The 7am train to London was packed with marathon runners. I found a seat and tried to read Ken Follett’s World without end, wondering if today would be ‘run without end’. At Clapham Junction, the guard announced, ‘Last chance to get off and escape.’ Amidst the excited chatter, I sat quietly; having not done this for 13 years, I was worried about marathon day.
This seemed a good idea when I signed up, now I’m not so sure.
As we pulled into Waterloo, the intercom crackled again; ‘I did the marathon last year: 3 hours, 21 minutes.’ Perhaps our joker-guard was a man of substance after all. ‘Then I got bored and turned over to Hollyoaks.’ There were laughs and shared smiles as the tension eased. He added, ‘Good luck today.’
At Blackheath, I followed the stream of people through the village and up to the common, which was alive with activity: runners making their way to the start, marshals directing the lost, a Kenyan elite athlete warming up, giant balloons awaiting lift off, a crane-like hoist elevating TV cameras, and a huge inflated motorcyclist dominating the skyline. Anticipation hung over the scene. For the runners, it was tinged with anxiety about what was to come: 26 and bit miles of unrelenting effort entailing the loss of several litres of sweat and a psychological battle of mind over body to keep going during the final stages. But that was all ahead. For now I had to get to the Red Start, drink plenty, load my Virgin kit bag on the lorry, and find the loos.
Have I done enough training? What about the long run I’d missed?
I shouldn’t have worried about the toilets – there were hundreds of them, all individual portables, corralled into u-shapes, each with an attendant supervising the queue. Whist inside I applied Vaseline to areas likely to rub (including toes and nipples) and adjusted my kit until everything felt comfortable. On my way over to the starting enclosures I stretched my legs – they would take most of the day’s strain – and, posing for one of the official photographers, attempted to convey an air of confidence.
Buried deep in the mass of excited competitors – over 36,000 would run today – I asked the guy standing next to me, ‘Have you done this before then?’
‘Yeah, last year,’ he answered in a broad Scottish accent, ‘but I had to pull out with an injury.’ So this year he had something to prove.
What am I trying to prove? I’ve done this before – I don’t need to do it again.
Five minutes to go and I joined dozens of others making a last dash for the toilets – it’s surprising how quickly a litre of liquid gets through the system, especially when you’re nervous. I squeezed back in, placing myself near the 4:48 time marker – my aims were to finish within 5 hours, run all the way, and raise a lot of money for Scope.
I just want to get going now.
The gun went. There was a cheer but we didn’t really move, merely shuffled forwards; it took us nearly twenty minutes to walk to the official start, just beyond the gates to Greenwich Park. I began running as we went under the gantry, and noted 10.03 on my watch, leaving the electronic chip on my shoe to record an official time. We were on our way!
Don’t go off too fast.
The first two or three miles were easy going – it was impossible to speed up even if you wanted to since the whole road was packed shoulder to shoulder with runners. We left the perimeter of Blackheath Common to plod the suburban streets of Charlton. The route was awash with supporters – families, young people, children, the elderly – shouting encouragement, handing out sweets, giving high-fives, waving banners with names on, looking for loved ones. The scenery became more industrial in Woolwich, where we merged with a dense stream of runners from the Blue Start.
I followed three guys running for British Heart Foundation, who seemed to be going at my pace (steady but slow); one of them had FOR MY MUM written on his tea-shirt. Seeing more of the portable toilets, I left the throng but, due to the queue, ended up watering a bush.
I made it my mission to spot as many different charities as I could: Altziemers, World Wildlife Fund, Sense, Cancer Research UK, Anthony Nolan, teamGO (NSPCC) all strode by.
We passed the grand buildings of the Royal Naval College before reaching the quaint streets of Greenwich. No by-pass of the Cutty Sark, since it burnt down.
6 miles in just over an hour, 10 minute miles, that’s okay.
It’s amazing how quickly classy Greenwich morphs into run-down Deptford – the high street with its boarded up shops, blocks of uninspiring flats, the church where I’d once worked, the high- rise Pepys estate.
I spotted Christina, a fellow swimmer from Guildford City Swimming Club, at around 7 miles, and wondered how she was feeling – she was travelling faster than me, so I guessed okay. I overtook two ladies from the Oxglam (Oxfam) team, both of whom were quite glamorous, if a little sweaty.
‘You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares; so go downtown, things'll be great when you're, downtown...’ If only, I thought as Petula Clark’s 1960’s hit blasted out from speakers the size of wardrobes set up on the pavement.
At 8 miles, I grabbed another bottle of water (over 700,000 would be drunk today) from one of the volunteers lined up each side of the road – they held out the opened bottles, making sure everyone got one without having to stop. I sucked it dry and threw it aside, enjoying the few minutes of revival it gave, and looking forward to the next one in a mile’s time.
Feeling good.
A Boys’ Brigade pipe band stirred our spirits, and several jazz groups on the street or nestled in balconies gave us rhythm. At Surrey Quays we headed into Rotherhithe, where across the river, we could see the gleaming towers of Canary Wharf.
We ran the Jamaica Road through Bermondsey until, at just beyond 12 miles, the route turned right and there stood majestic Tower Bridge, heaving with supporters. A runner behind me said to his mate as the crowds roared, ‘This is what it’s all about.’ The noise was deafening, like running a medieval gauntlet except the cheering was supportive rather than hostile. Charities had set up banners and flags and were picking out their own runners and erupting into shouts and cheers and clapping.
This is fantastic!
At the end of the bridge we turned right again and, as we reached the 13 mile marker, weary- looking runners coming the other way were passing through 22 miles.
Time: 2 hours 17 minutes, starting to feel tired.
It was a relief to reach half way but I knew the next stretch would for me be the most difficult part of the run – we were now running away from the finish on a ten mile detour around the Isle of Dogs.
Get to 17 miles and turn for home.
The fact that nearly everyone is running for a cause makes the event unique, and gives you the motivation to continue as the pain builds; I overtook or was passed by: WellChild, RNIB, Whizz-Kidz, The Prostate Cancer Charity, Believe in children (Barnardo’s), Children with Leukaemia, WaterAid, Breast Cancer Care, Phabkids.
The street narrowed squeezing us closer together, with speed bumps increasing the trip hazards. When we had gone as far south as we could without getting wet, the route turned sharp left and, as we passed the old-looking Dockland Settlement Youth and Community Centre on East Ferry Road, I knew we were on our way back. At 18 miles, the Scope team gave me a huge round of applause, which provided a brief diversion from the strain my legs were now under – for the last mile or so I had started feel a creeping exhaustion and had reduced my pace to compensate.
Several switch-backs guided us around the austere grey turrets of Canary Warf, where I felt dizzy looking up, and imagined bankers hoarding their money. By 20 miles, we were in the earthier environment of Poplar High Street.
6 miles to go, like my training run at home; I can do this.
Needing a boost at 21 miles, I squeezed a Lucozade Gel down my throat, then had to get some water to wash the sticky stuff down. I tried to divert myself from the grind by spotting more charity t- shirts: Guide Dogs, We are Macmillan, VICTA, Action Medical Research, Asthma UK, Shelter, Marie Curie Cancer Care, Spinal Research, British Red Cross, and Unicef – they were all here.
We reached 22 miles around 2pm and I worked out I could finish in less than 5 hours if I maintained my current speed.
Don’t slow down, keep going.
It was a relief to get out of the sun as we entered the long underpass on Upper Thames Street, leaving behind for a few moments the cacophony of sound that had followed us almost continuously. We laboured up the slight incline to emerge at 24 miles.
There’s the London Eye – it’s not far!
Along Victoria Embankment I managed to keep to pace until suddenly, I suffered severe cramp in my left thigh and right calf simultaneously.
Not now! Pull over, stretch.
I flexed both legs momentarily by the kerb and somehow shook off the cramp.
Lord, keep my legs going.
‘Peter! Peter!’
I looked left for the caller, keen to acknowledge everyone who picked out the name scrawled with a laundry marker on my t-shirt. To my surprise and delight it was my wife, Clare.
‘Well done, Dad!’ shouted David. He, Elodie, and Alison were dodging through the crowd and matching my pace, which at that stage, wasn’t difficult. ‘Keep going, Dad!’ called Alison, snapping my picture.
I acknowledged them with a wave and a grimace; ‘Got cramp in my legs!’ Their support got me under Waterloo Bridge and along the next stretch to 25 miles.
Only a mile to go!
There was an increase in speed from those running around me and I responded as best I could. We passed a soldier in boots carrying a huge pack. An elderly man in an Oxfam t-shirt I’d seen before was just ahead of me, as were two of my Scope team mates.
With Big Ben in front of us, we ran up the incline to Westminster Bridge and turned right. There was a further acceleration as gravity pulled us down the gentle slope to the 800m marker. I smiled at photographers snapping from the central island on Birdcage Walk. With 600m to go, worryingly I could feel the cramps in my legs returning.
Stay calm – I’m not stopping now!
I could see runners turning right into the Mall. A woman wearing a black bathing costume overtook me by the Victoria Memorial in front of Buckingham Palace. I ran through the large gantry marking 385 yards, and then it was a dash to the finish.
Thank goodness, I can see the end!
Like those around me, I rallied my legs for one last effort – it couldn’t be called a sprint but I managed to go a little faster. One guy in a Superman cape dashed passed as if he hadn’t been running all morning.
I held my hands aloft as I crossed the line, looking up at the photographers above us.
It’s over!
I checked the time – it was before 3pm – I’d done it. Officials funneled us onwards and over a wooden ramp where people on their knees snipped the time chips off our running shoes.
‘That was tough,’ I said to the woman behind me.
‘Yeah, it’s a long way,’ she replied.
More officials in red strung medals around our necks, and further on we were given goody-bags,
from which I quickly ate the Mars Bar and swigged the water. A notice board listed the winners – it was a good day for Kenya, taking first, second and third places in the men’s race and first and third in the women’s, with Emmanuel Mutai breaking the course record in an astonishing 2 hours, 4 minutes and 40 seconds.
‘Red to the left, blue to the right,’ said a marshal just before we reached the lorries parked the length of the Mall.
I continued in a daze, my legs stiffening with each stride. Stepping up into one of the toilets was a struggle. After collecting my kitbag, I followed the slow-moving human tide to Horse Guards Parade where, amidst thousands of others, I eventually found my family, who grinned as they saw I could hardly walk. ‘Shoot me if I say I’m going to do that again,’ I said.
The Scope team applauded the arrival of each runner at the reception set up in the Royal United Services Institute. A physio massaged my thighs and calves painfully back to life, necessary if I was going to make it back to Waterloo. Sandwiches and cups of tea continued my body’s revival.
4 hours, 51 minutes and 25 seconds was my official time, and I’d run all the way.
At home, lying immobile in a hot bath and unsure how I would get out of it, I decided that, on balance, it had been a good marathon day.