Flm 2005

[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.