MORE THAN BOX TICKED AND T-SHIRT GOT
The day came and went like the flash of Martin Lel’s red shorts (if, indeed, they were shorts and not a cunningly camouflaged rocket pack). But the memories will be locked in my head, wrapped in silver space foil for incubated preservation.
Months (well a month-and-a-bit, really) of hard graft and preparation had gone into this one balloon-and-whistle fest of a day. The apprehension was beginning to pinch tighter than my running shorts. I suppose the self-doubt is worse for first-timers, but a nagging question could not be shaken: Had I done enough pavement-pounding? After all, there had been setbacks in training – crippling(ish) knee injuries, boozy gambols in the snow and bouts of exhausted sloth – that cannot have helped matters.
But it was too late for nerves to bite. Following a mountainous bowl of oats after a 6.30am wake up, I was on my way to Maze Hill, where my 26.3 miles was to begin. On that early tube, and the connecting train from London Bridge, there was evidence enough that this was going to be a wacky, unique day.
As I hopped on at Baker Street there were no more than four fellow marathon runners to be seen. A knowing nod and a reciprocal split-second look of sheer terror at the thought of what the next six, or more, hours could bring, sufficed. Then came Bond Street, followed by Green Park, and an increasing number of running shoes shuffled their way into the now-jammed carriage.
Pulled-taut red and white laces, timing chips, chunky black electric watches and multi-coloured Lycra dominated. Nervous chatter wafted through the claustrophobic tube, and like the pungent fusion of Deep Heat, talcum powder, Vaseline and colourful but cloying energy drinks, it was all a bit nauseating.
Seven-foot rhinos jostled with convicts for comfier positions; jocular robots and pirates talked race tactics, and of the fabled ‘wall’. It had been this wall that had plagued my recent slumbers, waking me with a sweaty jolt. This imaginary insurmountable physiological barrier can confront you from around the 16-mile mark, when your fatigued body joins forces with an unsteady step and confused delirium. It stops you in your tracks; and when you stop it is tremendously hard to start again.
Attempting to clear this chilling thought from my head, I joined the herd of runners bounding their way through Greenwich Park. Having clocked where I was to start from, I looked long and hard for a place where I could lose a pound or two, where the queues were not Russian Revolution-esque.
My pickiness had caused me to be late for the 9.45am race. I quickly changed into my kit, briefly stretched and began trotting towards to the back of the throng which was ambling towards the start line. Sardined again.
It was a trippingly-slow pace for the first 10 miles; we even came to a complete stand-still around mile six as some of the 34,000 (London’s third largest, in 28 marathons) partakers had to squeeze through a gap no wider than sideways car.
But rather than getting frustrated, I began to hum to the tune of the marathon. The streets were becoming increasingly flanked by well-wishers, musicians, cheering children who would offer their tiny hands as a high-five option. (The only hands on offer that you had to beware were those of the St Johns Ambulance folk, whose plastic gloves were smothered in yet more Vaseline. Watching someone apply thick, gooey petroleum jelly, mid-jog, to their inner thighs is quite a sight to behold.)
Spirits were high and optimism abounded. Runners, of all ages and from all corners of the globe, each carrying a story as to why they were running for charity, exchanged cheery conversation. Polite ‘excuse mes’, ‘pardons’, ‘no problems’ and ‘you’re welcomes’ were commonplace when overtaking was a mite cosy. No bad mannered barging, elbowing or similar was witnessed; not in London, which – according to race veterans – provides the ultimate carnival marathon. (I hear, in particular, the Berlin run in September is a slightly more bruising experience).
Having eventually found my rhythm I motored through the ballooned mile markers, boosted by the energy gels I had been suckered into buying while registering the day before. Slurping water or Lucozade whenever it was offered, and grabbing the handouts of bananas and Jelly Babies I began to whole-heartedly enjoy the run. No need for i-Pods or other distractions to disguise the reality that running is dull – the street festival atmosphere was inspiration enough to keep going.
The lumbering stilted woman, Batmen and Robins, luminous g-string-clad Borats, fully-laden marines and Masai warriors I passed en route to Buckingham Palace’s finale, were a hoot. The collective sense of a will to succeed, all for differing but benevolent reasons, permeated every pore, and my legs pumped on. Even the rain, which lasted only 20minutes, could not dampen spirits.
The course snaked through London, and the further we loped, the denser the audience became. At first I thought the idea of having ‘Ollie’ ironed on to my skimpy yellow RNLI running slip was a little twee. Though when the lack of lactic acid began to burn, that six-deep, bellowing crowd propelled me further.
Through Embankment, with the magical finishing line a mere two miles away, the egging on was an essential fillip, and – I’m sure – helped me evade the dreaded ‘wall’. Staggering those last few hundred paces, eyes blurred by delirium, leaden-footed, a relief and joy at the realisation that this odyssey was near to finishing washed over me.
Through the line, medal awarded, timing chip snipped off for assessment, and still I couldn’t hold back a stupefied grin. Once I realised my time – three hours 48 minutes – I went into back-slapping overdrive, congratulating every silver-foiled comrade.
A tremendous sense of achievement filled me, and yes: I ticked the marathon box, and was awarded the t-shirt. But, much more importantly, in that unique sub-four hour journey I learned a lot about my own limits and took great heart from the selflessness of other runners, all raising money for fantastic, meaningful charities.
The emotional come down was diluted by my first guilt-free pint of lager since November. And, despite the fact that my legs will not now do as I tell them – I’m as unsteady as a new-born fawn – I reckon I will be up for another 26.3 miles soon. I wonder when the Snowdonia Marathon is …
The day came and went like the flash of Martin Lel’s red shorts (if, indeed, they were shorts and not a cunningly camouflaged rocket pack). But the memories will be locked in my head, wrapped in silver space foil for incubated preservation.
Months (well a month-and-a-bit, really) of hard graft and preparation had gone into this one balloon-and-whistle fest of a day. The apprehension was beginning to pinch tighter than my running shorts. I suppose the self-doubt is worse for first-timers, but a nagging question could not be shaken: Had I done enough pavement-pounding? After all, there had been setbacks in training – crippling(ish) knee injuries, boozy gambols in the snow and bouts of exhausted sloth – that cannot have helped matters.
But it was too late for nerves to bite. Following a mountainous bowl of oats after a 6.30am wake up, I was on my way to Maze Hill, where my 26.3 miles was to begin. On that early tube, and the connecting train from London Bridge, there was evidence enough that this was going to be a wacky, unique day.
As I hopped on at Baker Street there were no more than four fellow marathon runners to be seen. A knowing nod and a reciprocal split-second look of sheer terror at the thought of what the next six, or more, hours could bring, sufficed. Then came Bond Street, followed by Green Park, and an increasing number of running shoes shuffled their way into the now-jammed carriage.
Pulled-taut red and white laces, timing chips, chunky black electric watches and multi-coloured Lycra dominated. Nervous chatter wafted through the claustrophobic tube, and like the pungent fusion of Deep Heat, talcum powder, Vaseline and colourful but cloying energy drinks, it was all a bit nauseating.
Seven-foot rhinos jostled with convicts for comfier positions; jocular robots and pirates talked race tactics, and of the fabled ‘wall’. It had been this wall that had plagued my recent slumbers, waking me with a sweaty jolt. This imaginary insurmountable physiological barrier can confront you from around the 16-mile mark, when your fatigued body joins forces with an unsteady step and confused delirium. It stops you in your tracks; and when you stop it is tremendously hard to start again.
Attempting to clear this chilling thought from my head, I joined the herd of runners bounding their way through Greenwich Park. Having clocked where I was to start from, I looked long and hard for a place where I could lose a pound or two, where the queues were not Russian Revolution-esque.
My pickiness had caused me to be late for the 9.45am race. I quickly changed into my kit, briefly stretched and began trotting towards to the back of the throng which was ambling towards the start line. Sardined again.
It was a trippingly-slow pace for the first 10 miles; we even came to a complete stand-still around mile six as some of the 34,000 (London’s third largest, in 28 marathons) partakers had to squeeze through a gap no wider than sideways car.
But rather than getting frustrated, I began to hum to the tune of the marathon. The streets were becoming increasingly flanked by well-wishers, musicians, cheering children who would offer their tiny hands as a high-five option. (The only hands on offer that you had to beware were those of the St Johns Ambulance folk, whose plastic gloves were smothered in yet more Vaseline. Watching someone apply thick, gooey petroleum jelly, mid-jog, to their inner thighs is quite a sight to behold.)
Spirits were high and optimism abounded. Runners, of all ages and from all corners of the globe, each carrying a story as to why they were running for charity, exchanged cheery conversation. Polite ‘excuse mes’, ‘pardons’, ‘no problems’ and ‘you’re welcomes’ were commonplace when overtaking was a mite cosy. No bad mannered barging, elbowing or similar was witnessed; not in London, which – according to race veterans – provides the ultimate carnival marathon. (I hear, in particular, the Berlin run in September is a slightly more bruising experience).
Having eventually found my rhythm I motored through the ballooned mile markers, boosted by the energy gels I had been suckered into buying while registering the day before. Slurping water or Lucozade whenever it was offered, and grabbing the handouts of bananas and Jelly Babies I began to whole-heartedly enjoy the run. No need for i-Pods or other distractions to disguise the reality that running is dull – the street festival atmosphere was inspiration enough to keep going.
The lumbering stilted woman, Batmen and Robins, luminous g-string-clad Borats, fully-laden marines and Masai warriors I passed en route to Buckingham Palace’s finale, were a hoot. The collective sense of a will to succeed, all for differing but benevolent reasons, permeated every pore, and my legs pumped on. Even the rain, which lasted only 20minutes, could not dampen spirits.
The course snaked through London, and the further we loped, the denser the audience became. At first I thought the idea of having ‘Ollie’ ironed on to my skimpy yellow RNLI running slip was a little twee. Though when the lack of lactic acid began to burn, that six-deep, bellowing crowd propelled me further.
Through Embankment, with the magical finishing line a mere two miles away, the egging on was an essential fillip, and – I’m sure – helped me evade the dreaded ‘wall’. Staggering those last few hundred paces, eyes blurred by delirium, leaden-footed, a relief and joy at the realisation that this odyssey was near to finishing washed over me.
Through the line, medal awarded, timing chip snipped off for assessment, and still I couldn’t hold back a stupefied grin. Once I realised my time – three hours 48 minutes – I went into back-slapping overdrive, congratulating every silver-foiled comrade.
A tremendous sense of achievement filled me, and yes: I ticked the marathon box, and was awarded the t-shirt. But, much more importantly, in that unique sub-four hour journey I learned a lot about my own limits and took great heart from the selflessness of other runners, all raising money for fantastic, meaningful charities.
The emotional come down was diluted by my first guilt-free pint of lager since November. And, despite the fact that my legs will not now do as I tell them – I’m as unsteady as a new-born fawn – I reckon I will be up for another 26.3 miles soon. I wonder when the Snowdonia Marathon is …
Labels: London, London Marathon, Martin Lel
