The Problem With Breathing: Part IV
There are many things that are addictive: caffeine. Check. Alcohol. Check. Gambling. Check. Sex. Check. Power. Check and check.
But, my observant friend, you may have noticed running a marathon is very much not on that (let’s face it) well-researched and thoroughly exhaustive list.
And yet I was reading a post over on Insta (you can call it Instagram but everyone under 26 will laugh at you) by the fabulous Julie Creffield, aka The Fat Girl’s Guide to Running who claims they are 100% AdDiCTivE. So much so, that she’s signed up for one in 2022 and appears to be very excited about the whole thing.
I am not excited about marathons. I love watching documentaries about them, cheering them on, reading about them, supporting other people’s training with helpful advice based on very little experience etc. I just don’t like running them.
But I have.
And because you’re probably at least 37% sure you want me to, I’m going to go through Marathon Day London 2019 — the good, the bad and the sheer volume of weird things I ate en route.
We Call it Attention to Detail
We’d stayed up in London the night before at a friend of Rob’s. He’s a good guy and decamped to his girlfriend’s house for the night. I’ll be forever grateful for his girlfriend’s insistence that he changed the sheets in the bedrooms for us. She’s a keeper, Toby.
Like any athlete about to embark on the epic physical challenge of their career, greasy burgers and chips were on the menu. It’s no wonder my nutritional advice is sought far and wide.
Fast forward through a sleepless night, a packed train of mostly quiet runners liberally applying Vaseline to various body parts and going through their Spotify playlists, and I’m at a café in Blackheath for what, in hindsight, might be one coffee too many.
I meet up with Claire and her sister, a friend from Geneva. As usual the talk turns to Portaloos. We queue. And then line up to queue again. Claire assures us this is all perfectly normal.
We line up. Hoodies are tossed to the ground, to be collected by a charity who redistributes them to homeless people. I look around to see if there’s anyone to talk to. Friends are chatting. Claire, being the gazelle she is, has gone to her speedy pen. I’m alone and absolutely bricking it, to use a technical expression. The coffee buzz is having a weird effect on my brain. And then we’re off.
The start line goes on for about seven years and it takes several minutes to cross the official line and get going. It’s truly overwhelming and also brilliant.
Flying Feet
I’m not going to lie, that first 13-miles was pretty ok. I fell into step with a woman going the same pace. She eventually falls behind with a bum strain. I’m sure that’s what she said. Bum strain. Does that sound right to you? Anyway, I’m back off again and going strong.
Tower Bridge is something else. I walk across, turns out walking’s not much slower than my run pace but I savour the moment and the chance to be on the telly — probably looking amazing, actually.
I turn towards the Cutty Sark and there’s a friend in the crowd who’s come to surprise me. I give her a sweaty hug and fail to convey how bloody grateful I am to have her there. It means the world.
Somewhere around Greenwich way I see my family for the first and last time before the finish. My daughters have been studiously high-fiving the runners and ask me if we’re going for a McDonald’s afterwards. I’m not sure. To be honest, it doesn’t feel like a priority at this juncture.
The crowds are nothing short of incredible. I’m wearing a Sands charity t-shirt with my name on. I’m running for a very special little boy and his family and every time I think of them, it spurs me on and my eyes leak a bit. People yell my name back to me with shouts of encouragement, stories are shared, hugs are offered, sandwiches are thrust in my direction (dear reader I ate them), and a can of Stella is handed to me — hard no.
And then I meet the wall.
The weirdest, darkest place I’ve ever been. It starts with tunnel vision. I feel sick and wobbly and the mental fog is suffocating. I wonder if I can crawl. It feels reasonable. I make my way to a Portaloo and hide. Literally, crouch down and hide. For some time.
Once the reality of my situation begins to dawn, I make my way out of my fragrant hidey-hole and decide that, at the very least, I’ll walk to the nearest St John’s Ambulance station and turn myself in.
As I walk, the fog very slowly begins to lift, the sun makes its way back into my head and I realise I’m at mile 19. My knee goes.
I mean whatever but I’ll take the dodgy knee every time. It does mean that I have to walk the last seven miles and I’m in a bit of pain. Bring on the ugly crying.
Then I Won
En route I’ve seen some brilliant live music, been humbled by the crowd’s love and been overtaken several times by the Eiffel Tower. I’ve eaten sweets from the sticky hands of children, drunk litres of Tailwind from my Camelbak and wished the whole sorry thing would end and then not. It’s a riot of colour, noise and emotion. It’s a lot.
After far too long, I’m hobbling down the homestretch of Pall Mall towards the finish line. A very sprightly older gentleman runs past saying: “We’re nearly there, aren’t marathons brilliant? You’ll be signing up for the next one soon”. I think not, flashy granddad.
I say a prayer for the mates I’m running for. And cross the finish line in a pile of snot, tears and sweat. My weird kid licks my face: “Ummmm salty. Can we have a Maccas now?”
Obligatory photos are taken, the medal is hung and it’s done.
Physically, brutal. Emotionally…much the same.
