Flm 2005

[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.