Marathon number two: London, 26th April, 2009
The weather forecaster cheerily announced that it was going to be hot and sunny for the London Marathon. For runners that's a bit like spectators having barbeques along the course; both sun and charred food lead to more spectators and therefore more cheering, both though are also hell for the runners.
Training in Scotland doesn't really prepare you for running in 17 degrees. I guess I should learn to run faster, then I could get to the end before the sun has had a chance to do its worst.
I woke before my alarm and went to breakfast at 6am. Porridge, sultanas, a small coffee and a slice of brown bread washed down with water and rasberry lucozade.
The first train into Canary Wharf broke, so the second one was packed (and annoyed). At London Bridge we switched to Southeastern, the destinations on the departures board having been supplemented by 'blue start', 'red start' etc. I went to platform five, as advised. It was eight deep. Then they announced a platform change and hundreds of runners cascaded up and down a flight of stairs to the new platform. Before long, and indeed before the arrival of a train, they had another change of heart and the runners had another very untimely workout. I saw one girl in tears and understood.
Blackheath was clean and oddly rural in the morning sunlight. I walked up Tranquil Vale (no metaphor) thinking of friends on other start lines across the heath. There are three starts, which join along the route amid inexplicable booing after a few miles.
The early miles were frustratingly slow and crowded, and actually pretty boring. The temperature was rising fast enough to make me thirsty for water by 3 miles. Whilst we ran, over 35,000 kit bags, handed over at the start, were being transported to the finish on a giant convoy of lorries.
I had my name on my shirt but got stuck in the vicinity of Darth Vader who kept the crowd busy with witticism. Gradually I pulled away, admittedly the acceleration was partly driven by a desire not to be beaten by a man in fancy dress. People began to shout encouragement. I do not know how many hundreds of times I heard my name, but each was precious.
Out of the voices rose one I knew and my head snapped round like a robot: Lisa! Big smile and onwards, onwards.
The Cutty Sark, erstwhile runners' visual treat, was shielded as if too many eyes would stall its recovery. We zigged, we zagged and got way too close for comfort. I became aware of the sounds and smells of other runners, got all introspective... and then suddenly we were free and our senses bombarded once more by the bright colours and loud noises of the crowd ('be not afraid, the isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not' The Tempest).
The music along the way seemed sporadic, but uplifting when it came. It was probably partly responsible for my running mile 20 in 7.36. The crowds built up and up. I saw Sammy Wanjiru (eventual winner) pass on the other side of the road, he had lost his pace makers and was ahead and alone. He looked strong and determined, like he would break the world record as he hoped.
From mile 18 in the Docklands I was in a whole world of pain. It is a strange feeling, if you start thinking about the thing, whilst running. You are doing something intensely personal, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to stop or slow, forcing your legs to keep turning over when each falling foot heralds a shudder of pain through the thighs.
You no longer care about your appearance, whether you have spilt gel down your top or wiped it through your hair, whether utilising the on-course showers has rendered your lemon yellow vest see through. Every atom of your being is focused on a single aim: Just Keep Running.
And yet, you do still know that you are a spectacle, one person among thousands, forming the oddest, most agonising, street party. Everyone around you hurts like hell and still they run, still the crowds cheer... and each time you hear your name your sinking heart swells a little more with pride and you carry on.
Then some bastard lets go of the whole fragile balance of pain and pride and grit and stops dead in the middle of the road and you stumble trying not to crash into them. In that moment they are utterly alone: just one person in pain on the streets of London.
Some, even then, re-emerge and hear the roar of the crowd, hear them yell that it is not far, 'you can do it' and they lurch off in an agonised shuffle amid cheers of approval.
The willingness, eagerness even, of the crowd to pour so much of themselves into complete strangers in recognition of the spectacle their endeavour provides is impossible to comprehend. When I tentatively tried to pick up my flagging pace in the final mile I was greeted by a roar of approval. A woman's voice rose above the rest: 'Beat all the men, Soph! Beat all the men!'. I hoped she meant to do so in the race, not as a general philosophy or life practice.
Desperate to keep the clock from moving to 3.41, I made a dash for the line and made it in 3.40.49.
If you had told me beforehand what time I would get, I would have been disappointed. But the marathon changes you. I had forgotten that such things as time fall into new perspective, or at least a little closer to the truth of one's genuine ability, during the course of the marathon. It is easy to forget, oddly, that it is a bloody long way...
Because of the crowds (of runners), following the direct route is impossible. My Garmin GPS showed that I had covered almost half a mile more than a marathon: 26.67. It is a Beast that, two marathons in, I have finally learnt to respect.
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