A new world of hurt

Thirty three days to go.

You want to hear something that sounds utterly crazy? I'm pretty comfortable with running thirteen miles now. Not only can I do it without feeling overwhelmed or exhausted after, but I don't experience many lingering pains or discomforts. Sure, there are the usual aches and muscular clenches, but nothing nearly as severe as it was back in December, when I first reached this milestone.

What I've learned now is that my body can tolerate the half-marathon distance fairly well - quite comfortably, even. For me, the real test of stamina and endurance comes into play once I hit the fifteen-mile mark. That's when things change.

Martin Lawrence appears at my side to announce this moment.

Once I hit this figure, my body reaches peak endurance. Everything beyond this becomes a test of sheer willpower. I have to tell myself to keep going, keep going, keep going. Two weeks ago, I reached the amazing new milestone of seventeen miles - the last lap of which saw me practically screaming 'Come on!' at myself over and over to keep going and not give up or falter.

It's not just a mental challenge at that distance, but a physical one, too. At fifteen miles, the pressure that has been steadily building inside my knees reaches critical mass. My calf muscles begin to seize, burn, and throb all at the same time. My lungs begin to ache from the strain of controlling my breathing for almost three hours. My vision starts to blur - colours shift and swim, and I start to see faces in passing trees. It hurts like hell to keep going - but stopping makes it so much worse.

What I wouldn't give for this kind of torment...

If I slow to a walk, everything starts to burn from within. It feels like fire spreading across my legs, knees, ankles, calves, thighs - everything all at once. The only way to make this agony end is to pick up the pace again - but that's nigh-impossible after already running for three-plus hours. It gets worse as the distance increases, until I'm ambling along in this pained forwards-crab-walk, desperately trying to keep moving, wishing the pain was at an end already.

Last week I reached nineteen miles on my run and that damn near finished me off. The pain I described above only gets worse with each mile, steadily doubling until I'm unable to do anything except run and wheeze and scream at the night sky. I felt drunk after that. In fact, I was told that I looked drunk. I came back to work and collapsed on the floor, talking in gasping, broken fragments that might have sounded like English, but probably wasn't.

New personal best. Will I be able to beat it before the big day?

At least I know what to expect on the day. And given that I'm capable of reaching nineteen miles in just over three and a half hours, I can probably afford to slow down a little and postpone this agony as much as possible.