Standing with thousands of runners in Greenwich Park waiting to start the London Marathon, can best be compared to being strapped in at the start of an exceptionally scary ride at a theme park: everyone is nervous, you start sharing your life story with the stranger next to you – who does the same. Then the crowd surges forward and stops suddenly, you then find yourself repeating the process with someone else. Finally I exit the gates, cross the start line and start to gather momentum, as the crowd is carried along down to Charlton.
Some of the fancy dress costumes are amazing: Jesus running barefoot carrying a cross for world peace, a giraffe with a ten foot neck, the obligatory rhino, phone boxes and quite a few testicles (I make a mental note not to be photographed with them).
For me, the run really starts after Tower Bridge (the half way point); my legs start screaming and I know that running all of the remaining distance isn’t going to happen. It’s disappointing, as I had hoped to finish somewhere between 4 hours and 4 hours 20 minutes, but on the positive side all my joints feel good and I know I can finish if I take care.
My family have come up to support me and by some miracle I am running both times they see me (at mile 15 and 21); seeing them and hearing their encouragement really spurs me on.
The Isle of Dogs is aptly named: runners stop all over the place and avail themselves of any lamppost or solid object to try and stretch out leg cramps. As I run past one road I see at least 10 runners lying on the ground, having various parts of their bodies massaged. Even though I’ve eaten tons of pasta in the previous week, eaten porridge this morning and taken energy gels regularly through the run, I’m ravenous.
I experiment with the food being offered and overdose on jelly babies, before working out that orange slices work the best (I’m so hungry I start eating the rind).
As I enter the final 5 miles, I pass a couple at the side of the road who encourage me to start running again: “Run Foxy run!”.
I notice that they have a pizza, so ask if any is going, and the gentleman kindly gives me a slice. As I walk down the road eating it, the crowd shout: “where did you get the pizza?”. I smile, thinking what a great scavenger the urban fox is. Other than some indigestion, that pizza slice saved the day, lifting my spirits and giving me some much-needed energy.
The carnival atmosphere increases by the mile, music is blaring – sometimes it helps, and my feet start hitting the road to the tune of “Keep on running”. Other times I just find it irritating and tiring.
More and more people hang out of the pubs en route drinking pints, smoking fags and shouting encouragement. I look longingly at their pint glasses.
I muster enough energy to run from Parliament Square to the finish a mile away. As I enter Birdcage Walk the crowds swell dramatically; running down the middle of the road I raise my arms and shout “Give it to me!”. A huge roar is offered in return – followed by a silence as people wonder who they’ve just cheered for. Rounding the corner into The Mall I link up with 2 other runners and cross the line in 4 hours 47 minutes. A marshal places a medal over my head and says ‘Well done’: I wonder if entry through the Pearly Gates is a similar experience?
So that’s it. It’s now the next day, and while my thighs ache, everything else feels surprisingly intact. The months of training have paid off, my wife has a husband with a slightly thinner waist and I have been bowled over by the generosity of those that sponsored me, by far exceeding what I thought was possible to raise (with gift aid I raised about £100 for every mile run).
Would I do it again? Maybe a conversation with another runner at the end is the best answer: “You know,” he said “I think it’s like childbirth – as time goes by, the memory of the pain is washed away by the euphoria of the achievement”.
Not so sure, but I hope he chooses the right moment to share that with his wife.
