Ramblings

Sunday 14th April 2002. Up early. A banana and a sports drink for breakfast. I drive to Little Chalfont and park, then wait for a few minutes with a group of Chiltern Harriers. Soon the coach arrives and conveys us smoothly to Blackheath, amid much excited chatter.

The Flora London Marathon: my first attempt at this distance, and my first major running event – the biggest to date has been the Watford Half. A lot of wandering about to find the toilets, the bag drop, the toilets again, my start zone. Wasted steps, would I regret them later?

At last, we’re off, in a huge crowd. I note that I cross the start line 8 minutes after the starting klaxon for our wave. So if I want an official time under four hours, I’ll have to get under 3:52. I’m running as part of workplace team, in a yellow vest representing the Roy Castle Lung Cancer Foundation.

Early on I feel good, glad to get moving at last after the long, chilly wait in the park. The mile markers and water stations fly past, as they should, in the early miles. I grab some sports drink to top up my energy. The atmosphere is amazing: thousands of people I’ve never met are cheering us on: rock bands are playing, choirs are singing, drumming groups are drumming. The weather is cool and cloudy but dry – perfect for running.

But at eighteen miles, I feel that sudden drop in energy which runners call The Wall. Mindful that I’m only just on schedule for that “official” four hours, I press on, summoning extra effort as we go through the underpass approaching the long run homewards along the Embankment. I don’t join with the “Oggy Oggy Oggy” shouts – this is no time to waste energy.

The mile markers seem ever further apart. Eventually I go through 25 miles. Just one mile to go! But no, it’s 1.2 miles and in my exhausted state that point two acquires a crushing weight in my mind. But now, just ahead of me I see a sign saying 500 metres to go. So far I’ve managed to run the whole distance. But now I realise I can’t run any more. A second later I realise I can’t walk. Two seconds later I realise I can’t stand up.

I’m lying down on the road. All is well. I can stop now. There’s a moment of sweet surrender. All is well. Then I open my eyes to see a St John ambulance volunteer looking down at me with concern. He raises me to a sitting position and offers me some water, and I come round, somewhat confused. In no time a wheelchair is produced, and I’m offered a ride to the finish. No, I’ve got to finish on my own, no assistance thank you. Remember Dorando Pietri.

So I stagger the last 500 metres with the wheelchair being trundled right behind me, in case I should crumple again. My name is on my vest, and I hear voices encouraging me, coming through a tunnel from a mile away, from another world. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

Finally I cross the finish line. I’ve done it, I suppose. This is not how it was supposed to happen. I slump back in the wheelchair, and I’m rushed to the first aid tent and put on a bed. They give me water. Is there any tea? A cup of hot sweet tea? No. They give me the energy drink I’ve been taking during the run. My bag and finisher’s medal are fetched for me, and I’m encouraged to eat the cereal bar I brought. Mistake: it’s horribly dry, and exits immediately into the grey cardboard hat. After a while I recover, thank the volunteers, get myself discharged and make my way tentatively to the Chiltern Harriers meeting point and on to the coach.

I phone Debbie to say what happened, that I’m all right, but shaken, and not in a fit state to drive myself home from the coach drop-off. My Dad takes Debbie to drive me home in the car.

When I go online to see the results next morning, the “gun time” is not shown, only my net time from start line to finish line. I hadn’t needed to push on so hard to meet the tighter target. Worse, my time is 4 hours 0 minutes 9 bloody seconds. WHAT???

A few days later I received a gift in the post: a stopwatch from Timex, one of the race sponsors. It was a special prize for “people who had caught the attention of the finish line announcers”. Well thanks, I guess.

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But this cloud had a silver lining: unfinished business is highly motivating, and I entered the next year’s London Marathon as soon as I could. I kept my training going, and continued a steady improvement in fitness.

And this time, on 13th April 2003 I have a proper breakfast – a big bowl of muesli, three slices of toast and honey.

I feel strong all through the race. I take my own sports drink. At eighteen miles I wonder why everyone has suddenly slowed down: I cruise on serenely. I finish in 3 hours 43 minutes and 18 seconds, and I’ve run the second half just 75 seconds slower than the first. This time I did it properly: finish line euphoria – I made it!

But it chills my bones when I recall that moment of sweet surrender on the tarmac. And I haven’t touched Lucozade Sport Orange Flavour since.