I drove down to Brighton with the kids on Saturday afternoon, Mrs MD taking a well-earned afternoon off in London. It seemed to be the first hot Saturday of the year, and the town was busy -- what must it be like in high summer?
After queuing for 15 minutes we got a parking space on level 10 of the NCP, only to discover (with buggy, suitcase, bags, kids and no spare adult) that the lifts were out of order. Naomi twice locked herself in the hotel room. At bedtime, Emma seemed to think that her cot was on fire, judging by her reaction when I put her in it. So my final race preparation was an hour or so singing nursery rhymes in a darkened room, before a cup of tea in the corridor with the missus, who'd now arrived, and then to bed.
I had the usual surreal feeling of facing a marathon not having done a proper long run for three weeks, multiplied many times of course by the fancy dress factor. And would my my policy of not training in the costume, but just running 10 miles in heavy clothing and ski mask to establish that it was possible, lead to disaster?
With the kids splashing in the sea in their underwear on Saturday, it wasn't looking like ideal marathon weather, and as the sun rose in a cloudless Sunday sky, the prospects were no better. I shared a taxi up to Preston Park with some other runners, arriving around 8.00. The toilet queues were growing ridiculous, despite what looked like a decent number of traps in place, so after dropping my baggage a joined a queue, monkey mask in hand, at about 8.20. The atmosphere was building as more and more runners flowed into the field; the radio announcer was doing his stuff, there was a warmup going on, and with the sun not quite yet over the trees it was a lovely fresh morning. I finally made it to the finish -- of the loo queue -- at 8.55, five minutes before the start. It seems the organizers had under-estimated the number of facilities required.
Emerging from the plastic cubicle, it was transformation time. On with the mask and hairy gloves, and I jogged down to the start. As I hoped, the mask didn't feel too bad, and of course the looks, smiles, comments and waves were already starting. I dropped back from my allocated place in the 4 hour pen to somewhere around the 5 hour pen -- as noted by Tom, it was hard to find the entrances -- and lined up among the throng.
It's fair to say I felt self-conscious, but of course no-one could see my face. Inside, I had no idea how this was going to go. Running a marathon is crazy and risky enough -- running in a full head mask and two layers of clothing was beginning to feel insane. But how great that I could hide these feelings away inside a mask, and just wave to curious children, dance along to the warmup music, or do whatever I felt like. I don't know where to start on the psychological reasons behind that.
I somehow missed the announcement that the start was delayed due to moving an illegally parked car. I assumed it was down to the loo queues, which were still in place after the appointed start time. But some 15-20 minutes later there was an indistinct countdown, and then Steve Ovett said something unclear, and then a long way away some people started running, and so we were off.
I settled into an easy jog, enjoying the benefits of a successful training programme and feeling relaxed and comfortable. My target was around 11 minute miles, for a sub-5 finish. I somehow missed the first mile marker -- actually this happens quite often, in the excitement of the start -- and I got a good feeling of being in control when I was able to deduce this fact just from looking at my watch. At the two mile mark I found I was already two minutes ahead of schedule. While this was good to know, I also knew that control was the name of the game today, and that aiming for anything much faster than my plan would almost certainly lead to disaster. So I slowed to 4/4 breathing -- one breath per four steps on both the in and out -- which I'd tried in training, with success.
The first five miles wound through urban shopping streets. The crowd was lovely and enthusiastic, there were some great bands playing (and just people hitting things), all of which I love. I was reminded of the atmosphere of the Reading Half, when I ran it back in 2005. The virtuous circle of the runners and supporters is one thing that makes these mass participation events great. I think people were out there because they wanted to be, not because they felt any moral obligation. Being one of the runners is just one of the parts to play in these huge festivals.
I was getting great shouts from the crowd, young and old, parents pointing out the gorilla to their kids, people calling down from balconies. I was still feeling very comfortable; I think at this early stage, even if you're an experienced marathoner, you either have no concept of, or are in denial about, what the end phase is going to be like. At this point you're just out for a nice Sunday jog, and there happen to be lots of nice people around cheering you on.
We soon made it down to the seafront for the first time, and caught sight of the line of runners stretching out to the east. There have been negative comments about the layout of the course, which relentlessly doubles back and forth along the front, but you do get some great views of the field, of what is to come, and just how many fellow runners are out there labouring away.
The uplifting support continued, not just from the crowd but from other runners. Many would give me a "well done mate", a pat on the back, or a "couldn't do what you're doing" as they passed me. Unsurprisingly, "you must be hot in there" was a popular comment as well. However, I didn't really feel all that hot. It was certainly easier than the ski mask / wooly hat combo I'd tried during training, and I was so sweaty that even the slightest breeze through the eye holes had quite a cooling effect. Most unpleasant actually were the 100% unbreathable gloves, in which cold sweat was pooling in the fingertips and was released down my hands every time I waved to the crowd.
I had a few longer chats with fellow runners as well. One chap had previously had a steel rod in his back, which was now removed but his vertebrae were fused. He seemed in good shape, and I asked him how it affected his running. He said if anything it helped, because he was forced into an upright posture, and that he was running the marathon to show that it could be done after such an injury. I don't think I fully appreciated his effort at the time.
As we header further east I fell in with a chap called Sean (seen in SP's photo), running for Contact A Family in his first marathon, and we talked about this and that for the best part of an hour. He commented that he'd stick with me because I was getting so many cheers, and to be honest I was getting used to the minor celebrity status.
With Roedean school looming, grumblings were starting among the runners about the hills. This was typified by two girls running for Gofal Cymru: "They said it was gonna be flat -- bullshit, isn't it? No problem for us though, mind, we been training in the vaaalleys, see?" I'm not exaggerating the racial stereotype -- Ruth Madoc as I live and breathe.
I was running under the assumed name of "Gus" -- which the crowd seemed to appreciate -- but suddenly while chatting I had the bizarre experience of someone calling out my real name. I looked up and there was the smiling Seafront Plodder, camera in hand. Great to see you, mate.
Past Roedean, we wound inland and up more gradient towards Ovingdean. It felt nice to be in leafy countryside again for a while, and there was some shade. There was also a great support station at the school at the top of the hill, where I somehow managed to miss Sweder, although I gather he saw me. I think I'd assumed he had been with SP and so that I'd already missed him.
As we turned and made our way back down to the seafront, we could see pretty much the whole of the second half of the course laid out before us. We were still chatting comfortably; I wasn't paying much attention to the watch, mainly because in order to read it I had to brush fur away from my wrist and hold my arm right up in front of my face. But when I did check around halfway, I was about 10 minute ahead of schedule, meaning I'd been running almost a minute per mile too fast. But I was comfortable and happy and didn't care too much.
Sean mentioned that he'd seen a guy running barefoot, and I recounted some of our forum debates about cushioned shoes and heel-strike and so on. But a road marathon, barefoot? His feet must be in ribbons. Apparently this man's "if I had a pound for every time…" phrase was "you haven't got any shoes on!" to which the obvious rejoinder was "damn, knew I forgot something this morning!"
I think miles 10-15 are the overconfident miles. If you've trained well, everything is going swimmingly; this distance is well within your capabilities, you're tempted to keep pushing on at a decent pace, and despite being over the halfway mark you have little idea of the horrors that are in store during the last hour. Even if this isn't your first marathon, the chances are you'll have blocked out the worst feelings from your memory.
We were now heading back towards town, with the two piers still looking disturbingly far off, and the power station a mere speck in the distance. I'd looked at the course map, but wasn't sure if we had to go all the way out to there or not. I gave SP another wave from the other side of the road, and we ploughed on.
By 15 miles or so I was starting to struggle, and I lost Sean at a water stop. I was carrying a wide-mouthed sports bottle, and at each water station I was stopping and getting a fill up from the staff. It was a system that worked well, provided a welcome few minutes rest, and I received plenty of encouragement from the volunteers.
I managed to reel Sean in, but lost him for good at the next water stop. Around this point I started a walk break of around 2 mins at the start of each mile, as I was just struggling to keep going. I put this down to the heat, and despite my previous comments about the thin-ness of the gorilla suit body, don't think the effects of wearing effectively a tracksuit plus t-shirt, when a technical vest would have been more appropriate, should be underestimated.
We were now on the inland double-back before the power station stretch, and as we neared the turning point I spotted Sean in the distance and he kindly crossed the field for a high five. It was good to know that I'd only dropped about a minute, and also that the hairpin was close. Rounding the apex, I chugged back and we made our way back towards the seafront, but then depressingly we turned right, away from the finish and towards the grim-looking power station looming in the distance.
This stretch is the equivalent of the Isle of Dogs in the London marathon -- a bleak, sparsely supported stretch, where the dark night of the soul begins. I still wasn't sure whether we were going all the way to the power station, but as the miles dragged on it was starting to look more likely. There was a lot of encouragement being called back and forth between the two strands of counter-flowing runners; I saw the barefoot guy, looking in good shape and gave him a shout, and I made to grab the fancy dress banana as he ran past, also making excellent progress. I was craning my neck for Sean, as sight of him would mean that I was near the turning point, but I suspect in the end I missed him around the power station itself.
Part of my loss of energy was probably due to lack of carbs. I only got through about half of my planned gel / jelly baby hit every half an hour. I was in a vicious circle where the worse I felt, the harder it was to force anything down… which of course resulted in me feeling worse still. I think I've had it with the Squeezy gels; they got me through two London marathons but this time they just seemed disgusting. And even the poor ickle jelly babies got short shrift. Definitely something to think about for next time.
And so I finally made it to the dark satanic power station. The back side of it was eerily quiet, in shade, and my walk breaks were getting longer as I just struggled to find the energy to put one foot in front of another. But eventually we emerged into the sunshine, back onto the seafront road, to find a great group of supporters had gathered on the bend. I was walking at this point, but got several good shouts from the crowd and stepped up to a shuffling run. This in turn brought a great cheer from the spectators, which carried along with me in pockets for some distance. Absolutely fantastic, and just what I needed.
So I plodded along, a walk break every mile, my running style barely worthy of the name, soles remaining parallel to the ground, arms tucked in and chin on my chest, in a pose as close to foetal as is possible while remaining upright. I fell in with a chap running in a comedy Scotsman outfit -- orange wig, kilt, etc, and together we scanned the distance for the 22 mile marker, with the two piers still looking horribly far away. Somehow I left him behind -- it's hard to imagine anyone was moving slower than me at that point -- and I checked the watch for the first time in ages. Four hours had just come up, with now only three miles to go, so there was no pressure. Even if I walked the rest, I'd be comfortably clearing my target of 5 hours. That thought helped a lot -- I knew now that I could walk whenever I needed to, although I still wanted to keeping running for as long as I could.
As I took what would be my penultimate walk break, I was looking ahead for a landmark to kick-start my running. The Gofal Cymru girls overtook me, and then what better inspiration but Al Fresco, scene of many RC rehydration sessions. Thoughts of pizza and cold beer spurred me on, and I stepped up to a trot once more.
Now I was running in front of a row of beach huts, and could sense the atmosphere of the finish approaching. The crowd was still relatively sparse, but we were running freely along the prom with no barriers and it felt lovely to be among the hut-dwellers and to soak up their applause.
One more walk break, and the end was getting close. The family just managed to catch my attention around mile 25, and I managed to get across for high fives. Then the familiar, desperate scanning for the finish began. The "800m to go" mark came sooner than expected, and at this point the film of the race seems to speed up: the hours of preamble and scene-setting, the long and drawn-out tragedy scene, not to mention the months of backstory, all condensing into a few minutes of high-colour climax in which it's impossible to take everything in.
And then who should appear at my shoulder but the Scotsman, saying "I'm sticking with you, mate". As we counted down the metres, we accelerated slightly and with less than 50m to go my left calf muscle almost popped out of my leg. A couple of hops and a slight retraction of foot from the gas and it recovered, and suddenly we were over the line and the story was finished. After hugs with the Scotsman, I just about found enough energy to pull off the mask, and suddenly I was a human again.
The exit didn't seem particularly well organised, but that might just be down to the local topology. I arranged to meet the family back at the pier, but didn't fancy a walk back along the pebbled beach (and didn't even know if it was possible to get out that way). So I walked at least half a mile, initially further away from the pier, and up the huge staircase (for which there was a five minute queue) to the top of the prom. On the stairs I met the back-rod man, who was about to cycle home to Preston Park and look after his kids for the afternoon. Amazing.
I was feeling pretty good, better than after my previous marathons. I walked back to the pier as briskly as I could, enjoying my new-found anonymity, and met up with my wife and kids down on the beach. Tempting as a dip in the sea was, both for me and the kids, everyone was hot and the crowds were oppressive and so we decided to make a break for it. It was another half mile or so back to the car park, but once we'd cleared the city limits, and with Gatwick and Heathrow still closed, we had a clear run home. We stopped off at the local noodle bar for bowlfuls of steaming carbohydrate and salt. Again, this recovery was in contrast to previous marathons, where I've been unable to eat for several hours. I even forced down a (cold, gassy) beer, which is unheard of.
So, that was it. A fabulous experience, mainly down to the crowd reaction, which was supportive to the point of embarrassment at times (but I'd be lying if I said I didn't love it). This was the great challenge that was meant to push me to the limit and take me into uncharted territory. I guess it did that: I was pretty near rock bottom during the last hour, and frankly at the start I had no idea how it was going to go. Those who've been following the story will know how much I fretted about whether to take the risk. It seems that good planning and a bit of blood and guts won out in the end. Of course I can't take that as a lesson that all challenges are surmountable, but it's got to be a good source of inspiration to keep in my back pocket for the future.
And next year? The sponsorship total is well over £1600, which I'm delighted with, so I see no reason not to carry on as long I can convince people to sponsor me. And unfortunately for all concerned, the only way I can think of to do that is to up the fancy dress stakes once again...
I'll leave you with my list of top shouts from the crowd:
1. There goes the Mother-in-law.
2. There are bananas at the finish. (a true statement)
3. Comb your hair next time.
4. Have a shave when you finish.
5. Attractive young women screaming "GUS, oh my GOD!" (in a good way, I think -- this really happened at least twice, and wasn't just a fantasy to keep me going)
6. Stop monkeying about.
7. You're an animal.
8. Oooh oooh oooh.
Photos lifted from around the web (including SP -- thanks).
Gun time: 4:57:47
Chip time: 4:46:29
Half split: 2:13:16
A Gorilla In Our Midst 
