Athens Marathon 2014 Race Report: NO Pain

...even though there was pain

If there is one good thing about not being able to train as much as you would like and running a marathon without a target time in mind, it is that your body suffers less and you work through the plan without the usual niggles every marathon runner carries to the start line.

Well, that was precisely where I found myself: unsure how I would fare after my irregular preparation, but with fairly fresh legs and, above all, in very good health. My tooth was no longer bothering me thanks to the antibiotics accompanying me on the trip, so I expected a tough battle, but one I would face in the best possible physical condition.

It was all too good to be true. On Friday, I got off the plane that had brought me to Athens half-limping because of pain in my left heel. I blamed the shoes I was wearing, although I had not walked very far. So on Saturday I put on my marathon shoes to visit the Marathon Expo and go sightseeing. I started the day more or less well, but by that afternoon, back at the hotel, I could barely put my foot down. I stayed in my room, eating alone and brooding—and tweeting—about my bad luck while wondering what to do the next day. There was not much of an alternative: I had travelled all the way to Athens. What was I going to do? Not run? IMPOSSIBLE.

I had to bring it home

Athens was still dark when I left the hotel with Álvaro—yes, the one who always thrashes me—in search of the bus that would take us to Marathon. I was full of excitement, but the shadow of that rebellious heel, which had not improved overnight, came with me. Something that hurts even while you are standing still does not bode well for a race.

Marathon runners making their pilgrimage to their “Mecca”

The journey was a minor form of torture: you saw the course in reverse and realised that, one way or another, you were going to die out there. On one of the hills, its gradient made us laugh nervously. Then we spotted a hard-working cyclist grinding his way up it, and the nervous laughter turned into full-blown cackling: “What have we got ourselves into?”

In MARATHON

Once in Marathon—and it feels amazing to say that you are in Marathon—we were greeted by a cool morning. The sun soon appeared above the mountains, however, making plastic coverings and warm clothing unnecessary. It is my little curse: yet another marathon with the sun in my face for almost the whole route, even though Athens had looked more like Asturias on the preceding days and the forecast had even suggested a little rain.

Ready to start.

The queue for the toilets made for interesting viewing. African elite runners warmed up along the corridor between the portable toilets and the lines of runners, while I followed a conversation between two Mexican women that ended with a brilliant line: “We have not come to Greece to run; we have come to discover Greece by running.” In my situation, I found the idea especially inspiring.

Once Álvaro and I were in our starting pen, there was a speech, the athletes’ oath and then... the Mission: Impossible theme as the race got under way. I could only laugh. Was it meant for me? Here is our start with that cheeky soundtrack in the background. Spotting me is expert-level stuff.

There were three reasons why I made it beyond 500 metres: the money I had spent on the trip, the importance of the occasion, and the fact that I did not have a euro on me or the faintest idea how to get back to Athens if I dropped out. At home, I would have stopped without hesitation. The pain was still there, warming up my foot made no difference, and I had no way of knowing whether I might cause serious damage.

I set off following the plan. The first two kilometres were favourable and everyone passed me. I was intensely focused on the thought that the race would be one continuous ordeal. Fortunately, at around kilometre four, I caught Álvaro, who had decided to be conservative. Having company would be crucial for many kilometres, helping to distract me and push the idea of stopping out of my mind.

We held roughly 4:35/km until kilometre nine. From there, the profile became a succession of rollers that you knew were draining your strength, even though they were still manageable. On paper, it looks as though you face one continuous climb, but nothing could be further from the truth: you climb much more than you descend, but the constant changes in gradient batter you relentlessly.

We maintained a lively pace that never slipped beyond 4:50/km, except at kilometre 16, where the steepest climb of the first third of the race appears immediately before a breakneck descent that destroys your quadriceps.

A temporary trio of Spaniards
PHOTO: Hellas Events

The course is very lonely, but every town you pass through is a party. It feels as though you are crossing several finish lines, and each one fills you with an enormous urge to celebrate. They become oases where you can rest from the gradients and from that marathon runner’s solitude, which can sometimes hurt more than any hill.

The encouragement helps: those shouts of “Bravo! Bravissimo!”—the only words I managed to understand from the Greeks in four days—and, above all, the number of children and adults who reach out for a high-five. Many of those children were wearing medals after taking part in the junior races. A children’s race followed by watching the marathon: that is how you plant the seed properly.

PHOTO: Hellas Events

Has anyone told you that high-fives have an analgesic effect? Well, I am telling you now. On these stretches I forgot all about my foot. The pain was still there, sometimes more “numb” than at others, but it was impossible not to be swept along by the joy the spectators transmitted every few kilometres.

High-fiving
PHOTO: Costas Kesinis

But back to the race: between kilometres 19 and 31, the fun really begins, which is saying something when everything we had already covered had felt very tough for a marathon. We passed halfway in a little over 1:40, better than I had expected, but this time there was no point doing the maths. It was time to suffer. We held between 4:55/km and 5:05/km until kilometre 24, but the hills kept getting longer and steeper. Curiously, my heel hurt far more on the descents than on the climbs—a bad sign for the end of the race. Even so, the hills eased the pain and suffocated me in equal measure.

I began to notice that I could no longer recover properly on the increasingly short descents before each wall. I needed to run at my own pace and switch off from everything else, so at kilometre 26 I told Álvaro to go ahead. I went through a crisis over the next two kilometres. I stayed in the fight, but I knew that I was on the verge of losing a huge amount of time. The endless climb made it seem as though the kilometres were standing still, and I felt that the cable keeping me in the race was about to snap along with my left calf.

Little by little, I pulled myself together. A second wind hauled me out of the hole and brought me back close to the five-minute-per-kilometre barrier that would take me under 3:30 again. The sorry line of battered runners finally approached the end of the climb: a tunnel followed by a savage ramp that forced many runners to walk. My GPS briefly showed a pace slower than six minutes per kilometre. Perhaps it would have been wiser to walk for a while, but if you have read Murakami, you know that you cannot walk in this marathon. It is one of those ideas that fixes itself in your head without needing to make much logical sense.

What you might call “going through hell”

At last, the descent towards the finish began. My legs no longer had enough in them to take full advantage, but the downhill helped me maintain an acceptable aerobic effort without blowing up. The problem was that the change in gradient brought terrible pain in my heel. My whole left leg hurt, presumably because I had altered my stride to protect the foot, especially the calf that had been threatening to cramp for several kilometres. Worst of all was the heel, which felt as though something was driving into it every time it struck the ground.

What should have been a comfortable downhill road to the finish became a procession of runners walking or stretching. My legs held together, but every time I passed someone who was walking, I wanted to do the same.

I ran the final kilometres in a kind of trance. I even missed the aid station at kilometre 37, focused solely on holding on and getting there, holding on and getting there, holding on and getting there... obsessed with seeing my family and entering that stadium.

Time to greet the family

Before entering the imposing stadium, I was swept up in the crowd on a steep downhill straight, with my family waiting at the bottom. So, naturally, I gave it everything: aeroplane arms, high-fives with the children, plenty of shouting... those final 200 metres felt very hard after that effort.

The tenth

Entering the stadium is astonishing. How I enjoyed it despite the exhaustion! The first-person view of the Panathenaic Stadium as you emerge through the passageway onto the track is unforgettable. That black track, the stadium’s distinctive architecture and the history of its setting were the perfect ending to a day that was meant to celebrate my tenth marathon and instead became a challenge that, at times, felt impossible.

Once across the finish line, there was enormous joy: a kiss for the track, a reunion with Álvaro, photographs and a thousand glances around the stadium, knowing I might never return. As I left, I felt that I had experienced everything but had not seen everything inside it. Now I would like to rewind and take in every detail; emotion and exhaustion cloud the memory. I do not know whether I missed something or enjoyed it exactly as I should have.

NENIKÉKAMEN

The marathon runners and “their armada”

The 90th-percentile target was comfortably achieved. After suffering on that course, I am enormously proud of my time, 3:27:18. It may have been my best marathon, and if there were some way to weight the result for the course, the weather and my physical condition, I think only in New York did I perform better.

In the end, victory is never complete in marathons, nor is defeat absolute. The race was brutally hard and its after-effects are still in my body. Perhaps starting was not the smartest decision, but for me, running marathons has far more to do with passion than reason. Was it worth it? You tell me...

ECSTASY

Originally published in Spanish on 17 November 2014. Read the original article. English translation prepared on 11 September 2026.