I initially combined the football and running – still turning out for Homer’s Barmy Army at Bentham on a Monday night; and SFC Tigers (the Gloucester City supporters’ Sunday League team) at the weekend.
Mixing
the five-a-side, 11-a-side, and marathon training wasn’t the smartest idea in
the world. The risk of getting injured at The Dome (the giant, inflatable tent that housed 4-5 indoor pitches)
was high – the Bentham 5-a-side leagues were furiously competitive and not for
the faint-hearted.
I’d
frequently limp home with a tweaked ankle or bruised knee ligament, knowing I
had an ‘easy 12’ (miles) coming up in the next day or so. But I somehow managed
to avoid any major injuries, training 4-5 days a week and featuring a long run
(I think 15 miles was my longest) on Saturday or Sunday.
Fatigue-wise,
though, the latter (long run) would sometimes catch up with me. I’d run in the
afternoon, having turned out for SFC Tigers in the morning. And that was
usually following a night out painting the town (Gloucester
or Cheltenham) a wreckless shade of rouge –
plus a pre-game Greasy Spoon Special
fry-up (I can’t believe we really used to do that. Period. Let alone 75 minutes
before kick-off).
So,
by the time I got round to attempting my marathon training run in the PM, my
body was arguably not in optimal condition.
One
Sunday, things all went a bit pear-shaped when I died on my ass during lap four
of a three-mile loop – failing miserably to keep Steve in sight, having played
11-a-side earlier in the day.
Steve,
who was like the Duracell Bunny knocking off those loops (despite, I’m sure,
having quaffed an ‘easy 6’… pints of Guinness the night before) almost lapped
me, I recall. I ended up crawl-walking the fourth loop back to his parents’
place (our starting point/base-camp).
Who
knew this would be potentially mirroring the finish of a future marathon or
two?
As
Steve and I did cheesy shuttle runs back-and-forth within the grounds of
Gloucester Cathedral* a couple of weeks before the marathon – part of a photo-shoot
for a small piece the Citizen was
running to publicize our ‘charity challenge’ – we felt pretty confident.
* The iconic
English structure was used as a filming location in some of the early Harry Potter movies; and the Citizen offices were literally a stone’s
throw away.
We
were both shooting to break four hours in the race, which seemed realistic
enough for our first bash at 26.2 miles. The Runner’s World schedule we’d put our faith in had become our
training bible – and we’d stuck religiously to it. What happened from here was
largely in the lap of the ‘gods’.
Before
we knew it, marathon weekend was upon us. Steve’s friends Simon and Sarah
were kindly putting us up Friday and Saturday night, so we headed down to London on the National Express and were met by Simon at a
tube (London Underground) station in West Ealing.
After
dropping our stuff off at their flat, we headed out for dinner and a couple of
beers at a local curry house. Arguably not the ideal choice for a pre-race main
course the night-before-the-night-before.
But, providing we steered clear of a spicy Chicken Vindaloo, we were sure it’d
be fine.
Saturday
morning we headed into central London
for the Expo, where we’d pick up our race numbers, timing chips and all the
great guff that’s thrust your way during a marathon expo.
Umpteen
booths crying out for your money in exchange for striking merchandise and
apparel, which it would be absolutely suicidal to showcase 24 hours later in
the race. Of course, many of us freely indulged, oblivious to that ‘minor’
detail – while also devouring many of the free energy bar and gel samples
(gotta love those).
Back
at Simon & Sarah’s, we went for an easy 20-minute run around 5pm on the
Saturday evening, just to stay loose and keep the muscles warm. I don’t do
that now, but Steve had read somewhere in the hallowed RW that it was the thing to do for first-time marathoners. That was
good enough for me.
We
then got our race kit ready, pinning race numbers to vests and spending three
hours deciphering how to attach the timing chip to our shoes using the
mysterious little plastic zip fastener thingy the marathon organizers had provided.
I
had my over-sized Guide Dogs for the
Blind vest – I recall they only came in a one-size-blankets-all – but the generous sizing would turn out to
be a blessing-in-disguise, as the heavens opened some 18 hours later… bringing
the curious (and extremely serious) case of jogger’s nipple (JN) into the
equation.
A
few years’ before, I’d watched the Portuguese dynamo Antonio Pinto finishing 3rd
at London; the
right nipple area of his vest soaked in blood. So even the best were caught out
on occasion. I also imagined the shrieking howl, ensuing after AP stepped into
the hotel shower post-race, would have been heard back in Lisbon.
You
had two choices to guard against the dreaded JN back then: Vasoline or plasters
(Band Aids in North
America). I now religiously wear the latter, but on this occasion
– my marathon debut – plumped for the former. A good decision? All will be
revealed in due course.
With
our kit prepared, we slipped into our sleeping bags just after 9pm, and
anxiously pondered what lay ahead.
London
Marathon 1998: Your time has come.
Let’s
get this show on the road!
TO
BE CONTINUED…
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