Flm 2005

[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?

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