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Those of you who read my normal scrawls will read of tales of derring-do, or not as the case may be, in the wild and remote parts of our country but for once I will tell a story of escapades in a much more urbane setting. Actually I meant urban because people tell me that urbane is something I am not but I only put that in for a cheap joke and please note that was clean so it probably wasn’t a good joke.
I digress somewhat completely as I don’t do things half-heartedly but I thought I would share the experience of the London Marathon (and that is a Full and not a Half Marathon just to carry the dodgy puns further that they really ought to go) with anyone that would care to read.
Anyway, Sunday 23 April or St George’s Day dawned shockingly early for some of us as we were due to catch the bus, dubbed the “Magic Marathon Bus” by one of me, organised by the Felixstowe Road Runners, at 5.45 a.m. and head off to Blackheath and join 36,000-odd other punters on the festival of masochism otherwise known as “The (Flora) London Marathon.”
IMCers were well represented on the bus as I enjoyed the company of Louise and El Sec Mervyn Lamacraft and his breadknife. That Mervyn and I were competing obviously worried some of the elite athletes like Paul Tergat and somebody called Paula Ratcliffe (who had shamed herself the previous year by using the streets of London as a public convenience and did not even get an ASBO for her troubles) who withdrew from the event.
The trip went uneventfully and we were dumped at Blackheath at about 8.00 a.m. when most normal people were only just starting to think about consciousness and just as it was starting to precipitate ever so slightly. Nerves and butterflies were rising now as the enormity of what I was about to undertake and the atmosphere of the event itself started to take effect. You could not only smell but also almost taste the air of expectancy as runners and supporters gathered at the starts and most of us were not thinking of winning the event but simply surviving it.
Doubts started to creep in (yet again). Will I finish? If so how fast, or more likely slow, will I be. How are my injuries (I had some hip problems after my final big training run and had hardly trained since and this was compounded by possibly cracked ribs attained by falling off my mountain bike in the Brecon Beacons two weeks previously)? Will I beat the “Run for Glory” runners? And most importantly will I beat Jade?
After about an hour mincing around on Blackheath doing little except surreptitiously smuggling out some warm refreshments from the "athletes enclosure” for our supporters before the race was due to begin. At “T-minus 25 minutes” or 9.20 a.m. it was time say goodbye to our entourage and make final arrangements – change, deposit our stuff on the baggage lorries, loosen up and make a final call of nature (I made for the urinals as the announcer advised that the queues “were flowing freely” (and they were)) – before heading for the start line.
It was now that my careful race tactics and planning started to go awry, or to ratshit, as I prefer to put it. I was concerned about route-finding (and I suppose Mervyn was too) and then I thought “that won’t be a problem as all I would need to do would be to follow the lead car” who I assumed would know the way. However, somewhat mysteriously I was herded toward starting pen number six which was miles away from the start.
The start was “well and truly nigh” and suddenly we started edging forward. I never heard the starting gun. We broke into a trot and I could see a truly awe-inspiring sight of thousands upon thousands of bobbing heads ahead of me. I crossed the starting line, started my stopwatch and was immediately stopped in my tracks as everybody in front of me slowed down due to some kind of blockage ahead of us.
Within about two hundred metres of the start were the first of a lot of toilets along the marathon route but even more impressive was the number of people heading towards the walls and fences on the other side of the road choosing to save a few vital seconds by watering the walls and fences of London. Why should a call of nature prevent a potential PB? After all there was still another 26 miles 185 metres to go and every seconds counts!
I was taking care to avoid all the porta-loos having been warned by my physio who had heard of a competitor being pole-axed after about 5 miles when he ran into a door that had been opened by an exiting competitor! The lengths that some people go to in order to prevent being overtaken! In spite of this some things just can’t be avoided as the pre-race hydration started making itself felt in my bladder and, just before the two mile marker, off I toddled to a free segment of wall or fence (the details are somewhat unclear) to relieve the pressure.
Meanwhile in the race itself the pace was hotting up after an incredibly slow eleven minute first mile and by mile three I was steaming away on 9-minute mile pace! I might add that the steam was not caused by the pace of the race but rather frustration at the lack of pace. There were just too many people so you just had to grin and bear it and enjoy the occasion and hope things might open up a bit later on in the race.
There was some banter when the competitors of the Red and Blue starts converged after about three miles. There were a lot of fancy dressers – I passed a rhino at the start (testament to my fearsome pace) and fairies (men and women dressed as such rather than any effeminate gentlemen) were two a’ penny - there were a few uggy-uggy-uggies……………. But most of all I remember the crowds. They were phenomenal in their support and appreciation of the endeavours of the runners. It was apparent that many had an early start in the pubs and as a consequence they cheered all the more heartily and the noise was incredible no more so than in “The Docklands” where the pavements were lined five or six people deep. It was similarly noisy in the Mall.
I am no fan of big cities and wasn’t paying too much attention to all the “sights” but I do remember passing the Cutty Sark after six miles and the most memorable sight for me was turning around a corner and seeing Tower Bridge in front of me with the spectacular sight of thousands of runners stretched before me. The view was somewhat marred by seeing the HQ of my former employers in the background but let’s not get bitter and twisted Pete!
And how was the race going for me? Not too well but I was trying to enjoy the occasion. I have whinged about the pace, which is my excuse (together with high sugars), as I was not running at my natural pace. The injuries seemed ok. I remember that having studiously ignored the advice to try drinking that lucozade sports stuff during training runs I then tried it after ten miles on the real thing and as a consequence, after about thirteen miles, got mild stomach cramps. Things deteriorated after about sixteen miles when the cramps moved downwards into my calves. After about twenty-two miles things went into a bit of a decline because I was completely chin-strapped!
After twenty-three and a half miles I stopped running and joined the multitudes that were walking – at least I wasn’t throwing up so things weren’t all bad. I was looking for inspiration and suddenly there she was …………… she passed me and then I could see the magical words of inspiration that I was seeking. There, emblazoned across her back ……… Norwich Road Runners. No way was I going to let someone from Budgie City beat me so I broke into a stagger and then raised my pace to a trot and finally surged to nearly running pace and I was now on the Embankment.
I reached the Houses of Parliament and as we turned into Birdcage Walk there was less than a mile of torment left. My spirits were lifting as I knew that I was going to finish; indeed I was starting to overtake people, and the crowds cranked up the volume another notch. I waved to Her Majesty who I believe was celebrating one of her birthdays. I turned the final corner, and there before me was the sight I had been dreaming of during all those months of training and the countless miles of pounding the streets: THE FINISH LINE!!!!
As I closed in on the finish I mistimed my “arms in the air celebration” and as David Coleman would say went too soon. I was so tired I could not keep my arms up. I could hear the announcer muttering something about Matthew Pinsent just entering the finishing straight and I didn’t want to let that lardy so-and-so beat me and this would mean I would beat an Olympian! And then it was all over – the job as Mike Hams would say was a “good’un!” I could now be proud and happy. I had finished and it was now a case of getting the formalities over and picking up my baggage and finding my entourage. I found that my legs were so stiff and I couldn’t get down – I mean sit down.
Fun and games ensued to the bitter end as we Felixstowe Road Runners (and accomplices blagging a lift to London) fought off various errant Jaffa’s who invaded our coach in the mistaken belief that our coach was going to Ipswich of all places! Actually we left the fighting to the driver as we were too shagged to care.
Just for the record, I completed the race in four hours three minutes and twenty-two seconds finishing in 12,469th place! My achievement was nothing compared to Mervyn’s who finished in a good time, raised over three thousand pounds for charity and made a TV appearance by being seen staggering in the background as Sally Gunnell was interviewing JJ Luck from the “Run for Glory” team. And yes, I did beat Jade! And yes, I would do it again! Now where are those training shoes………………?
Peter
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