Flm 2005

[Sweder]

Alive and well despite a pretty warm day.
Full report to follow - this is just a quick 'thank you' to all the well-wishers who posted, called, texted or turned up.

[Sweder]

Taking some excellent advice from Andy I'm still digesting the events of yesterday before putting pen to paper.
But for all you stat monkeys out there here’s the tail of the tape (or in this case, chip).

FLM 2005 Run Stats (2004 times in brackets)

10K 0:56:56 (0:58:58)
20K 1:54:09 (1:58:49)
Half 2:00:18 (2:05:33)
30K 2:53:50 (3:00:26)
40K 3:53:20 (4:04:30)
Full 4:06:20 (4:18:09)

[El Gordo]

Fantastic stuff, Sweder, well done.

No hurry with the report, but will look forward to it.

[Antonio247]

Congratulations, S.! A race at a good pace with nearly the same time in the first and second half.

Well done!

[Nigel]

Excellent performance, Sweder. Many congratulations on what looks to have been a perfectly controlled race - the reward for all that hard training and preparation.

It looked like a wonderful day for running. I'm delighted that you survived the experience, and look forward to reading all about it, when you're ready.

Never say never again. Or so they say.....

[Sweder]

Running in the London Marathon is tough.
Understatement that'll bring no argument on this forum I'm sure.

Running any Marathon is tough; the training, the mental preparation, control, control, control. But London offers a unique challenge and brings a variety of obstacles and challenges that only a Big City Marathon can. Of particular note yesterday was the sheer volume of people on the circuit. Somewhere close to 33,000 eager runners lined up in Greenwich Park, each with his or her own agenda for the day. The resulting melee at the off shouldn't come as a surprise yet I was amazed that, in my group at least, no one lost their footing in the first frantic mile.

My mental preparation for London started the night before. That may seem late to some, but with the distraction of the JDRF Pasta Party to keep me fully occupied I honestly hadn't thought about the race or how I'd run it. I lay awake in my hotel room on Saturday night waiting for Messrs Lineker and Hansen to send me off to sleep, when the unthinkable happened: I nodded off before MotD had even started. I'd underestimated the amount of mindspace the JDRF function had occupied, not to mention the anxiety. I spent the evening pacing about like an anxious party-host, meeting, greeting, introducing and generally fussing like an old mother hen. This was all entirely superfluous, as Adele Claase had organised everything to perfection, but being Chairman of the Running Events committee I needed to justify my position, and did my best to upset the applecart at every turn.

The evening, a great success by all accounts, ended at around 8.30 pm when, grateful thanks distributed, I dashed off into the London night. A quick pit stop in the hotel bar for a single Guinness (medicinal purposes only; I was still mentally fizzing at this point) and so to bed.

I awoke just after 7, my first thought to reach for the curtains. Hmm. Clear skies. But the forecast had confidently predicted a 'fresh' start with cloud and rain later. I prepared my pre-race meal; granary bread, butter, banana and maple syrup, downed a coffee and set off for Greenwich.

And it's here that the logistical nightmare that is the London Marathon begins. Staying in Docklands had opened the door to a relatively trouble-free, 6 stop journey on the DLR (Dockland Light Railway) to Cutty Sark, leaving a brisk ¾ mile walk to the start. Except that, in these health & safety conscious times, the authorities felt obliged to close Cutty Sark due to crowd congestion. Hearing the announcement I bailed out at Island Gardens and took the foot tunnel to Greenwich. It fascinates me that educated, informed Marathon runners can, at times like this, resort to the herding instinct. As I left the train, heading boldly for the exit, I saw any number of runners clutching their FLM kit bags umming and arring about what to do. Around 30 dismounted and followed me, blindly trusting this total stranger. A 'don't follow me: I'm lost too' T-shirt would have been appropriate. The rest stayed on board in the apparent belief that a) Cutty Sark would be open by the time they arrived or b) the next stop would be available and closer to the park.

I emerged from the station, for the first time appreciating what a truly beautiful day this was. A few wispy white clouds trailed on the edge of a pale blue sky, the morning sun even now warming my face. This could be a hot one, I thought as I strode off towards the tunnel.

By the time I emerged alongside that famous tall ship I could have sworn the temperature had risen a couple of degrees. Small beads of sweat broke on my forehead as I marched on towards the park. Bloody hell! My mobile was going off. It was Niguel, wishing me all the best. I'm sure I detected more than a hint of envy in his voice. I appreciated his thoughtful message. Several texts from friends followed and I allowed myself a grin; I'm a lucky chap.

To the chaos of Greenwich Park, the kaleidoscope of human business, a chattering, bustling running rainbow collectively stripping off and applying vast quantities of petroleum jelly to the most vulnerable areas of their bodies. I found my designated trailer and followed suit, determined not to repeat the painful dose of Joggers' Nipple I'd suffered two weeks before.

I met up with a few JDRF runners. Tension was evident in all but a seasoned few and I marvelled at my own sense of calm. There's something about having covered the distance before that takes that edge off this moment; you know you're going to get 'round. These poor people had no idea, either of just exactly how tough it would be, or if they would fulfil their dream at all. I offered advice, mostly based on 'take it easy' and 'enjoy the day - it'll be one of the best of your life'. I'm not sure this made a jot of difference; it certainly hadn't to me two years ago as I stood, quaking on this very spot, exchanging macho bravado with SP.

to be continued

[Sweder]

To the start, and pen 6. It's here, crammed in with a sea of clucking chickens that I return to my opening theme; it's tough, this London Marathon. The organisers do their best; they ask you what time you think you're likely to finish in and assign you a starting place in one of 9 huge pens accordingly. And then the human instinct takes over and spoils it all. Why someone who has optimistically estimated a finish time of some 5 hours should suddenly decide their best option would be to start at the front I cannot say. And yet forward they swarmed, down the channels outside the pens, shoving steadily through the waiting throng to shoe-horn their quivering forms into the already-stuffed forward pens.

The result of course is a hideous first few miles as nature seeks to redress this anarchy. My own start was fairly poor. I'd stood chatting with fellow 4 hour hopefuls for 30 minutes, exchanging views on the temperature and fluid intake strategies. I'd deliberately restricted my pre-race thoughts to 'start slowly' and 'pace yourself'; nice, simple running thoughts. The expectant buzz of the crowd rose to a great roar as the pens were subverted and we shuffled forward. Yet this was not the start, only a moving up to the start line. More horse-trading on starting positions ensued, and I accepted that once again a smooth getaway was not on the cards.

I surprised myself with my headless, frantic first mile efforts. Convinced that I'd find clear road 'just ahead' I bobbed and weaved like a loon, seeking that extra yard of asphalt to allow my 'natural rhythm' to kick in. 10 minutes of this and I took a grip. Hang on, mate: bad start. I spied a gents loo ahead and elected to do something I've never done in a race before; make a pit stop. I took the 30 seconds balanced over the urinal (between a man apparently shagging a blow-up Maggie Thatcher and a rather portly Batman) to re-set the brain-box.
Right: off you go, and easy does it my lad.

Much better. I let the natural order take shape around me and knuckled down to my own, comfortable pace. The morning air, slowly heating in the unhindered sunshine, remained cool enough to be helpful for a while. I spied my first walker at mile 4, soon followed by a few more, offering myself silent applause for the decision to start over. Even at this early stage the crowds were magnificent. I'd spent most of last night telling FLM virgins that they were in for a treat but even with all that chat I'd forgotten the quality and quantity of support that London offers. By mile 6 my pace was set fair and I relaxed into my running, taking in more of my surroundings. A fabulous jazz band bade us welcome at the Gipsy Moth pub, early revellers dancing and cheering as we thundered by. An appalling pair of DJs offered inane banter in a Chas N Dave stylee from a hastily erected scaffold along Greenwich high street, obviously loving the sound of their own mockney voices.

My second glimpse of the majestic Cutty Sark - a sight you can never tire of - lifted my spirits further. Crowds ten deep cheered and whooped as our harlequin serpent slithered through the hairpin bends. We all waived at the BBC camera perched high above the scene, aware even as we did so that the chances of being picked out on telly were akin to spotting a particular grain of sand on a beach.

The party mood abated as we entered miles 7, 8 and 9. I checked myself over as I ran. All systems AOK, skipper. A little warm, not too bad; nothing a quick splash of Vittel won't sort out.

My thoughts swam ahead to the 12 mile marker and Tower Bridge. For London Virgins this is one of the sights you never forget, the sharp right-hander and then wham!, there She stands, astride the Thames. A testament to British design and engineering this stunning construction bore its endless bobbing load with grace and dignity. The crowd seemed in danger of forcing itself over the edges and into the river below, so deep were they packed on either side. I stayed left, soaking up the swelling cheers as groups of supporters recognised their runners. And then, there she was, the Maiden of Tower Bridge, robed in red fleece, microphone clutched tight, cameraman pressed indecently close behind her, seeking the next interviewee; Sally, oh Sally, let me be the one! Alas, Gunnel's gaze slipped over my shoulder and I plodded past with a wistful smile. Maybe next year.

On down the slope and into the engine room of the race; docklands. A soul-less nest of glass and steel, this rapidly developing business centre teemed with noisy life today. The River Bar, packed to the rafters, belted out 'The Only Way Is Up' as we drew alongside the elite runners heading West. This can be a most dispiriting point in the run; as mile 13 approaches for the masses, the good to middling runners are flying through mile 23, the smell of Parliament in their flared nostrils. The prospect of 10 gruelling miles only to return to this very point nurtures thoughts of vaulting the divide; but where's the glory in that?

continued

[Sweder]

On to half way, and time for a reality check. Up to this point I figured I was making reasonable time, somewhere close to 9 minute 30 miling; time to take stock. Both knees were swollen, the inevitable result of months training offroad and hammering them across concrete on this day of days. The temperature had soared in the past 2 hours with no sign of the promised cloud cover. I had a choice to make, and I made it. Calmly, rationally I considered my options as I chugged on. Half way in dead on 2 hours. A sub 4 run was within my gift, but given the likelihood of an increase in temperature, the expected deterioration of my knobbled knees and the inevitable dip in form, to go for it would be to risk blowing out short of the line. On the other hand I felt confident I could run all the way from here on in if I stayed relaxed and didn’t push too hard.

It’s funny, but in the cold light of day, discussing this in a pub or over a meal, I’m pretty sure I’d choose glory and the sub-4 effort. But out there in the very real heat of the battle I chose common sense. It wasn’t even a struggle. I knew as soon as the options had floated past my minds’ eye; I would run to the finish, come what may, and hang the time. If there was still an option at 24 miles, so be it.

Decision made I relaxed once more. At mile 14 I took my second energy gel, the first taken at mile 10 when, as planned, I felt I didn’t need it. The thing I’ve learned about energy gels is if you feel the need to take one in a race you’re too late. The idea is to maintain a level of fuel, not wait until the needle hits ‘empty’. It's the same with race hydration: if you're thirsty, it's too late. There’s no doubt I dropped my pace a fraction here, too. It’s bourne out by the third quarter stats, and I was certainly aware of it on the road. It was part of the decision at mile 13 to ensure survival, and I accepted it.

Into Docklands our human snake wove through Canary Wharf, colourful scales slipping through bright swaying fields of spectators. The noise as we doubled back through the district was deafening. A fantastic band of drummers hammered a pounding beat as we left East India Dock, my spirits lifted by the raw purity of the sound. Finally the road re-joined our earlier path and I marvelled at the brave souls just now leaving Tower Bridge in their 13th mile. Some hobbled, crippled with pain and cramp, others happily bobbled along, hotly pursued by the sweeper buses and St Johns crews.

I’d finished up my gels and personal stash of Hydro Active by mile 18, and I admit to being annoyed at not planning extra provisions. The heat demanded a regular intake of liquid and I had no option but to accept the vile orange Lucozade - 'napalm' - proffered by the wonderful volunteers. Miles 18 to 22 were hard yards indeed. My knees no longer hurt, as various other body parts had chimed in with complaints of their own, namely shoulders, arms, hips and lower back, the original source of discomfort lost in the gentle swell of bodily pain.

Around this time I started getting grumpy. The source of my gripe was the walkers; runners in need of a walk break. This in itself is no crime; I’d done plenty of walking in 2003 (in similar temperatures) and fully sympathised. However, what possible reason is there for people to walk along the blue ‘racing’ line? Somewhere in the back of my mind a voice was telling me I was being unreasonable, that these poor exhausted people probably had no idea where they were; yet still I moaned to myself. They should all be dragged aside and shot, if not severely reprimanded. . .

Dodging obstacles is a requirement of running in a big city marathon. Water bottles (empty, half empty and full) are a constant hazard, as are the slippery bladders containing the napalm – sorry, Lucozade – discarded after the drinks stations. Fallen runners are another, happily less frequent hazard, as are bollards (in the early stages) that lunge at you out of the parting throng. One fellow landed plumb on a (mostly) full waterbottle, his ankle giving way. He stumbled, recovered and, I later heard, finished with an almighty ligament rupture. The miracle of adrenalin! My own race was nearly ended in bizarre fashion. Between miles 23 and 24 the route ducks into a tunnel leading to the Embankment. Just as we entered the shadow of the tunnel mouth a very tall chap directly in front of me executed what I can only describe as an attempted silly walk (a la Monty Python). On reflection I’m sure this was intended as a sort of moving stretch to ward of cramp, but the resulting convulsion (and slowing in his running style) caused us to collide. Too tired to give forth on the folly of arseing about at this late stage I staggered on, relieved not to be picking gravel out of my face.

Through the tunnel and into the long home stretch. The roar that greets you as you regain daylight is tremendous. I’d banked on this in my strategy, knowing that I’d be all but spent by this point. Hysterical screaming laced with personal encouragement – ‘Come on Alan, almost there’ – ‘Don’t stop now, Julie, you’re going to make it’ – filled the air. I glanced up and the mighty face of Big Ben leered down at me. I dug in, fighting the fatigue that swam through my limbs. 40K, and the confirmation that sub 4 was gone. If I could manage the last mile in under 7 minutes . . . you’re away with the fairies old son! You’re doing well to keep this pace – around 11 minute miles now – never mind sprinting! My body wept sweat, my feet felt like anvils, the blood in my legs thick & heavy like molten lead. I felt temptation leering on my shoulder – take a break, mate, have a little walk; it doesn’t matter now. But the thought of throwing myself to the rabid hoards that lined the road made me shudder, and I hunkered down into fighting mode.

Past the Two Houses, through Parliament Square and at last, the Mall, the path to glory. At last that ice-cold tingle I’d been waiting for spread up my spine; I’m going to make it. From somewhere (who knows where) I felt a surge of energy. My stride lengthened and I struck for home, passing hundreds in the last half mile. An elderly runner lay wrapped in a red blanket on a pedestrian island, attended by medics. ‘It huuuuurts!’ he groaned. I smiled to myself – he’ll live, I thought, but how sad, not 500 metres from the finish, his race this day is run.

Buckingham Palace, her golden opulence gleaming in the blazing sunshine; a double right-hander into Horse Guards parade, and the mirage-like glow of the finish. Incredibly the noise levels raised yet again, the Grandstand spectators rising to greet their heroes. I glanced right, to where last year my family and friends had been, and was thrilled to see an army of JDRF supporters, clad in our blue and white shirts, rise to wave me home. I glanced at the clock – 4:13 - and ran hard for the line, grinning madly, arms spread wide, through the finish and into the arms of the marshals.

Elation. It’s hard to quantify from a standing start, but at the end of 26.2 long, hard miles I can tell you exactly what it feels like. Legs that could barely move seconds before become as light as air; the world, for the last hour a blurred vision of tear-stained colour and light, swims into crystal focus. All around you people are laughing, crying and grinning like fools.

I stood, sucking in air, once more able to appreciate the warmth of the sun on my face, drinking deeply from victory's fine vintage. Victory? Of course; to finish, in whatever time, in whatever condition, is the ultimate goal. Everyone's a winner baby, that's the truth. This moment will live within me alongside the proudest in my life. I joined the lines for chip removal, accepted my medal (with a hug for the smiling lady who placed it around my neck) and wandered lazily towards the kit bag wagons.

Life is good.

[Sweder]

Bag reclaimed, Goodie Pack well and truly raided, I set off on my next mission; the Crypt at St Martins in the Field. JDRF have used the Crypt for several years, and on days like this, hot and sweaty London streets rammed with runners and tourists jostling for pavement position, it provides a cool oasis of peace and calm.

I didn’t jog – that would have been indecent and, at this point, impossible – but I made good time. Past experience revealed that 100-plus runners into 8 masseurs don’t easily go. I was determined to claim an early spot on the treatment table.

The JDRF support team greeted me warmly with beaming smiles, cool apple juice and trays laden with sandwiches. Hugs and ‘well dones’ were exchanged. Questions: How did our Type 1 (diabetic) guys get on?
The first got home in 3:03. Disappointment is relative – he was crushed.
‘I was convinced I’d break 3 hours’ he sighed.
I tried to comfort him with tales of my own shortfall, but even to me this seemed churlish. Adele approached us. ‘Would you like a massage?’
Oh yes! I almost skipped to the back of the room.
All but one table were occupied. I grabbed my chance.
‘Hi, how’d you get on?’ beamed the lovely young lady who, it turns out, is about to administer my massage. I told her, and we agreed that it had been a scorcher and that I’d done rather well shaving 12 minutes off my previous PB.
‘Hard or soft?’ she asked, deadpan. I grinned, eyeing up her slight frame.
‘Hard as you like Madam’.
Bloody hell! Did I say slight frame? Hulk Hogan would have been proud to own hands like that. My aching muscles screamed in protest as iron pincers proceeded to pummel them.
‘How’s that?’ such a sweet, gentle voice.
‘Mmmm’ a little forced. ‘That’s peeeeerFECT!’ Voice control getting a little unsteady now. Her piece de resistance was, with me on my front, to grab my ankle, bending my foot up towards my backside whilst seemingly squeezing the contents of my calf into my knee. Had I not been below a Church I would have invoked the name of Our Lord. As it happened, my mobile started to beep, and I realised I’d not communicated with The Outside World.

This point, where one reaches out to one’s friends and family after a marathon, is like a re-entry into the real world. The run itself is like The Matrix, a surreal parallel existence not really a part of everyday life. Re-entry to the 'real world', whilst not entirely unpleasant, in many ways warming and rewarding, is at the same time a little sad. The adventure is coming to an end.

As it says on the back of my Finishers’ shirt:
Never Again . . . Until The Next Time.
It's over to you now, Andy; Hamburg awaits.

[suzieq]

Way to go Ash! I was cheering for you. And even though you had some aches and pains (part of running a marathon) your finish time was really good. You should be feeling quite proud of yourself, that's a huge accomplishment. Reading your report reminded me of running it in 2003 and kind of makes me want to do it again.

Now you can take a well-deserved rest from the long runs - for a while.

Suzie

[Sweder]

Yeah, but not too long Suzie.
I need to get back into them there hills after all that concrete . . .

I'm actually very happy with my time.
Once I took that decision at 13 miles I accepted exactly what it meant. I thought I'd regret it later, but so far I haven't stopped grinning

[Nigel]

That's a marvellous report, which really captures so much of the experience. It is hard to recount what it is like to run a marathon, to tell of the anticipation, the atmosphere, the uncertainty and shivery smiles of the start line, and the experience of the race unfolding and the tough decisions to be made along the way. And that is without even beginning to describe the backbone of the race from 30-40km, where the reality of the distance begins to hit home and you find out what the marathon has in store for you.

It was good to talk briefly yesterday morning, and your description of walking past the Cutty Sark made it all very real. I was looking out of my kitchen window, yet seeing the streets of Greenwich.

London really is such a fantastic event. You have managed to convey all of that, so thank you for sharing your day. I am sure we all enjoyed your journey, whether this was one of many marathons, or the first, as for some JDRF runners, or whether just reading this tale provides the inspiration to run a marathon, or another marathon, one day in the future.

Because if anyone wants to know, or to be reminded of what running a marathon is like, especially the London Marathon, then this report says it all.

[Bierzo Baggie]

Well done Sweder! .....did you see the Baggie Bird on your way round?

[Sweder]

I DID see our Ade, BB! Can't believe I left that out. Incredibly I passed him shortly after circumnavigating the Cheeky Girls. They might look good prancing about to crappy pop music in a studio but they looked perilously close to death at mile 14.

Mr Chiles was huffing and puffing in his affable way, looking more like a Roast Turkey than a Baggie Bird. We exchanged pleasantries (I'm a big fan of his straight-shooting style) and, in the tradition of the Great Moan U, left this supporter of a 'smaller club' in my wake.

The poor man must've been heartily sick by the finish. If I heard one 'Boing Boing' during my 2 minutes alongside him I heard 100. He's a top man in my book, and I wish him well.

[JP the Dream Chaser]

Hey Sweder my man! Well done, congrats, muy bueno, buenissimo!

I'm envious yeah, but i'm chuffed as hell for you more! Most impressive, in all departments. That's soooo good mate. Looked for you on the telly, but didn't see you.

I'll see you next year maybe? Will keep you informed of other events in which I participate and perhaps you can give me some first hand tales eh.

Cheers
JP

[El Gordo]

It's over to you now, Andy; Hamburg awaits.

Maybe Sweder, but I don't think I can follow that report very easily. A great run, crowned by a vividly memorable description of the day.

Nigel's right - London is a great marathon, though I'm strangely ambivalent about running it again. There are so many to do, and so few opportunities to do them. Perhaps I should enter the ballot each year. With a one in 5 chance of getting a place, it would be a good way of making it an occasional treat.

So, you finally reached the last step of this very long journey. You must be feeling the usual mixture of relief, glee and sadness today. I know you've had a bit of domestic 'advice' not to do any more, but I hope you'll think of pulling those marathon shoes on again sometime. In the meantime, don't forget that discussion we had a while ago about setting some other goals to keep you in shape.

We shouldn't forget about those "Down Your Way" runs that someone suggested. And maybe a half in the autumn? Antonio mused on the idea of joining us if we were planning one. And there's also the Jog Shop Jog of course.

But before I get too enthusiastic about any of those possibilities, I have my own marathon obstacle to clamber over next Sunday. If I can make it round Hamburg within 50 minutes of your time, and if I can write a report half as interesting, I'll be very pleased with myself.

Enjoy the Guinness this week. You've earned it.

[Sweder]

You must be feeling the usual mixture of relief, glee and sadness today.

As astute as ever, my friend.
I hadn't reckoned on 'Post-Marathon Blues', but they're real enough.

I got back to Brighton last night in time to join my Sunday training partners in the Fortune of War on the seafront. 6 of us had completed London, another 12 Paris the week before. Dress code was finishers shirts and medals, and the banter was frenzied and excellent. Paris sounds like a 'must do' - it's easy to get in, they have very stylish medals (if that floats your boat) and the circuit sounds delightful.

Today was odd, really. Lots of great messages including several here, yet there's this impending void that is not having a Marathon on the horizon. Happily I've entered the Seaford Half on 5th June, a lovely hilly offroad experience to warm the cockles, and I made a commitment to Sam Lambourne last night to enter the Jog Shop Jog in October (I reckon that's as good as a Marathon anyway).

As an aside I learned Sam's Marathon PB last night. I'd heard rumours that he was pretty tasty in his time, but he's always modestly avoided discussing his running history. There are those in our camp that question his methods, especially the punishing long cross country runs. They favour shorter, faster, flatter runs to improve times. They might be right.
Happily a little Guinness loosened his tongue before I left.

2:18. Not too shabby, not too shabby at all.

[El Gordo]

Well, perhaps we'll make it Paris next year then, chaps. Though it sounds like there's plenty of sweat and tears to come before that one comes around again...

2:18?

Hmm. Not too bad I suppose.....

There was a message on the RW forum recently from someone saying that their running club got a load of their members together and tried running a relay round a track - sprinting about 100 yards each I think - to try to beat Paula Radcliffe's marathon time. They got nowhere near it.

[Seafront Plodder]

As an aside I learned Sam's Marathon PB last night. I'd heard rumours that he was pretty tasty in his time, but he's always modestly avoided discussing his running history...... 2:18. Not too shabby, not too shabby at all.

Get this Sweder....Did you know Sam ran the first ever London Marathon back in 1981, and was in the lead for the first 10 miles!

Not a bad guy to have as a free coach!

[Sweder]

No I didn't, although I seem to remember saying he ran the first one in 1970 in an earlier thread . . . no wonder he was in the lead - he started 11 years early! The bugger won't talk about his running history, which is fair enough I suppose. But you're right - not a bad coach.

He has given me one top, top tip to improve my future times though.
Lose the lard.