Running a SUB-3 HOUR marathon

Posted on: 19 April 2026

2:56:54. I cracked the illusive sub-3. What a day. I’m certain there are few marathons in the UK that can top Brighton for crowd support and sheer vibes. From start to finish, a truly memorable experience that will live long in the memory.

My day started with a pleasantly quiet, short walk from my house to Burgess Hill station. I patiently awaited my train to Brighton, knowing for sure it would be heaving. Minimal Sunday service, and many runners and their supporters travelling in to the city.

Squeezed onto the train with decidedly little personal space, it was the small matter of a 14 minute journey to the seaside. Relieved to shuffle off the train as it creaked into Brighton, I made a beeline for my first toilet stop of the day. 10 minutes later, I’d met up with Francis and Will and we began our walk to Preston Park. The anticipation was palpable.

The familiarity of Brighton and the nervous energy for the event was a nice mix for me. A marathon will always feel an enormous task, but there was a comfort knowing I’d be doing it in a city I knew well.

We arrived at the park with an hour to spare, but between toilet trips, bag drop and changing, the time was soon eaten up. We didn’t feel rushed, but were was little to no time for waiting around. Soon enough, we were in the holding pen, waiting to be ushered to the start line. This whole process felt really smooth, and although there was a good 2k walk from the station to the park, once in the park, everything was quite condensed. It was a great atmosphere.

With 10 minutes to go we were let through to the start line. Very helpfully there was an entire “last chance” block of toilets directly next to the starting pen. You don’t want to take any chances with your bladder on a marathon. The three of us took up prime position a few rows from the front. We were keen to position ourselves ahead of the 3 hour group so as not to get swallowed up early on.

The gun promptly sounded and the race was away. It felt surreal to be starting so close. Last year in Manchester we were over 100m from the start line and waited over a minute to cross. This time we were away with the "big boys" and feeling great.

Almost immediately in Brighton Marathon, there is the biggest hill of the entire course. This is expertly positioned, as it (mostly) stops you going off too fast, and gets the worst hill out the way while you’re at your freshest. The hill felt almost effortless, and as soon as you crest it, you have a wonderful downhill section across the top of the park.

I’d already lost Will by 10 or so metres on the uphill, and soon lost Francis on the downhill. They had lofiter ambitions for the day so I wasn’t tempted to follow them. I still found myself cruising down the hill quicker than 4:00/km though.

I’d drilled into myself the importance of a conservative first 5-10k but it’s much harder in practise to stay disciplined. Runners were streaming past me as I tried to dial back the effort after taking the corner and heading north up Preston Road.

The second K, mostly down, was a 3:57. I then settled into an effort that felt right, gradually easing up with a 4:03 average in the next 3km. Still too fast.

The crowds in the next 5k were unbelievable. Multiple rows deep, both sides of the road, it was an electric atmosphere and a real job to keep a lid on things. But my pace was trickling up to my target pace. By the 10th KM, I hit a 4:08, registering a 40:47 10k split in Strava (in reality: 40:57, so only 1 second/km out on the GPS at this stage).

The 11th K featured the next sizeable hill of the course. This was up the bustling St James’s street. It was less busy than I’d seen on previous years, but I’ve no doubt it would increase as the streets got busier with runners.

Similarly with the first, my heart rate was the only real indication I was going uphill. Having trained on hills all year round, the hills on the Brighton Course are minimal. And with a healthy dose of adrenaline and still relatively fresh legs, they did not pose a problem. I did however see my first spike in heart rate, hitting 173 from the mid-160s I had been in.

The downhill onto Marine Parade settled my heart rate back down and I felt calm once again. The next 4km were metronomic; all 4:07s. An average pace that would see me finish under 2:54. The wind was behind us and a gentle hill posed very little threat. My heart rate in these Ks did start to creep into the high 160s though.

I felt really strong up the hills, but if my Strava-calculated GAP (grade adjusted pace) was anything to go by, perhaps I was a little hot here. However the vibes were great, the wind was proving useful, and life was good.

I distinctly remember feeling a little isolated but unwilling to make a push to the small group up ahead. Perhaps this shows a naivety when it comes to race strategy, or perhaps I made the right call. But every race is an opportunity to learn something new.

The small out and back to Ovingdean was a good break in the monotony. It was a useful opportunity to briefly check in with those ahead of me. Will and Francis at this point were expertly positioned at the back of a fairly substantial group. We exchanged a few words of encouragement.

Turning around in Ovingdean at around 17km was the first taste of the wind. Heading directly South we probably got the brunt of it in that small section. We didn’t feel it for long though, as we soon turned left for our last stretch east towards Rottingdean before the turnaround. This was quite a short, sharp hill. I remember feeling the exertion of it, but also felt like I could take it in my stride and didn’t slow too much. 3:52/km GAP pace for the 18th KM probably wasn’t the smartest.

Turning around, we were faced with the headwind properly for the first time. My first thought was, it’s not terrible. It was paired nicely with the descent of the hill we’d just climbed. Next however, was the final hill of the Brighton course. It snuck up on you.

The sea vista was sublime, but the combination of the hill and the wind noticeably slowed the pace for the first time in the race. The 20th kilometre was a 4:18, and my HR was into the 170s, close to my threshold HR.

I didn’t panic, I knew a gentle downhill back into Brighton was coming, and I could relax a little and let the pace come back to me. I passed through halfway in 1:27:01, on pace for a 2:54 marathon. I did some quick maths and worked out I could hold 4:12s for the remainder and come in under 2:55. After averaging 4:07s for the first half and still feeling good, this felt achievable.

I quickly popped it, about 15 minutes later than planned. It coincided nicely with a downhill along Marine Parade to the pier. This section was immense for crowd support. Loud and proud. I was beaming as I rounded the corner of the sea life centre and headed up Madeira Drive. I felt sufficiently topped-up again and thanked my lucky stars it was likely just a momentary dip.

It was along here I caught up with my old Brentwood friend from earlier. Looking at our splits post-race, I think he’d been just behind me for the entire stretch back to Brighton, but I wasn’t aware until he pulled along side me. This little out-and-back section I quite enjoyed. The pace was about where it should be, and the effort felt manageable. There were some great cheer squads from the various charities along here.

As we turned around and headed west again, I felt the wind. Around 27km my heart rate had made a jump into the 170s, after chilling in the high 160s until this point. In retrospect, this was probably my first red flag that this effort might not be maintainable for the remaining 15k.

The section west of the pier was very well supported, but even more exposed to the wind. I remember this point being particularly bad 6 weeks earlier at Brighton Half. It was here where the enormity of the task ahead began to make itself known. I tried to silence those thoughts and lock in to the right effort. I don't recall much of my surroundings at this point in the race, but there was some decent course entertainment here.

I found myself in a small 3-5 person group for some of this, including a Brighton Phoenix runner called Adam, who I’d started next to. It felt good to be running in sync with a couple of guys for a bit, having run the majority of the race solo so far. I was also buoyed by the thought of seeing my family and some friends from 30k.

Turning up Grand Avenue and passing the 30k timing mat I think I must’ve surged a little. I found myself running alone and allowed the crowd to sweep me along for a bit. I saw Matt Southam on the corner and he gave me a great boost. Matt and I met on the finish line in Manchester last year, brought together as mutual listeners of Running the Red Line podcast.

I knew this out-and-back section would be a drag, but I tried to put the growing fatigue in my legs to the back of my mind. Seeing my family and, shortly after, my good friend Andy Stainer, lifted my mood. But by 33km it was really starting to bite. The pace was steady, but just slightly starting to drift the wrong side of the 4:12s I needed. I was beginning to question what I was running this for.

After completing the unexplainably soul-destroying loop of Wish Park; as I made my way back onto the very well supported New Church Road I hit another big slump around 36k. Picking up a cold bottle of carbs & electrolytes and some supportive words from my family gave me a pick me up. But I could barely more than sip the sweet liquid.

Turning back onto Grand Avenue and this time right onto Kingsway was probably around the lowest point. Crowds were thin, the field was extremely stretched, and we were hit with that wind again for another 2km. I could barely muster the motivation to continue. Pace took another dive to an all time low, around 4:30/km, but it felt slower in the moment.

Seeing a lone solitary Andy on the side of the road was enough of an excuse to keep moving forward. Andy did his best to remind me there was a massive PB on the cards and to keep pushing. I told him it was a fight just to keep from stopping. But as my watch beeped 39km, something seemed to click. Maybe it was the sight of the lagoon and the turnaround point in the distance. The sweet scent of the finish line. But in that moment I got a surge of motivation to pick the pace back up. Marathons are full of surprises.

Into the wind, I doubt this resulted in much of an increase, but it was enough to stop the rot. I managed to overtake someone as I moved ever closer to the top of the lagoon and - as Sam Bacon likes to point out in his videos - Fatboy Slim’s house.

There’s a very marginal ascent back onto the prom which felt like the biggest hill of the course in that moment. But rounding the corner and feeling the wind behind me, I felt the urge to push.

It was a painful but equally wonderful feeling to have something to fight for. I couldn’t do the maths in my head, and I all but knew 2:55 was off the table, but I’ll be damned if I was going to carry on running any longer than I had to.

Thus began a gradual shift up the gears for the final 2km. It was a beautiful moment. Running past and ticking off the landmarks that I’d ran past in training and races so many times. Amazingly the section seemed to go by quite quickly in my head.

The final stretch on the wide prom is quite the spectacle. You’re funnelled fairly narrowly into the finishing straight, and with deep crowds either side to cheer you in. I had dreams of smashing my time goal and really soaking in this final stretch, easing off the gas. But honestly, I don’t know anyone who can slow down at the end of the race. The legs are into autopilot-get-to-the-finish-line mode.

I was surprised my legs still had a kick at this stage. It was a triumphant finish, as it dawned on me that I would’ve bitten your arm off for a sub-3 a year ago. And here I was, with the finish clock ticking up to 2:57, running strong in what felt like my hometown race.

Crossing the finish line, my legs abruptly stopped, and I almost toppled over as my top half continued moving forward. I managed to steady myself and momentarily bask in the accomplishment. Few things beat that feeling.

I tried to take a perch on the fence to the side but I was swiftly moved on by a St Johns ambulance man. “Trust me it’ll feel better to keep moving”. I knew he was right, and in my exhausted state I staggered forwards to accept my finishers medal.

I graciously accepted a small can of water, which I downed in a matter of seconds. I grabbed my finishers t-shirt and refused some sort of protein yogurt pouch due to it containing dairy (honestly I don’t imagine this looked appetising to anyone post-marathon). A banana or granola bar would’ve been nice, but that was disappointedly the end of the race goodies.

After briefly catching up with Will (2:54:34) and Francis (2:49:49), I hobbled back to snaffle another can of water. I was dehydrated, I could feel it. I popped one of my spare electrolyte tabs with it too.

I collapsed on Hove Lawns, no more than a few metres from the race exit. My family found me and plied me with my recovery snacks. A bagel (fail; mouth still too dry), Huel, crisps and an oat bar.

I felt pretty out of it, more so than last year at Manchester. Perhaps I’d been a little closer to my red line for a little longer this year. Four minutes quicker. A sizeable improvement on a tougher course. I wasn’t able to take in a lot about the finish area vibes. With 2 over-stimulated kids and an expiring car ticket, I was soon back on my feet, this time in a comfy pair of crocs.

Brighton Marathon 2026. 14 years after running it originally. My race was run. There were a few small lessons to take into the next race, but on that day, with the conditions we were dealt, I’m very proud of my race. 2:56:54. And I have plenty of unfinished business with the marathon.