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London Marathon 2003
............................Into the 20's then, and hopefully down hill all the way . . .
. . . well, not quite. Despite my recovery from the Wall effect (my glycogen reserves had run out basically) my legs were suffering now. I felt inflammation building behind both knees, both calves were moaning constantly (although my previously damaged right calf no more so than the apparently fine left) and my lower back was chipping in to the general chorus of complaint.
I elected to take a couple of walk breaks, just before we again reached Tower Bridge, and as we entered the Embankment. Despite being extremely painful when I started jogging again ('running' would be an exaggeration) I think this was a wise move. By the time Westminster Bridge hove into view I was convinced I would finish, if not in lung-bursting style, at least on my own two feet.
The crowds were again superb, and instrumental in getting us home. Like many runners I had my name marked clearly on my shirt, and the sound of hundreds of strangers calling for you to keep going was inspirational. You daren't stop at this point - you'd probably get lynched!
In those final few miles I passed 3 Elvis Presleys (one with a guitar, one with a CD player belting out the Kings' tunes), 2 Mister Men and a Rhino. Into the Mall and the last mile. All I could think of was this was a lot shorter than most of my mid week warms up runs, so stop whining and get on with it! Past Buckingham Palace and into the last corner . . . and there was the finish line.
What a sight - large yellow numbers ticking over, crowds on both sides applauding, photographers snapping the finishers, most of whom had arms thrust aloft and heads thrown back in personal triumph. I was no exception. My family was there, just off to the right, but I didn't see them. Through the archway and almost into the arms of the marshals, and there was an official offering me my medal. 'Well done mate' she said. 'Its all over, well done'.
I could have wept. Many did weep, others slumped to the ground, exhausted, whimpering in the dust.
I ambled forward in a trance as another official removed my timing chip from my laces and another thrust a bag of goodies into my hand. I kept shuffling and realised that I had the most ridiculous grin spread across my face. I stopped grinning and located my kit bag, and there was Humphrey Waters - Humph - JDRF team captain, stretching for all he was worth against the railing.
'Well done old boy' he said. 'Have a couple of these and for Gods' sake, stretch your bloody legs'. He handed me a bottle of Nurofen and grinned in a slightly mad fashion. 'Bloody great wasn't it'. Too right, Humph, too right.
As I forced my battered limbs to stretch I glanced down at a woman beside me.
Clutching her mobile to her ear, she was sobbing uncontrollably. I thought how moving this was, to be so affected by the occasion. Then I read her T-shirt.
It showed a photograph of a young boy (about 3 years old) and read
'In Memory Of Chris - Lost to Cancer'.
Most people will tell you that humility is not my strong suit, but I can honestly say I felt humble just then.
Afterward
I took my gear and contacted Shayne by 'phone. We met up in the repatriation area near Admiralty Arch where hugs and kisses were exchanged all round. Tim and Andy and my good mate Robin all arrived and plaudits were offered and accepted.
A brief visit to the JDRF recovery venue at the Crypt in St Martins in the Field - where the JDRF support team of Adele Claase and Jon Henderson were doing sterling work, aided by a small army of masseurs, and it was on to O'Neils for pint of the black stuff.
And so now the question - would you go through that again?
Too right mate, too right!
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