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Part 3 – Rock Around The Clock
At last we reached the seafront and began the long pull out towards Rottingdean. We soon encountered the first wave of gazelles, already on their way back. As well as bloody fast, they looked pretty warm. I, on the other hand, wasn’t feeling the sun, tucked away in my portable tent. But what was becoming evident was the wind. There was a light north-easterly breeze coming off the land, jamming the left pole against my forehead. This wasn’t too much of a problem in itself, but it meant that the costume was repeatedly slipping off my right shoulder, and the shoulder pad on that side needed constant attention. This was a pretty frustrating section for me.
Time-wise there was little point aiming for my hopeful time of 4:30, having already lost at least 5 minutes in stops, but I remembered that 11 minute miling equated to last year’s target of 4:50. With each passing mile stop I was able to do a quick calculation and see that I was gradually catching up with that rate of progress.
As we turned inland and slightly uphill towards Ovingdean, the wind was closer to head-on, which was surprisingly beneficial. My head was now pushed into the face hole, keeping the whole thing much more stable. This was probably the most enjoyable part of the course so far. However, the headwind was a little draining, and I allowed myself a small walk break as we approached the top of the hill. Then came the welcome relief of the top of the hill, and a pleasant coast down through the school to cheers from the crowds, and the knowledge that we were almost ready to turn back towards the town.
The eastmost point of the course rounded, we headed back towards Brighton along what I remember as being an enjoyable stretch this year. The slight downhill gives a good vantage point along the field ahead for a couple of miles, although the pier is disturbingly distant and the Portslade power station a mere speck. This time around though, it was a less than pleasant section. The wind was now behind me, normally a good thing, but in my case the costume was pushed forwards and over my face. Awkward arm effort had to be employed here to keep the thing upright. Plus the evil shoulder pads were no better, and I pulled over to the side a number of times to sort them out. Fellow runners stopped a couple of times to check that I was OK, which was touching. Along here I also saw the gorilla again – still walking, and looking glummer than ever.
We approached the half way point, returning to the town environment with its associated crowds. Down below was the finish at Madeira Drive, only a matter of yards away but inconceivably distant in running terms. But we were half way, and just starting to get into the serious part of the race. Suddenly I felt the familiar sensation in my chest area followed by a clatter on the road, and possessions scattered once more. How many times can a plastic bag split? I gathered up my things and retired to the kerb. I tried to work the gaffer tape again but it was dirty and losing its tack in the heat. The game was up as far as the snack pack was concerned. I scoffed the last of the Stillwaddlers’ jelly babies, chucked the badly-fitting water bottle into the kerb, and slipped the vaseline and phone into the crappy bottle holder. But that was no good: the phone wasn’t secure and down at my hip I wouldn’t notice if it fell out. So the pot of vaseline also had to go into the gutter – whether that’s a common find in the streets of Brighton I don’t know – and to add to my discomfort, I would be grasping my phone in my sweaty palm for the next 13 miles.
Heading for the heartland of the crowd now, I saw the JDRF banners up ahead and scanned the team’s faces for the redoubtable Sweder. I don’t know if he’d primed them, but I got an almighty cheer as I passed. I actually failed to pick out the big guy among his colleagues, but I could easily identify the now well-documented stentorian roar – all the encouragement I needed.
And so we ground out the miles into the high teens. It was nice to have some familiarity with the course and take stock of progress. Around 18 or 19 miles I started to struggle – this is approaching the limit of training distances, and hence uncharted territory, at least since last year’s race. For me, the most notable feature of the marathon is the soul-searching of the last 6 miles: that last hour asks tough questions of us, and the reply that we drag up from the depths of our being is what it’s all about. But I was starting to feel that I didn’t have much reply to offer today, or at least I didn’t feel the need to give it my all. I think the hassle with the costume had somewhat drained my will to compete, and too many times during the last hour I gave in to the temptation to walk.
Ah, just typing that has depressed me. So let’s fast-forward through miles 19-23, ticking off the art installation known as “The Wall” (which I had to duck under), the smelly docks, the ever-miserable power station, the final rounding of the westernmost point, “The Wall” again (which this time I skirted around), and finally the sights of Brighton in the distance for the last time.
Along with my body and my willpower, the costume was also gradually degrading. One by one, the fixing strings on the bamboo canes were snapping, and by the time I was heading east for the last time, each pole was only held on by a single string, meaning they were free to flap about inside the tube, whack me in the face, and provide considerably less rigidity than intended. The roll of gaffer tape was all over the shop inside the costume and I was getting fed up of it digging me in the ribs, so it too went into a litter bin. I took stock of the shoulder pads and discovered the right one had gone completely – oh well, less than an hour to go, a bit of chafing won’t matter.
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