We rose around 6am, inhaled a quick bowl of cereal and were out-the-door by 6:30. Steve
had been to London
a few times, so was pretty clued up as to how the Underground system worked. As
such, I just tucked in behind and drafted.
I trusted he’d get us to Blackheath Common/Greenwich Park (and the
race start) within an hour.
The tube to King’s Cross was followed by a regular
(overground) train to Blackheath. Of course, London was swarming
with anxious marathoners heading to the start, so the trains were packed to the
rafters; just like a regular rush-hour commute in England’s capital.
However, we knew it was only for about 20 minutes, and I
was confident I could bear having my face lodged in another runner’s armpit for
the short journey to east London.
This was an endurance event, after all.
As would become a common occurrence – and spark a
tradition – I was bursting for a pee by the time we alighted the train in Greenwich, and couldn’t
wait to get to Blackheath Common. I mean literally, COULDN’T wait. Apologies to
the owner of the garden or small copse area I dived into; but needs must. You
know how it is. The glamorous side of the London Marathon the TV cameras, for
some reason, choose not to focus on.
After expending several buckets of nervous ‘energy’, Steve and I headed towards the Red start, the principal start for
the masses and charity runners (there are also Blue and Green starts at London for other
categories).
A large portion of the charity clan – which, of course,
included us – get properly costumed up to tackle the streets of London; as has been the
case since the race started in 1981. So there was a fat wad of Elvises,
Supermans, Spidermans, the odd Marilyn Monroe, Big Bird (from Sesame Street)
and a couple of Michael Jacksons, to name just a few of the ‘celebrities’.
They’d also be joined by guys dressed as animals – every
year there’s usually a giant millipede… containing 8-10 runners – people
carrying boats, telephone boxes, giant toilet rolls and many more besides; including
a trio representing Save the Rhinos, who we were destined to get better
acquainted with during the race.
Steve and I had largely (when I wasn’t bonking badly)
trained together,; planned the whole race weekend together and done everything
as a twosome; so it made sense that we would also aim to run the race together.
As I subsequently found out – not least during many marathons
since – this is pretty hard to do. You may be pretty much the same pace on
paper, but with adrenaline, race-day conditions, and a whole host of other factors,
the chances are that one will stretch on out ahead of the other at some point.
However, that was the plan Steve and I concocted on that
fourth Sunday in the penultimate April of the 20th Century. Sticking
together and running almost metronomically, stride-for-stride, for as long as
humanly possible.
Hanging out in the red zone, which housed a large portion
of the 40,000 runners, the iconic song “The Trap” by Ron Goodwin was now
melodically booming out of the giant speakers, giving everyone a collect lump
in their throat. It’s a tune now synonymous with the race, and with the BBC’s
coverage of the race. And it’s brought a frog to my throat every year I’ve
heard it since.
After the pre-race ceremony had wrapped, concluding
with a couple of celebrity interviews and the British national anthem being played,
we all braced ourselves for the sound of the official starting horn. A loud
siren, the release of thousands of colourful balloons across Greenwich Park,
and we were off.
Steve and I were tucked some way back in the pack and it
took us eight minutes to cross the start-line. With so many people densely
packed together, our initial pace was walking… and not much more than crawling.
But the field gradually spread out and thinned, and we were able to start running
a minute or two before crossing the official start-line, at which point the
timing chip on our shoe was activated.
Our joint-goal was to break four hours, which meant running
each mile in a whisker over nine minutes. This seemed a pretty attainable goal
and we started off nicely on pace, the crowds – lining the Greenwich/Woolwich
streets left and right – vociferous in support.
Of most note in the opening three miles was a guy shouting
out: “The Rhinos are coming through! Gangway!” And within what seemed like seconds,
three giant rhinos – representing the Save the Rhinos charity – came charging
past us on a downhill section of the second mile.
I’m not sure what their strategy was – though they must
have been sweating their asses off in those suits later on – but the elite
runners, now forging well clear at the front of the field, needn’t have been
too worried.
Mile 3 was slighty uphill
and not surprisingly, within about a minute, cries of: “The Rhinos are coming
back! Make room!” echoed all around us. I knew they’d gone too soon. Trying to
hoof it along at such a clip in those costumes was suicidal. But hard for them
to contain themselves as the adrenaline poured in – and when endowed with such
a horn.
At the three-mile mark, the three different starts – Red,
Blue and Green – all converge and the field becomes one giant sea of running
love. Steve and I were content to keep clicking off nine-minute miles and we
looked to be cruising towards our half-way target of just under two hours, as
we cruised through miles four and five.
We passed the landmark Cutty Sark at around six miles and
felt proud to almost be at quarter-distance. Clicking off nine-minute miles
proved a breeze as we negotiated the second quarter. It felt far too easy. This
marathon malarkey was a doddle! Yeeeeeeaaaaaaah.
Crossing
Tower Bridge
just before half-way (passing the 12-mile mark just before the start of the
bridge) was pretty cool and we cruised through half-way in around 1:55 – right
on pace.
The weather was cool but overcast, and the rain (almost
inevitably) started to steadily monsoon down during the second half of the
race.
We trotted on, seemingly in control – my oversized
Guidedogs for the Blind vest doing me proud. Then, about 17 miles in, my legs
began to protest and I dropped slightly off pace. I quickly informed Steve and
told him to go on ahead.
By 18 miles I was really starting to struggle and dropping
further off our planned (nine-minute mile) pace.
Through Docklands my tripping over a few bricks in the
fabled marathon Wall was largely
hidden from spectators, who aren’t able to line the streets of this part of the
course so much. Just as well, really.
Every mile was beginning to feel like a painstaking
effort. But I gradually ticked them off, one-by-one, and made it into the 20’s.
And this was where the ‘real’ race started (so I’d heard)?
At 23 miles, I reached the famous cobblestoned section
near the Tower of
London, which is lined
with a long strip of (Oscars-like) red carpet, to make the terrain slightly
more palatable. The strip was probably only 400 metres in length, but felt more
like 4000.
My vest was now drenched from the teeming rain and the
globs of vasoline I’d dressed onto my nipples was rapidly disintegrating. The
dreaded jogger’s nipple lurked just around the corner.
But I was now almost within sniffing distance of the
finish and knew I just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Slug it out with my mind and the elements.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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