|
Part 1: For Those About To Rock
After weeks of tweaking, the infamous costume was finally ready. Two children’s play tunnels, two 6ft garden canes, string, gaffer tape, lashings of pink and white emulsion paint, magic marker and numerous laminated logos stuck on with carpet tape. As well as the usual gear, into the race day bag went two types of spare tape, scissors and rope. Sheathed in bin liners, the construction was squeezed into my old Astra for the night and I took to bed. My overwhelming feeling was that months and months of preparation was all boiling down to one day.
After finally getting to sleep around 1.00 am, the alarm went off at five. “Here we go!” said my brain, and the excitement began. The forty mile drive down to Redhill was uneventful, as expected at that time of day. The latest Marathon Talk podcast on the stereo kept my enthusiasm simmering, and breakfast was taken at the wheel – a box of cereal bars and a sport bottle of apple juice.
Redhill station was quiet, the air was crisp and clear, and as I saw my first few racing colours of the day, my excitement built further. The strange black-clad tube nestled largely unnoticed at the back of the platform as I chatted to fellow runners.
Once aboard the specially-extended 06:53, I carefully lashed the costume to the handrail of the standing area and found a seat. I was determined not to over-hydrate before the race – the last thing I needed today was toilet stops – but sipping water is an easy way to calm nerves, and a pint was easily consumed during the journey. By the time we reached Preston Park the train was pretty full – though not at London standards – and, having waited till last to get off the train with my awkward package, it took a good five minutes for the throng to get off the platform.
As we made our way to Preston Park on foot, the interested glances and comments began, mostly of the “sorry, but I have to ask…” variety. Once through the park gate, the early morning vista opened out to reveal the usual sea of lycra-clad bodies, stretching, stripping, pinning, drinking and queuing for the loos. I located the baggage trucks and set down my burden for its final inspection.
Removing the protective covering, I saw that a few of the logos were already a bit crumpled from the journey, notably my “Running in memory of…” on the back, and one of the Cancer Research “arrow” logos next to the head hole. I applied a bit more carpet tape and hoped they would hold out.
The next two planning failures were a little more serious. I emptied out my bag to discover that my new magic in-race carb source, the flapjack squares, had been reduced to a pile of sticky crumbs under the weight of my race kit. Fortunately I’d packed extra jelly babies, so the flapjack mush became extra breakfast and the gelatinous infants were stowed in the specially-constructed snack pocket in the front of the costume.
Next, to load the specially-constructed bottle holder, fashioned expertly from yet more gaffer tape. Except the bottle I’d brought… didn’t fit the damn holder. Schoolboy error. My used apple juice bottle fitted at a squeeze, so the water was transferred and that bottle wedged in, rather too tightly. Fortunately the hydration stations were plentiful, so this feature was really only a nice-to-have.
Next, I changed into tight-fitting lycra clothing, applied Vaseline to my personal regions, and received a phone call from Mr Tom Roper to arrange a rendezvous. Not that I’m suggesting these are normal preparations for a meeting with Tom. He duly appeared, wearing the little black number of the Seaford Striders, which of course goes with anything but on such a day might have absorbed a bit more radiation than a lighter-coloured garment. It was great to meet you Tom, always nice to put a corporeal being to the virtual personality. Words of encouragement exchanged, we went our separate ways and I headed for the loo queue.
The organisers claimed that they were adding more facilities this year, including runner-only khazis, but all I could see were snaking lines heading for banks of identical portaloos. Fortunately due to gender, and my particular needs on this occasion, my wait was limited to around 10 minutes. Next it was time to say goodbye to the kitbag, and suddenly I was all alone with only the 6 foot monstrosity for company. We strolled down towards the start pens together, then with about 10 minutes to go, there seemed no point delaying any further. Bystanders’ worst fears were realised as I slotted my head and arms into the tube, and emerged looking like something from It’s a Knockout. A couple of bemused runners helped me adjust the shoulder pads, and then I nonchalantly entered the yellow start corral.
I couldn’t remember what estimated time yellow corresponded to, but I noticed that I was behind the 5 hour pacer. When lining up for a major sporting event looking like a complete idiot, two approaches are possible: the calm, introspective, focussed look, accompanied by bounces, sips of water, checks of the watch and so on, or the “Hey everyone, Crazy Guy is here!” routine. I tend to favour the former, although it feels a little odd given how I’m dressed. So my banter was restricted to the normal start-line small talk, and it was quite easy to forget that everyone in the entire park could see me.
|
