“It started off so full of hope. Then after two hours, you’re wondering what you did to deserve this.”
The dreaded long run. The cornerstone of every marathon plan. The bit you know you have to do, but by mile 11 you've completely lost the will to live. If you’re training for the Dublin Marathon, chances are you've either just done your first proper long run, or you're psyching yourself up for one this weekend. Either way, welcome to the emotional spiral.
Because here’s the truth nobody tells you: your first big mileage run doesn’t just test your fitness, it tests your faith in humanity. One minute you’re on top of the world, the next you’re Googling “can you get dumped by a training plan?”
So let’s talk about why long runs hurt your soul and how to survive them without phoning your mam from the Phoenix Park in a flood of tears.
Phase One: “I Feel Great! This is Class!”
The first few miles? You’re a running god. Look at me, gliding along gracefully. I could do this all day. Why was I ever scared of 13 miles?
This is known as The Honeymoon Phase, where everything’s grand and you start making rash promises like:
- “I’ll definitely do a full next year.”
- “I might run to Howth after this.”
- “I think I’ve finally cracked marathon training.”
Cherish this moment. Because it’s fleeting. Much like your toenails.
Phase Two: “This is Fine. Probably.”
You’re halfway through now. That gel tasted like melted Calpol. There’s salt on your face. You're not sure if it’s sweat or regret.
This is The Doubt Phase, where you start noticing things:
- Your legs are definitely heavier.
- That Spotify playlist is repeating.
- The next water fountain feels 400km away.
You start bargaining with yourself. "If I just get to mile 9, I’ll stop. No, 10. Actually 11. I’m fine. I’m grand. Am I grand?"
Phase Three: “Why Am I Like This?”
And then, the turn. Everything tightens. That upbeat podcast voice sounds smug. You pass a couple holding iced coffees and feel genuine hatred. You start wondering if you’re having an out-of-body experience or just bonking.
Congratulations, you’ve reached The Breakup Phase.
This is when:
- You feel personally victimised by your own knees
- You invent new swear words mid-stride
- You convince yourself this was a stupid idea and you're never doing this again
You start texting your friends (mentally, because your hands don’t work): “Remind me to never sign up for anything again.” You consider switching to darts. Or speed-walking. Or hermitage.
Why It Feels So Personal
Because long runs aren’t just physical. They dig into your head and start pulling at all the threads. They expose every weak point:
- Didn't fuel properly? You’ll know about it.
- Didn’t sleep enough? Here’s a dose of misery.
- Haven’t stretched since June? Welcome to the hamstring disco.
It’s emotional because you're vulnerable. You’re tired, you’re exposed, and no one told you running this far would make you feel like you’re going through an actual emotional crisis on a suburban footpath.
How to Get Through It (Without Crying into Your Electrolyte Drink)
Right. Tips. Let’s save your sanity:
1. Plan Your Route Like a Local Drug Dealer
Know your toilets. Know your water stops. Know where there’s shade. You do not want to be stranded on the Clontarf seafront in a headwind wondering if dehydration is a valid reason to DNF a training run.
2. Fuel Properly: And No, That Doesn't Mean Jelly Tots
Gels. Electrolyte tabs. Bananas. Something. Anything. Don’t “see how far you can go without it.” That’s not training, that’s self-harm with extra steps.
3. Slow Down. Like, Really Slow Down.
If you think you’re going too slow, go slower. Long runs aren’t for pace. They’re for learning how to stay upright without hating yourself.
4. Divide and Conquer
Break it into chunks. 3 miles, 5 miles, the halfway turnaround, “just get to that tree.” Don’t think “15 miles.” Think “three 5s and a sandwich.”
5. Have Something Waiting For You
A cold drink. A bacon sandwich. A lie down in a dark room. You need a reward. That’s basic psychology. You’re a lab rat with a Garmin.
Conclusion
Long runs are where you learn who you really are. And sometimes, who you are is someone weeping near a canal because a man on a scooter scared you at mile 12.
But listen, this is part of it. Every single marathon runner has had That Run. The one where they nearly quit. The one where they doubted everything. The one where they limped home, ate toast, and questioned the nature of time.
You’re not weak. You’re not behind. You’re just in the trenches and that’s where marathoners are made.
So cry if you need to. Swear at your running shoes. Sit on the kerb for five minutes and stare at the horizon like a war veteran. Then get up, walk it off, and tell your mates, “Ah, grand session today.”
Because you’re doing the Dublin feckin’ Marathon. And it’s meant to be hard.
