The marathon

Better late than never. The little lad wrote this the day after the marathon and found it last week under the sofa. It was a great day, but we'll let him tell it his own way....

Okay – I’m pretty much incapable of moving at the moment, so I’ve got a whole bunch of spare time on my hands.  I ran the marathon yesterday.  How do I feel now – excited, elated, like a great burden has lifted, free.  I’ve just eaten pie and chips for the first time in ages: can’t remember when that happened before. Only cost 2.40p as well, so a bit of a bargain too.  My favourite word at the moment is fantastic.  The marathon was fantastic.  The sense of elation was great.  What a day. Great organisation, great day out.  Fantastic.  So, it’s quite a long story- and a long day- so here it goes.

A week before and it’s all building up nicely:  Drew and Andy are both in, so’s Nick, Keith says he’ll turn up, Mum and Dad are coming.  On Thursday, Peter phones up to say he’s coming down on Friday too, to stay and support.  This is looking good.  However, the marathon is preying heavily on my mind, and since I haven’t really been out of my mind for – since the fridge, it’s kind of wearing me down.  Problems are: basically worrying about getting there on time, with all the right stuff, my left leg (now, used to be the right) is stiff, and feels funny when I bend it in the wrong way.  Also, my big toe on the right leg just basically doesn’t work properly, and starts hurting when I TRY TO BEND IT. When I have shoes on too tightly, that hurts it too, so I’ve got problems.  I think I’ve done enough running though – I think I’ve covered the distance. 

Friday night, Keith and I stay in and compose an acid techno tune in Fruity Loops.  The great thing about giving up drinking is that I get so much more stuff done.  I start to think about great things to do, and new projects to work on.  We come up with a 3-minute tune in Fruity, which is evil.  Peter, when he arrives, isn’t that impressed, but I think he can see the possibilities.     I can compose rolling riffs and mad basslines on it quite easily.  And it generally all sounds good. A few of the more subtle features are beyond my control at the moment, but I’ll work them out at some stage.  This laptop is proving to be an excellent investment!  He records most of the session onto minidisk – I guess he thought it was great.  Not really being into that kind of music, I wasn’t really that impressed by the style, but I loved the ease and speed with which we knocked it together.

Peter and I get some food from the takaway and start to eat it in the kitchen.  Nick rolls through the front door.  Pissed out of his head.  He takes a close look at Peter, and works out who he is.  We watch Nick stagger round the kitchen trying to make toast for a while.    He’s in a right state.  In between mouthfuls of bread, he explains in bright tones how the stock market had probably crashed, and that the Americans were really worried.  I watch him jamming a knife in and out of the toaster, and probably only just avoiding nasty electrocution.  Eventually, Nick disperses, and we do the same thing with a cross-eyed Catherine.  She’s with her boyfriend, Andy.  She mothers me and tells me to go to bed, and get my beauty sleep.  I do.  I can’t sleep. 

I think I probably stayed awake until 3 am, and then woke up at 9 the next day.  It’s too cold – that’s the problem.  The next day, I bum around town with Rich and Peter. We try and see an exhibition about Star Wars at the Barbican, but we didn’t get in.

Right at this moment in the write-up, Keith interrupts me to ask what I’m doing.  I tell him I’m writing about my marathon experience (no bigger picture), and we talk about diaries, and memories and then writing creatively on drugs.  Eventually, I resume…

That evening, I’m very nervous.  I actually realise at this stage that I am nervous.  Previously, I was only really aware that I was concerned, but now I can’t really make conversation with the people that had come round.  The house is pretty busy.  There’s a bunch of people in the house to do with Andy’s birthday, which Catherine has organised.  There’s also a bunch of Keith’s clubbing friends here too, playing loud music.  Peter looks worried too and I’m not doing much to help.  He cooks me dinner, which is great and after that I sit him in front of Human Traffic and disappear off to go and sort out my stuff.

I read the instructions again.

I find both socks that I’m going to wear (eventually) – a pair of hiking socks I bought for Mexico all that time ago.  I put my top on the dryer, and connect the silicon chip to my running shoe.  I bought a pair of new shorts, but I decide not to wear them – too much of an unknown.  I guess they’ll be useful down the gym at some stage anyway.  I put all the stuff in a pile.  I get a bin bag.  You can use these for protection if it rains, and the forecast says rain.  I put a bunch of other clothes in the bag too: I can wear those afterwards.  I get a couple of T-shirts.  Gloves?  I like running in gloves.

I read the instructions again.

I have to be there by 9:30, so I reckon I want to arrive well early – say 8:30.  The trains will be busy, and I need to catch the train from London Bridge to Blackheath: this leaves at 7:47 and arrives at 8:24.  However, that train will be busy, so I need to get the earlier train at 7:30.  So, 45 minutes (conservative estimate) to get there from Tooting on the northern line – leave at 6:30, I should be there in plenty of time. 

I go to bed at 10 pm. Peter isn’t impressed.

Nick interrupts me now to tell me that the stock market is again making money.  Great. 

I have one of the best nights sleep ever.  I’d put another duvet on the bed and it was warm.  Wandering about London with Rich made me tired – I was asleep by 10pm.  6 a.m. rolled round and I got out of bed – twinge in the right knee- that’s not good.  Bit sick in the stomach.

I manage a bowl of sugar puffs.  I take a banana and leave the house at 6:20.  By 6:30 I’m approaching Tooting Tue station, and wondering – will it be open?  Must be.  It’s not.  Bugger.  Okay, plenty of time.  I need another plan.  Busses.  I stand and wait for the bus.  Two other people stand and wait for the bus too.  That makes me feel like it’s actually going to turn up.  Fifteen minutes pass.   I give up and begin walking to Balham.  I can get a train from Balham to Clapham Junction, and from there to Waterloo and then to Blackheath –same train.   Okay.  I arrive at Balham.  It’s shut too.  It opens at 7:15 am.  I knock about and wait for a bit.  There’s nothing else I can do.  I read one of the free magazines that you get outside the station, and watch the street sweeper do a fine job of clearing up a kebab and all the other crap outside the station.  I idly wonder whether he, (like I am) has to pay attention to the different types of litter he’s sweeping.

I realize after some time that there are other people here carrying Marathon kit bags.  I think they realized about the same time.  There’s about 4 of us by ten to 7.  One of the guys, lets call him Mike, asks another of the guys, Steve whether he’s run the marathon before.  He says not.  How about me?  No.  Steve, it turns out had run some charity half marathon somewhere, but not a whole one.  I keep quiet: I haven’t even done this.  Mike has run several.  “Marathon virgins, eh?”  He says.  Twat.

I hate people who try to lord it like this.  He needs a good punch.  Well done, you’ve done it before, nice one.  This is the sort of thing Nick Green used to tell me about – people who would wear their London Marathon 1987 t-shirts proudly to try to lord it over other competitors.  What is the point?

Anyway, the guy who’s never done a marathon appears to never have been in London either, so he’s encouraging.  By the time we’re on the tube, there are loads of people on the train with kit bags.  Idly, I start looking round for someone worth shagging.  Hey!  You never know.  Andy rang me up last night to wish me luck and tell me it might be a good opportunity to pull.

Steve and I arrive at London Bridge.  There’s a bit of a wait for the train.  Nothing’s going on.  We’re all just standing there waiting for something to happen. 

“Next train to Blackheath – platform 5.”

Okay.  We’re off.  I get down to platform 4.  It’s busy.  The train is full of people.  We’re told to move to the front of the train, but by the time we get there, it’s full.  At some stage, I lost Steve.   It’s now about 7:50.

“Next train to Blackheath – platform 4 in 10 minutes.”

Okay. I get over there.  A train is leaving for the red start on platform 4.  I find a great position to stand and wait.  In due course, the train arrives.  It is completely full.  Also, the door doesn’t quite line up with where I’m standing, so I have no chance of getting on first anyway.  Or at all.  I hang out of one of the doors for a minute, but it’s inevitable I will be cleaved in two when the door shuts.

I get off.  “Next train to Blackheath – platform 5 in 8 minutes”

Okay, it’s 8:15 now.  There is about three thousand people on the platform.  I reckon about 50 people max got on the last train.  This is shit.  There’s no way it’s going to happen.  I’ve got an hour and a quarter to get to the start.  Shit!  No-one’s going to make it.  This is crap.  Fuck.  Okay.  I could taxi – no way. No money!  Didn’t bring a wallet.  Bus – yeah, right.  No chance on these trains.   I could run.  Fuck, another 5 miles, smashing.   Not what I need. 

My knee hurts and I feel thirsty.  This is a complete cunt.  Okay, I’m going to go back on the tube to Greenwich.   ON my map of the starts, there’s Greenwich station – I’ll go there and start from there.  I hope the trains are running.  I arrive back on the jubilee line platform.  People with Kitbags are going the other way.  I’m taking a huge risk. Why is no-one else doing this??  Fuck.  I go and talk to the guard.  He tells me to go back upstairs.  I explain to him what’s happening.  He tells me that Greenwich is not on the Jubilee line:  North Greenwich is, and that’s on the other side of the Thames.  Fuck.  Okay – What about Canary Wharf, and then Docklands Light Railway to Greenwich?  That would work?

Fuck, this is getting serious and there’s no Jubilee line trains arriving.  Okay.  Keep calm. There aren’t any trains upstairs.  This is going to have to work. As far as I can see there is No Other Way.  I have visions of the gun going off and me being waiting here for a train.  Shitting Crikey. 

A Jubilee line train arrives.  Loads more people with Kitbags get off.  I blink.  I get on.  I sit down.

There are two other people with kitbags on the train.  This is like a vision.  I go over and talk to them.  One of the guys is with his family.  They are coming this way to avoid the rush!  Wicked.  If the DLR is running, I’m in.  I arrive at Canary Wharf and I’ve been here before.  This is exactly the same route that I took in reverse when coming to get my kit bag and number – I’ve done this before!  I get off the train and walk smugly up to an empty Docklands platform.  This is mental.  I’ve done it.  It’s a short walk from Cutty Sark to the blue start. 

Given my legendary lack of any sense of direction, I ask several policemen and other assorteds on the way.  It looks like it’s going to be a nice day.  I need a drink and a piss.  I arrive at a big field, with trucks in.  This is where it all kicks off. 

I have a piss.  There’s no sign of anything to drink.  I warm up and throw my kitbag on the truck.  It’s 9:20.  Ten minutes to find a place.  There’s millions of people.  I have a number 2 on my number, which means start up near the front.  Somehow, I get to where I’m supposed to start.  Fuck!  Prince Naseem starts the race, and in four minutes I’m running past with the pug-eared pugilist looking on from high above.  This is going fine.  I haven’t eaten or drunk for 3 hours, so it could be going better, but hey!  I’m off!

It’s okay.  Running on road as opposed to grass takes a bit of getting used to.  Feet are feeling the ground, everyone’s going a bit fast.  I’m doing okay, and it’s a great day for it.  I try not to try.  No point in using energy at this stage, I figure.  I run behind some guy who’s nattering to an old codger.  He’s done loads before.  I decide I’m going to try and stay with him.  Seems to know what he’s doing.  We round a bend, and loads of people are already taking a piss!  We haven’t even done a mile yet, and people are off for a piss!  There’s a fat guy panting away next to me.  I don’t think I’ve noticed breathing yet, so he’s fucked. 

I’m enjoying this.  There’s loads of people on the sides of the road.  Also, loads of people seem to be falling over.  I’m okay though.  Before I know it, I’ve done 4 miles.  That was a piece of piss.  Quite fun actually.  Long way to go though.  Clock says 40 minutes.  It took 4 minutes to get over the line, so that’s…8 and a half minute miles.  Nice.  They all turn out to be about that until 8 miles.  I pass the Cutty Sark.  I get given an energy drink, which I manage to squirt most of into my eye, but at least I’ve had something to drink.  Probably could’ve done with a bit more of it, but never mind. 

At 8 miles I decide that this isn’t fast enough, and I up the pace to 8 mile minutes.  Unfortunately, this makes the maths much harder, and I soon lose track of what’s going on.  If I’d had a stopwatch, that would’ve probably been quite useful.  I check my phone.  Great, loads of text messages: Peter, and Nick.  Also, at some stage Drew tried to call.  I try to return the call but with no success.  I send him a text message “ALL GOOD”.

It’s clouding over.   I kind of wish I’d brought my gloves.   I have absolutely no idea where I am.  We’ve been running for an hour now, and the first hour was really easy.  Nick Green sends me a text message “GOOD LUCK TODAY MATEY – KEEP THE PACE STEADY AND SLOW”  I decide to take this advice and slow up a bit.  Things are fine now, but there may be trouble ahead.  Nessi sends me a message “CHARIOTS OF FIRE!  HAPPY RUNNING FROM NESS AND SAM”.  This is great!

I have no idea where I am.  I don’t remember running over the Thames yet, but we’re in Docklands somewhere.  There’s an awful lot of Canary Wharf on show.  I bang on over Tower Bridge.  That’s the half-way point.  Things I know about – the avenue, the bit in East London, and the Embankment.  I think we might be South of the river now.  (Geography was first thing to go). 

I take stock.  I’ve done 12 miles.  My legs are a bit tight.  I’m not tired.  Energy levels seem fine, so okay.  People don’t seem to be overtaking me anymore, I seem to have found my pace in the crowd.  Starting at the front was a good idea though, since I get to start early on.  I think of all the people who may well still be stuck at London Bridge station.  Thing is, I’ve been running ages now.   Nearly an hour and a half.  I try to get my breathing into a rhythm.  It’s really hard.  There are so many people and so many distractions.  In training, my head would get stuck on a song, and I would chant it:  3 breaths in, one out.  3 in, one out, buh uh uh uh buh uh uh uh.  Here, there are people shouting and screaming, and there’s no perspective.  I can’t concentrate on the road: I like to look up.  The sun comes out again.  That’s good.  We’ve passed the halfway point.  Can’t remember what the time was.  Fuck.  I ask someone.  I do some maths, and I’m still doing about 8 and a half minute miles, which is good…  I think I’ve got the maths right there.

I’m under the impression I’m running along the South side of the river, but I arrive at the avenue before long.  I know that’s where I am because I see a few keen looking women running fast the other way.  They must be the pros, about 7 miles ahead.  We have a long way to go. 

The miles begin to get harder.  Mile 14 seemed so long I thought I’d done up to 15.  When I got to 14, I found I then had to do 15.  This was a very hard mile.  My legs were tired, and starting to hurt.  I realized I was running out of energy.  Still, I hadn’t really tried very much up until now, so all I had to do was try, and I’d get to the next set of drinks.  I can’t remember exactly what happened.  16 passed obliviously.  18 was a real trial.  I picked up an energy drink at the start of 19, and a cap for it.  The drink was in a bag – liquid power.  There were not enough energy drinks for my liking along the route.  Really hard to run without clenching your fists, so I needed a lid to hold it in.  There was a drink on the ground! I pulled off an amazing reach-down-and-grab maneuver without falling over or stopping.  Cool.  The drink tasted amazing.  It cut through my thirst brilliantly.  Whilst 18 was hard, 19 and 20 were knocked over easily due to the extra energy from the drink.  At the end of 19 I “came up”.  I was going into a tunnel, and the marathon music was playing.  People were really cheering.  They’d probably been doing that for the best part of an hour.  But they were cheering us! I felt my head tighten, shivers went down my spine and I loved it.  I felt fantastic.  Nothing hurt anymore.  I ran!

At the end of 20 I’d told myself I would stop and stretch.  By then, my high had worn off but I was still clutching the remains of my drink.  I decided to press on and not bother with the stretching.  It was going okay.  Last leg now.  Right from the start I’d been working towards completing the 20 miles.  I thought that after that, the rest was a race of its own.  Get 20 down without too much bother, and I’d be looking good for the last 6.  This was mainly true.  My legs did hurt now, but it was going okay.  I did the other side of the Avenue, and saw the bus coming the other way.  I thought it was pretty tragic.   I was looking out for my parents – they said they’d be here, but they weren’t.  Maybe they were later on.  They’d be upset if I’d missed them.  About this time I start to consider the impossibility of trying to pull on the marathon, as Andy had suggested.  I watch a girl accidentally pour water over herself.  She says “Oops”.  I smile (I think) but can’t be bothered to respond.

Drew texted me: “Good lad – run like the wind”.  I was trying.  Miles 21 and 22 passed relatively sanely. I was kind of expecting to be on Embankment, or something.  There seemed to be an awful lot of what looked like motorway we were running on.  I had no idea where we were. Okay.  I took stock.  I was really tired.  I didn’t need to drink.  My legs hurt.  My arms were well tired.  I wasn’t really running very well, but over the last 2 miles I had developed a rhythm, which I hoped would keep me going.  There were only 4 miles left.  We came out on some cobblestone route on the north bank somewhere.  I knew we were close now.  Drew phoned me:  “Hello?  Yes!  I’m running the marathon!”  I shouted, a la Trigger Happy TV. I had 4 miles to go.  I was in reasonably good spirits.  I was definitely going to finish it.  Peter rang 10 minutes later:  What colour shirt are you wearing?

White.

And you’re wearing those shorts we bought yesterday?

I couldn’t be bothered to explain about the shorts.  “Look, I can’t talk now. “  I hung up. Talking and running, only 10 minutes later: suddenly much more difficult.  The cobblestones were over and we were coming out of a tunnel into the daylight again.  This must be the Embankment now. 

I expected it to be really short, like it had seemed at new year, and how it seems as a Londoner, accustomed to travelling all over it.  It was really A Lot Longer.  The streets were lined with people.  I could see Big Ben in the distance, but it really was the distance, and I knew that my aching footsteps were really only creeping me closer.  But it was only 4 miles.  And those extra yards at the end.  200.  Yes.  There were Mum and Dad.  I saw my Mum smiling and waving.  I waved with both hands.  I saw Dad failing to operate the camera.  I ran on.  I hated leaving them behind.  I blinked back tears as I ran.  I was okay.  I wasn’t emotional.  I wasn’t.  Sort it out!  Okay, 3 miles left.  This is do-able.  You’re going to do it, the only reason you’re feeling emotional is because you’ve been drained of all your energy. 

This was pain now.  2 miles left.  Peter saw me first.  I saw Peter seeing me, and then I saw Nick and Drew.  I saw a girl with a Zoom lens.  I ran on.  I didn’t know if Andy had made it.  I hoped he had. 

Run you fuck.

Lots of people were walking now.  That helped.   To know I was still going.  Mile 25 was a cunt.  Pure and simple.  It seemed to take forever.  At the end of the Embankment, mile 26 began.  This was better.  Only one mile left.  I picked up the pace.  I knew I would do it.  But I didn’t want to get caught walking.  I was going quickly now.  People were going at all speeds now, there wasn’t a rhyme or reason behind it, they were all over the shop.  Where was the end?  I couldn’t see it.  There was a sign saying 800m.  Amazing.  That’s the distance round a school playing field.  I remembered back to the 1500m races at school and how hard they were.  I could do this.  One lap of the track.  I sped up again.  We rounded a bend and then suddenly, there was the finishing line. I had expected to run all the way down Pall Mall, but no, there it was.  Easy sprint to the end.  And that’s it. 

I cross the line with my arms in the air, smiling at the camera.  I hope I was smiling anyway.  I expect they’ll send me copies of the photos soon and ask for money.  Can’t see them missing a trick like that.  I did it in 3:46.17, which I think is pretty good.  I wonder how Nick Green managed 2:45, because that would be amazing, but there you go.  I’m just glad to have done it, and be able to tick it off now.  I’ll never forget it.

I hobbled over away and collected a medal and a blanket.  I needed to stretch.  I picked up my kit bag and somehow got my trackies on, and a fresh t shirt.  I walked extremely slowly towards the tree with M on it and sat down.  I managed to phone Andy.  It was great to speak to someone now.  They were on their way.  Soon enough, I saw Drew through the crowd, and then there they all were.  I hugged the lot of them:  Nick, Peter, Drew, Claire, Andy, Vicky, Dan and Lou (with a huge camera). Surprised to see them but nice one. 

My parents turned up eventually too.  We made our way out.  Walking was very painful.  I was elated, though.  I walked next to my Dad for a while, and talked to him about it.  I hugged my Mum.  We walked through admiralty arch, and all the way up to Leicester Square, and into Pizza Hut.  Natalie and Rich met us there.  12 of us crowded round a table for 8 and ate pizza.  It was cool.  Mum and Dad left with Peter soon after the meal:  they always seem to bugger off.  Time was returning to its usual pace again, and the afternoon would roll by without too much happening.  Natalie had a great suntan from a cruise she’d been on.  She was the one who brought me the application form for the marathon, and she was impressed, but wanted to do it herself. I indulged in a spot of well-earned lording.

Rich took us to a pub after that, which was dull.  I was getting tired.  I talked to the boys and girls for a bit.  Drew was flagging and wanted to go.  I was glad they’d come out, but there was no way to turn the afternoon into a memorable one for me, so we wisely decided to bin the whole thing off.  During the day though, the cleaner rang up (Jennie) to ask me how I’d got on.  Jules also rang from Brigton, which was nice.  Tom rang up – good lad.  Beers next week.  And then late in the evening Nessi rang from San Fransisco to find out how I’d got on.  That was all great. 

Rich, Nick, Nat and I ended back up at our house, and Nat and Rich cooked roast chicken, in a time-honoured tradition.  We ate, and drank wine.  By 10pm, I was too tired to stay awake, so I went to bed, and had another great night’s sleep.  I didn’t dream of running.  I expected to.  I can’t remember what it was I dreamt.