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………………?