Today I ran the London Marathon, finishing in 5 hours 51 minutes. If I’d been serious about trying to finish in five hours, I might feel quite disappointed by this, but this was only ever a vague hope; the primary aim all along has just been to finish the race in one piece, and that was achieved.
It was another crack-of-dawn start, like yesterday (Saturday), when I had to get over to Docklands to register. I’d first tried on Friday afternoon, but despite booking a half day off work to increase the chances of getting over there in time, a combination of traffic, train timetables and inertia conspired to prevent it.
The second attempt succeeded. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with being awake at 05:45 on a Saturday morning if you’ve not been to bed, but to wake and to get up at that time is perverse and deeply unenjoyable. But duty – or was it paranoia? – forced the hand of my alarm clock, and it meant I was able to reach White City tube, park and get over to Docklands by about 9am.
Registration was slick and amiable. Apart from collecting my race number, I had one aim at the expo: hunt down a blue and white hooped running shirt. Nope. Not to be found here. Chomped disconsolately on a few freebie muesli bars instead, and chatted with the Chicago Marathon dude. Also spent a few minutes listening to someone (Bruce Tulloh?) reciting the usual dos and don’ts of newbie marathon running. I learnt nothing new, which I found strangely reassuring. Before I left I paid £14 for a 15 minute back massage. Money very well spent. The hassle and expense of getting to this godforsaken place seemed justified after all.
Today I was up at 05:45 again. Despite being dog-tired when I got back from London last night after the QPR-Brentford match, I’d had the sense to get ready for this morning. Everything was packed or laid out, ready and waiting, including step-by-step instructions about what to do in what order. I knew I’d be too brain-fogged to remember all the details at that time of day. M was able to come with me after all – a great boost.
I felt uncharacteristically like a shiny happy person this morning, and blended in with the other shiny happy people on the tubes to Charing Cross. We were easily identified by our regulation-issue marathon kitbags and chunky, synthetic rubber footwear. I wondered what a newly-arrived tourist would make of all of this. “Howdie Mom, Arrived London safely. Everyone wears sneakers here, and carries their belongings in the same plastic bags. It’s kinda weird. Everyone is much thinner than at home. Look kinda unhealthy to me. No sign of those mad cows yet, praise the Lord. God bless President Bush. Missing you already, love from Travis”.
Advice for first time London Marathoners: use Charing Cross station to get to the start. The stations further down the line were full of stressed-out marathoners who couldn’t find room on the train.
Got to the Blue Start at Blackheath in plenty of time. Sat on the church wall to make last minute decisions about how many power gels to cram into my pockets (only three.) I was nervous, but there was more excitement than fear in there. Threw kitbag on truck with a despairing sense of finality and went to join the throng. A crackle of fireworks, a huge roar, and we were off.
First mile or two I tried to remember all the Ozzie Gontang stuff about relaxing back and shoulders, and ‘gliding’. I tried remembering to land on my heels and roll forward. I tried remembering to aim for a minute over pace for the first three miles. This meant aiming for 12:30 miles but I ended up with: 11:37, 11:41 and 11:58. No big deal. It just emphasised how hard it is to judge pace accurately. I remembered that most first marathon advice urges you to enjoy the opening stretch of the race, and not to be too fearful about the scale of it all.
What I didn’t know and hadn’t been told, is that the marathon hands you the experience of a meta-existence. You are no longer of this world, but part of a temporary parallel flow in which you seem to experience an entire lifetime in a few hours. From being part of that great blancmange of foetal humanity on Blackheath, you start the race feeling so clean and fresh and new-born and expectant and determined and good, before quickly discovering a kind of wide-eyed, mischievous childhood. Then comes a grumpy adolescence as the miles start to hit. It’s a kind of mild defiance, or resentment. Then a more determined, serious frame of mind, a conscious sense of digging in, as you begin to see what is opening up ahead of you. It’s the great rump of the race – the extended, predictable, aimless, steady plod of adulthood and middle-age between miles 8 to 17. Six, seven, eight miles to go and you have entered a kind of weakened, wizened, agedness. Susceptible to injury and sickness. Fragile, in pain, gloomy, resigned. Semi-gaga. Then with a mile or two left, a sudden and unexpected fillip. The realisation that you are going to get through this after all. The knowledge that you are achieving something unusual and special. The physical discomfort is greater than ever but strangely, it’s more bearable now. Nothing matters anymore, it’s all over and everything is OK and you can start to become normal again, though I’m not at all certain you’ll ever be quite the same.
The sun was out early. I heard a few runners worrying about this, but it never got too hot. The conditions were pretty ideal for running throughout. Bright but not hot. I later learnt that Khalid Kaanouchi broke his own world record, winning in 2:05:38.
Despite my best intentions, Khalid was never in danger from me. My only hope was that there might be a kind of repeat of the 1967 Grand National, when there was a massive pile-up of horses at one fence, and rank outsider Foinavon ran through on his own to win the race. I thought it just possible that the leader would trip over, setting off a kind of domino effect in which 25,000 runners would be sprawling in agony, clutching at fractured lower limbs, leaving me to skip through the carnage to get to the tape before that bloke in a gorilla suit who was unnervingly close behind me for much of the race. But alas, record-breaking glory, and even mere victory, was to elude me yet again today.
Blister problems appeared very early on, around mile 5. I stopped just after mile 6 to remove shoes and socks and take a look. Applied another Compeed but feared the worst, particularly as my feet were now hot and sweaty, and not too receptive to new plasters. Blisters apart, I felt OK for the first few miles though I sensed I might have overdone the hydration, and perhaps I shouldn’t have gulped down that energy bar just as the race started.
This might not be the smartest part of town but today it felt like the friendliest. The crowd was great. The kids in particular seemed to be up for it. Amazing how the miles just peel off in this raucous party atmosphere. The cheering, the bands, the ticker-tape, the screaming, the laughter. It all helps. The Thames Flood Barrier, Greenwich High Street, the Cutty Sark, Deptford, Rotherhithe and then… and then that sudden right hand swing into Tower Bridge Road, and the moment the heart stops beating in your chest. After all those drab miles, the sight and the immediacy of this world-famous landmark, the motif of an entire nation, was splendid beyond even my high expectations. Added to the visual force of the bridge was the noise as it funnels down the approach road towards you. The clamour is almost physical, and with all the flag-waving and dancing and mayhem… believe me, it is almost too much for one person to bear.
Halfway across, I had my moment of TV glory (so I’m told) as the guy dressed as a Mr Men character just in front of me was grabbed by some BBC interviewer. Before I left Tower Bridge behind, I handed someone my disposable camera (great tip, Dave Clayton) for a quick photo, and then it was off for the second half of the race.
For many, the stretch down into Docklands is depressing, as you find yourself running alongside the faster runners going in the opposite direction – about 8 miles ahead of you. I wasn’t dismayed by this, just fascinated that all those people could run so fast for so long, and still look this strong and determined.
Now I had the pleasure of looking forward to seeing M, somewhere between miles 16 and 17. I was getting very tired, and had already started taking walking breaks. But I was also behind schedule and worried that she’d think she’d missed me, and move on. So I had to keep on and keep on and keep on until Canary Wharf – and there she was! It was so uplifting to recognise a face in the crowd at last. I stopped for a few minutes to give a lowdown of the race so far, and explain my strategy for upping the tempo a bit in the last 8 miles to give myself a fighting chance of bursting through to take the winner’s medal. Imagine my devastation to be told that I was too late! Some spoilsport had already gone and won – probably while I still in Greenwich High Street. Ah well – a quick snap and it was time to press on.
I’d never been to this part of London before. The last time I lived here, this part of the city simply didn’t exist in its present form. Now it does, and I find it wondrous, even beautiful – a kind of cross between New York and Berlin and Bladerunner. The evolving cityscape and the clanking overhead trains and the random oddities like the traffic-light tree was stunning, though many people would hate it.
Down and around the Isle Of Dogs with its swanky apartment blocks and glass and chrome offices. Mile 20 appeared along with M once more. I almost missed her. I didn’t expect to see her sitting high on a wall, screaming at the top of her voice. She was having fun. Another short break and it was off again, back towards town for the finish. Somewhere round here came the Asda oranges. Oh how gorgeous these tasted to me. Just past here a young girl ran out in front of me, holding out a handful of boiled sweets. I’d really had enough sweets and ice-cream and fruit and energy drinks and chocolate by now, but she looked at me so balefully that I had to take one. I’ll have it later, I told her. The lovely smile I got back really cheered me at a bad moment.
It was around here that I came across the Runners World ‘Get You Round’ pacing group. A stroke of luck. I stuck with them for two or three miles, learning much in the process. I learnt that a pacing group is a great source of discipline and motivation, which in turn made me realise that my own reserves of discipline and motivation had all but slipped away from me now. I had to let them go sometime after Mile 22. Well in truth, I didn’t notice them going. They just vanished as I emerged from some kind of inner tunnel.
By now I was on automatic pilot. I stopped for a walk break and fell into conversation with an unshaven nun called Glen. “Never again”, he said, shaking his head. I asked him what sort of preparation he’d done. He laughed. “Preparation? I only decided on Wednesday…” He’d hit the wall, he said. Couldn’t run another inch. No energy. I told him about Power Gel; he scored one off me. Never tried one before. We talked for a few minutes, the way you do in a marathon it seems. We swapped life-stories as we hobbled past the Beefeaters and over the infamous Tower of London cobbles. So many 60-second biographies exchanged with total strangers. Except that in this temporary New World, this ephemeral trip to the moon and back that the marathon turned out to be, there are no total strangers. Your fellow runners are your best mates and your family. We shook hands, said goodbye and I ran on.
At the next water station Glen the nun must have gulped down his gloop of carbohydrate because a minute or two afterwards he jogged past me with seemingly renewed strength.
After The Tower, you find yourself shuffling along Lower and Upper Thames Street and then Victoria Embankment. It seems never-ending but nothing matters by now. You know it’s nearly over. The river, and all the promise that this brings: the sight of the London Eye and Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament across the water. Big Ben means home, and relief. On you shuffle and on you shuffle, squinting into the sun bouncing off the river, your skin dry and crusted with salt, your life empty and pointless. Around Big Ben into Birdcage Walk. Then The Mall and, and that’s when you think about starting to cry.
Thank God it’s all over.
