunching spread out surprisingly quickly and soon we were running. And it was hot. My tactic was to just plod on. I had not taken a watch, I though I would listen to my body, and take stock every 10km, hoping that by splitting the run up like that it would seem less daunting.
0-10km – hot, mostly flay and I felt quite comfortable. At about 6km there was a statue of Fidippides and several runners stopped to have a picture taken with it.
Historical note: After Greece won the battle Fiddipides was the soldier given the task of going to Athens to spread word of the victory. He ran all the way, passed on the information and died.
My note: The statue has been erected at a point where the route doubles back on itself, indicating that if we are following in his footsteps Fiddipides did not have a great sense of direction. Also, apparently there is a shorter flatter route to Athens – maybe if he had followed that he would not have died.
We passed through a village where the local school’s brass band was playing for us. I distracted myself by observing the different nationalities taking part. Just about every country in Europe seemed to be covered and USA and Canada had a lot of representatives. Clearly the majority were Greek, and in their singlets they revealed just how hirsute a nation they are. You could have knitted several jumpers from the hair on their backs and shoulders. And the men were even worse (boom tish). Official Time to 10km 55:03.
10-20km – Hotter, mostly uphill with one short, steep downhill. Feet hurting from the pounding but otherwise fine, I knew I was going well because the song that popped into my head was good – Painting and Kissing by Hefner. I spent much of this spell talking to a very pleasant guy from Essex/Andover/Middlesborough who was running with his army unit in aid of the Poppy Appeal. He told me that he had done the London Marathon a few times, almost always with a time of 3hours 30 to 3 hours 45 but this course was tougher and he would be delighted to beat 4 hours. I left him behind at about 17km, although I am not sure if he was fading or if he stopped for the toilet. Official Time to 21km 1:54:31
20-30km – Hotter still, all uphill, Out of Jail by They Might Be Giants. For the most part I was still feeling pretty good and was getting excited at the countdown for the last 10 that was approaching. I had been distracting myself by trying to work out what the Latin Alphabet equivalents of Greek letters were. I was still managing to smile at the old ladies shouting “bravo”. But then, at about 27km my left knee started to hurt and my right calf felt very tight. Both legs deciding to give me trouble together. I tried to change my gait to take pressure of the left knee and right calf but in reality I think this just meant slowing down a bit. I had no intention of stopping until the pain made it impossible to continue so just hoped I could run it off. Official Time to 30km 2:42:54.
30-40km – very hot, the downhill started at about 33km and did not stop. I was counting down to the end and whilst my legs were feeling the pounding, I was not out of breath. I was beginning to look out for the distance markers and the songs had stopped completely. By about 35km the aching passed in both knee and calf and I picked up the pace a bit, I was overtaking more people than were overtaking me.
40km – finish – I felt pretty good, no wall hit and the end very much in sight. I picked up the pace with the intention of accelerating significantly at 41km, but then did not see the 41km marker. By the time the stadium came into view I was travelling quicker than anybody else around me and put on as close as I could a sprint finish for the end. Grimacing and shouting at people to get out of the way. I went under the finish line as the clock ticked 3.48.59. I hoped there had been more than 4 minutes between the gun and me crossing the start line. As it turned out I had been 3minutes and 53 seconds crossing the start line – Official time to finish 3:45:06. Those 6 seconds do irritate me.
Challenge complete.
So what to make of marathons? I hate to sound like an American ultra runner but they are in my opinion* overrated. I certainly had an adrenalin rush after finishing and my legs ached for a couple of days but I was not out of breath and did not feel as bad as the media images make you think you will. In fact, as far as I can tell they are designed for one thing only, damaging your legs. I am very glad I have done it but unlike a lot of the other challenges, which were equally demanding, if not more so, I have not come out of this thinking I may do another one. Paula Radcliffe did not finish this course, Fidippides died at the end of it. I might as well quit while I'm ahead.
*Although I am not sure who else’s opinion you were expecting.
Wednesday 5 November 2008
Marathon I'd Like to Finish
And so to the anachronism of marathons. The bombshells from a bygone age. They defy metrification and continue to dine out all afternoon when everybody else wants to finish and get on with their busy lives. And yet each of them retain the glamour that has long departed contemporaries, the distance walking and 10,000 metres age gracefully in a home but the marathon is still forcing herself into the public eye. We all know it is wrong but there is something about her, people continue to be entranced by her mystique, drawn, powerless, into her clutches and then she devours them, mercilessly destroying joints, tendons, muscles and cartilage. And afterwards you are a member of a limited but not very exclusive club. People, however distasteful they find it still have a grudging respect that you did one.
For a very long time I have contemplated a marathon. I had a place in London twice but had to drop out both times through a knee injury picked up in training. The nature of this year meant I had to have one last attempt before accepting she is a conquest too far. But this year London didn’t want me. I needed to find somewhere else. Not any of the other big three. New York was out, I didn’t want to go back to the same place for more than one challenge. Boston and Berlin came at the wrong time. I had to look at the minor marathons. Nearly every city seems to have one so it was a case of finding the right one for me. I looked at Prague, I looked at Rome, I looked at Paris. None were quite right. I wanted something with a bit of kudos, somewhere that had a bit more meaning than shutting your eyes and doing it for the sake of doing it. Finally I decided where to search, the original, the inspiration, the mother of them all. A couple of clicks of a mouse and there she was, exposed before me. She retained all her legendary charms, maybe now a little tatty but the route and the finish were as they were in the beginning of it all. She still had the exotic allure of somewhere I had never been before. I could pay to enter her. I was snared.
But now the moment nears and I am not ready for her, not if I am going to do myself justice. The three weeks I have had to train since my knees got over cycling is the amount of time period they advise you to use for winding down and conserving strength. I will go slowly, I will pace myself and, injuries permitting, she will be mine. It has to be that way. I always said I would defy the bombshells. I would use Athens for my needs. I will only ever do one marathon in my life and this is it. I know they lure back others who make these claims but not me. I have seen what their power can do to people, turning them from cool DJs into peculiar old men.
PS. For anybody who is thinking of taking part in a marathon here is my top training tip. However stylish your snug fitting Chelsea boots may be avoid wearing them for the first time since Spring the weekend before the marathon. This is stupid and is just asking for the skin to be taken off your ankles. You will face the prospect of being in a lot of pain just walking to the start line. Go with the broken in, slightly tatty brogues.
For a very long time I have contemplated a marathon. I had a place in London twice but had to drop out both times through a knee injury picked up in training. The nature of this year meant I had to have one last attempt before accepting she is a conquest too far. But this year London didn’t want me. I needed to find somewhere else. Not any of the other big three. New York was out, I didn’t want to go back to the same place for more than one challenge. Boston and Berlin came at the wrong time. I had to look at the minor marathons. Nearly every city seems to have one so it was a case of finding the right one for me. I looked at Prague, I looked at Rome, I looked at Paris. None were quite right. I wanted something with a bit of kudos, somewhere that had a bit more meaning than shutting your eyes and doing it for the sake of doing it. Finally I decided where to search, the original, the inspiration, the mother of them all. A couple of clicks of a mouse and there she was, exposed before me. She retained all her legendary charms, maybe now a little tatty but the route and the finish were as they were in the beginning of it all. She still had the exotic allure of somewhere I had never been before. I could pay to enter her. I was snared.
But now the moment nears and I am not ready for her, not if I am going to do myself justice. The three weeks I have had to train since my knees got over cycling is the amount of time period they advise you to use for winding down and conserving strength. I will go slowly, I will pace myself and, injuries permitting, she will be mine. It has to be that way. I always said I would defy the bombshells. I would use Athens for my needs. I will only ever do one marathon in my life and this is it. I know they lure back others who make these claims but not me. I have seen what their power can do to people, turning them from cool DJs into peculiar old men.
PS. For anybody who is thinking of taking part in a marathon here is my top training tip. However stylish your snug fitting Chelsea boots may be avoid wearing them for the first time since Spring the weekend before the marathon. This is stupid and is just asking for the skin to be taken off your ankles. You will face the prospect of being in a lot of pain just walking to the start line. Go with the broken in, slightly tatty brogues.
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