Barcelona Marathon: Race Recap and Battling Post-Marathon Blues

Barcelona. A city of art, history, and electric energy. And on marathon weekend, all of that came alive. The Zurich Marató de Barcelona promised a stunning course past some of the city's most famous landmarks, and it absolutely delivered. From the perfectly crisp and sunny race weather, an impeccably organized expo, race day transportation and start corral line-up - Barcelona deserves 100/10. I learned however, that even the most perfect race conditions can’t guarantee individual success.  

The Start: Pure Adrenaline

Start line energy was electrifying!

Standing in the start line, I had never felt better. I had slept like a baby in my sound proof room at Twentytu Hostel Barcelona. My legs were buzzing, my heart pounding—not from nerves, but from excitement. The Sagrada Familia, towering above us 27,000 runners in the early morning light, set the stage for something special. I tried to tell myself to stay calm, to hold back. But the roar of the crowds, the pulse of my playlist, and the sheer joy of being there made it impossible.  I had been hit with a nasty bout of norovirus just days before, yet somehow, my body felt stronger than ever. My Garmin Forerunner watch had been uncharacteristically nice the past few weeks, hyping me with "Productive" and "Peaking" status updates, even throwing out a marathon prediction 15 minutes faster than my PR. I knew that was a stretch, but I felt confident—strong, fast, and ready.

The First Half: Barcelona at Its Best

The first 21K was a dream. The course was mostly flat or even slightly downhill. Every kilometer was lined with cheering spectators, music and gothic charm architecture. Barcelona was putting on a show, and I was soaking it all in. The first half of the course had quite a few zig zags up and down and through the city center. There were points where I was starting to feel like I had been running the same street back and forth over and over multiple times, but the energy was so high I didn’t yet mind that I felt slightly trapped in the matrix. My legs were moving. I felt like I was flying. Dreamily floating, effortlessly through Barcelona’s wide city boulevards. Heading toward the waterfront, however, the sharp pain I had felt in my right big toe around kilometer 15 and decided to ignore up until now started to rear its ugly head. I had been compensating my running form for my stupid toenail that I had cut too short and now my calf was aching - way too early on in the game. Happily screaming to myself “they’re just effing toenails” seemed to work up until this point - but now the pain was starting to creep in. 

The Turning Point: Pain Cave Begins

The beautiful shake out run views I was regretting.

By the halfway mark, I was perfectly still positioned for my sub-3:40 goal with even a significant buffer. But then, cracks started to form.  My calves had been steadily stiffening every kilometer since the 21K. By 25K - They felt like rocks, by 30k they were boulders. I had been fueling carefully, but suddenly, I started second-guessing everything. Had I eaten enough? Had I miscalculated my carbs? Did I walk too much yesterday at the expo? Was the shake out run through Parc Ciutadella too late in the evening? I should have finished my toast for breakfast. 

The Final 10K: A Wall Like No Other

“Shoulda coulda woulda” is probably the most toxic mental game to play at this point in the race. I tried to push negative thoughts away, but they were getting louder.  The thoughts began manifesting themselves physically. The pace that had felt effortless earlier now felt impossible to hold. Every step became a fight. I stopped to stretch. I walked through water stations. The magic of Barcelona’s streets faded into the background as all I could focus on was survival. I was still moving, but my pace had slipped into the 6s, and at that point, I didn’t care. I just wanted it to be over.  

Picturesque finish line

But quitting was never an option. I had come too far. Seeing that I had about 1 minute left on my watch at the 42K mark to make it to the finish in under my goal time - I sprinted with everything I had in me, though that sprint was still even slower than the pace I broke out of the start corrals with so effortlessly. Every stride felt like my muscles were tearing. As if I were to look down and find mangled, bloody legs stripped of any function. Crossing the blue carpet finish line under the infamous Arc de Trimof  - I wasn’t happy with myself. I knew my watch read 3:40 and some change. I didn’t make it. Even worse, I missed it by the slightest margin. I was so relieved to be done - but at the same time horrendously disappointed in myself. All that training, all the pain I just put myself through, and to fall short. If I didn’t stop to stretch there… if I could have tried harder for just 20 measly seconds. Then certainly I could have clenched that PR.

Reflections: Post Race Blues

The marathon is a twisted beast. One minute you’re on cloud nine. On the highest endorphin high of you could ever imagine possible. You love running. You think you might be able to qualify for the Olympics. You’re the best runner out there! Then it all changes on the drop of a dime. You hit the wall. Your body starts screaming in pain. Begging for relief. The negative self talk creeps in. You hate running. You question your sanity, life choices and definition of fun. Never again you think to yourself.

But there will be another. If anything, this disappointment just made me hungrier for the next one. It wasn't difficult the next following weeks though to slip into a bit of a depressive slump. How frustrating to have worked so hard towards something and have it not come to fruition. How even more aggravating when you only have yourself to blame. And honestly with this race more than any other. I’m not exaggerating when I say that this Barcelona Marathon was the course, weather and energy of my dreams. I tossed and turned in bed the following nights thinking how I had just wasted the most perfect conditions. I started out too fast. I spent too much time on my feet the day before. I hadn’t eaten enough that morning. Silly stupid mistakes that I kept beating myself up over.

I easily diagnosed myself with Post-Marathon Blues - which turns out is very real phenomenon and quite common amongst distance runners. Basically Post-Marathon Blues, or Post-Race Blues, is an emotional dip runners may experience after completing a big race, often due to the loss of a goal, physical fatigue, and hormonal changes. Even after a successful race, runner's have been found to have mixed feelings about their accomplishment. The real kicker of the Post-Race Blues for me, however, was that I couldn't distract myself with all the typical things that usually cheer me up - aka, running, sports, moving my body - I was physically broken, not just mentally drained - though the brain fog was definitely there too. Rather, I felt I had no concept of what type of normal life I could return to outside of training. I didn’t realize how much my happiness revolved around my morning run clubs, weekend cycling, or weekly gym sessions.

So instead, I wrote a lot of sad poetry that week - I’d never written a poem in my adult life. I started making a ridiculous plan to circumnavigate the earth by means of running - only one other woman had done it and it took her several years. I made a calendar of potential upcoming races to try to give my brain something else to look forward to. I got a sports massage where the therapist kept telling me “Eso no es saludable”  (that’s not healthy) when kneading out my knotted calves and quads. I tried some yoga - which consisted mostly of a lot of savasana. None of it made me feel better.

I didn’t know how to answer when people asked me how the race went. I was embarrassed to admit that I didn’t meet my goal after how confident I was, but felt even more frustrated when people told me I should be really proud of my time and accomplishment. I wasn’t. So I didn’t want to talk about it. 

But as time went gone by, the freshness of it has started to fade. I can finally look back at race day and remember the glory and bliss I felt at those first 20-some kilometers and hold that feeling in my heart as motivation for the next one. That feeling is what I will keep chasing and craving. That absolute joy and magic make the post run blues worth it. Running a marathon is effing hard. I need to stop thinking to myself that each time it’s going to get easier and that each race needs to be an improvement from the last one. The process must be enjoyed and celebrated as equally as the finish line.

This photo helped me remember the joys of marathon day again :)

I don’t know if there’s one particular thing that made me snap out of my blues, but all the little words of encouragement from friends, having time to invest in other non-running activities, and planning potential new race opportunities all added up over time. I’ve started to reframe running as something that works for me again, instead of something that I am a slave to. Running brings me community, mental clarity, a unique way to travel, endorphins, joy - I don’t always have to bring running my best. It can simply just be for fun. I have also since abandoned my plan of running the circumference of the planet (for now).

The Barcelona Marathon was a harsh reminder of just how unpredictable marathons can be. Even with the perfect start, an injury free training cycle and a pristine course - anything can happen in those last brutal kilometers.  Did I smash my PR? No. Did I run the race I envisioned? Also, no. But I fought through it, I soaked in the magic of Barcelona, and I crossed that finish line. And sometimes, that’s enough.  

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. I want my revenge.