Went out too fast. Blew up. Learned something. Still got the medal.
There’s no nice way to say this: the Belfast Half Marathon on Sunday, 21st September absolutely ate me alive.
And it’s not like I didn’t have a good run up to it, in fact, I’d probably say I went into it feeling better than I had in years. Maybe that was the problem.
The previous weekend I’d clocked a 16 mile long run at 9:42 pace, which is exactly the sort of thing that makes you start entertaining ideas above your station. I’ve lost a decent bit of weight, I’m feeling fitter, and training overall has been moving in the right direction. So in my head, Belfast wasn’t just a half marathon. It was a stepping stone. A pace test. A confidence builder. A prelude to a triumphant return to Dublin Marathon glory.
So of course in my infinite wisdom I decided to chase a sub1:50.
Good Intentions, Bad Sleep
The week of the race actually went quite well. No disasters. No strange pains. I kept the mileage light and had "pull back week". skipped hills, skipped intervals, did a few easy runs and took both Friday and Saturday completely off. I thought I was being clever. Strategic. Professional, even. I was ready to unleash my inner Kipchoge.
But then came Friday night: five hours sleep.
Saturday night: three hours.
That’s eight hours sleep across two nights. Total.
Still, I arrived on race morning in decent spirits. The weather was absolutely perfect. Belfast at its best, cool, clear, buzzing with energy. Which is nice considering the three weeks of rain that came before it. The start area was packed. Bag drop was smooth. People were milling about, half warming up, half posing for selfies. I felt excited. Nervous, but ready.
Then I noticed there was no 1:50 pacer flag anywhere. Just a 1:45 and a 2:00. In a moment of pure bravado, I very briefly considered going with the 1:45 pacer, because apparently delusion is one of my strongest muscle groups. Thankfully, I saw sense.
The First Three Miles: The Great Lie
I started off targeting roughly 8:23 - 8:30 minute miles, knowing I’d need to average just under 8:24 per mile to hit 1:50. The first mile? 8:23. Second mile? 8:20. Third mile? 8:30.
Textbook. Right on pace. I told myself I’d found the groove. And to be fair, I did feel decent during that first mile along the Ormeau Embankment. Relaxed. Not buzzing with adrenaline, but not doubting myself either. From mile one to two, I could already tell I was going to need to work a bit to stay on track, but nothing felt unmanageable. Just the usual opening nerves.
It was only really from mile two on the Ravenhill Road and then into the third in Ormeau Park that things started to get shaky. I noticed I had to actively fight just to keep the pace steady, not push it, not surge, just maintain. That was the first warning sign. By the time I came over the Lagan Bridge and hit mile four on the embankment, I could feel it slipping. People were starting to reel me in. The early buzz was gone, and dread started creeping in. It was still early, way too early to be feeling like that.
I figured I’d slow it slightly, maybe hold around 8:50s, and still salvage a decent run. But nope. That was the last optimistic thought I had all morning.
The Collapse: Every Mile Slower Than the Last
From mile 4 onwards, it was just a slow, painful slide.
I watched as my pace drifted into the 9:00s, then the 9:15s, and eventually a brutal 9:35 at mile 9, which also happened to include one of the cruel climbs along the Falls Road. A hill, by the way, that I didn’t remember being that bad, until I had to run it on legs that had long long emotionally checked out.
I don’t remember much about the middle section of the course, other than mentally bargaining with myself like I was in a hostage negotiation. “Just get to mile 7, then you can walk. No wait, get to 8. No wait, don’t walk at all. You’ll only feel worse.” It was relentless. Oh and flashbacks of pain in Victoria Park, the Airport Road, High Street etc etc.
By the time I finally crossed the Lagan for the last time, banked left onto the Ormeau embankment and the finish line came into view, I had nothing left in the tank. I managed to rally a bit, I think I dipped back into the 9:15s for the last mile, but at that point it wasn’t about finishing strong, it was about just finishing without folding in half.
The Reality Check
I crossed the line in 1 hour, 57 minutes and 30 seconds. Which, on paper, is absolutely fine. Respectable, even. But it wasn’t the time that stung, it was the delusion that preceded it. I’d gone in chasing 1:50, despite knowing deep down that a sub 1:50 required not just one good long run the week before, but consistency, strength, and probably a few more hours of sleep.
Instead, I crumbled early and spent ten miles watching my pacing strategy turn into a slow motion train wreck.
It was a cautionary tale, plain and simple.
I should’ve made allowances for the sleep. I should’ve gone out conservatively. I should’ve acknowledged that, while I’ve made massive progress in training lately, I’m still not there yet.
Adjusting the Plan & My Expectations
This race has forced me to rethink my approach to Dublin Marathon next month. I’d been aiming for sub 4 hours, planning marathon pace around 9:05 - 9:10 per mile. But based on how I fell apart chasing 8:23s, that target might be a stretch too far, especially if race day throws up poor sleep, heat, hills, or just general carnage.
I’m now looking more realistically at 4:15 to 4:20, which puts me closer to 9:45 -10:00 per mile, depending on how the next few weeks go. Still a strong showing. Still something to be proud of. And more importantly, something I can recover from without being carted off to the medical tent.
Note to Self
I didn’t get the race I wanted in Belfast. But I definitely got the race I needed. I know that is Olympic level cringe cliché. But it's true.
And honestly, that’s kind of the point of doing a race mid training block. Not every race has to be a breakthrough. Some races are just reminders, that sleep matters, pacing matters, and sometimes your ego is the only thing that really needs a slap (or in my case a wallop).
Still got the medal though. And yes, I wore it when I was eating my feelings later that day.