Hello. This probably isn't going to be short, but then neither is a marathon. Just pace yourself, read at your own speed, drink plenty of water (but not too much), stop for rests if you need to, and just enjoy the sense of achievement when you finally make it to the end...
A quick recap, in case you missed how an overweight 30-something middle manager came to think he could take on one of the world's greatest challenges. In July, I decided I was going to run the London Marathon, so I set about starting from absolute zero, building up to 10k fitness by the end of the year, and then setting off on a journey of elation and despair for the first 3 months of the next one.
Along the way, I learned what gear I needed so as not to injure various parts of my anatomy, I got to grips with the pretty demanding training plan, I raised as much money as I could for my chosen charity whilst battling injuries which sound like Finnish Metal bands, I learned what I should and shouldn't put in my gob before, during and after a long run (and then ignored it), I found what it was like to start doing runs of 10-14 miles (and enjoyed it), I did my first competitive Half-Marathon and then found what it was like to fall deep into the depths of despair during a 16-mile run in a remote forest in the rain, (and didn't enjoy it quite so much). I finally went for physio and got told not to do any more running, and my taper phase turned into a complete stop.
So I find myself the day before the race having barely run at all for a month, having only made it as far as 16 miles in training, and with my gear having only just arrived back from Copenhagen courtesy of British Airways.
What more could go wrong?
Wake Me Up
I wake up at some ungodly hour with a mixture of supreme elation and bowel-emptying nerves, the most simultaneously exciting and terrifying day since my wedding (hope this ends up a bit better than that), or that day I finally got to see Genesis with Phil Collins (hmm... ditto, actually.)
Moving bleary-eyed over towards where my kit is all laid out, I spy a little note attached to something - has Karin left me an inspirational note of well wishing? "Use me!", it says, which since it's attached to a bottle of suntan lotion, I have to assume is less of an invitation to early morning rumpy-pumpy and more of a suggestion not to contract skin cancer to go with all the other things which will inevitably be wrong with me by the end of today. It's actually a good call, you never know how the weather is going to turn out on these days - and it also reminds me to pick up a hat just in case the sun decides to show its cheeky little face later and give me a nice toasting on the top of my increasingly bald pate.
Weetabix downed, I put on the rest of my kit as nicely modelled yesterday, but now including my Cure Parkinson's Trust wristband and my @ukrunchat temporary tattoo, which probably isn't meant to go on one's hand, but never mind, the desired effect is achieved when I blatantly tag both in my pre-race tweet on the train, and I get the retweets and peptalks I'm after.
Arriving Somewhere But Not Here
The train up to Waterloo from Surbiton is absolutely full of people with red plastic bags wearing old hoodies, but that's nothing compared to the lycra-clad sea of humanity heading up the stairs to Waterloo East and the waiting trains to take us to Blackheath; which, since I'm absolutely useless at running, is where my start point - the blue start - is located. I look around at various people on the train and everyone's in their own zone: either they're with friends and supporters and chatting nervously to them, or they're on their own and exuding "leave me the hell alone" so I keep myself to myself, as much as you can when someone's armpit is rammed right in your face, anyway. At least this is pre-race, I suppose.
Arriving at Blackheath station, I follow the mass of people up the hill towards the start line, through the massive gate beyond which running-muggles may not enter, and sit down in the middle of the giant grass cattle pen we've all been herded into, to decide what I'm taking with me and what's staying in the official bag to be carted to the finish in case I make it there to collect it. This isn't as easy as you might think - how many energy gels do I need? I have no idea, so I just ram as many as will fit in my shorts pockets and still leave room for my thighs. Shall I take my own bottle of water with me? Yes, definitely - I don't like being completely out of control of my hydration. Ibuprofen? Uh-huh. Vaseline? Oh god, yes. How about this 3-day old sushi? Nahh - I give that a sniff and decide it belongs in the bin.
Dropping off my bag, I'm now basically alone with my thoughts- well, as alone as you can be whilst hanging out on Blackheath with several thousand other mediocre marathon runners ahead of you in the toilet queue. Entertainment at this point comes courtesy of a very loud PA blasting out inanities from a guy with a microphone interviewing random people he finds in the crowd.
"Oh, you've come all the way from New Zealand? Marvellous."
"It's a bit David Coleman isn't it?", says the guy behind me in the queue. More like Alan Partridge, I think.
Ready to Start
Eventually, I decide to just head down to the start line to get into my pen, where it's deathly silent, just thousands of people all standing around quietly bricking it. I think about my strategy again - when people have asked me during the week what time I'm going for, I've self-deprecatingly told everyone “I just want to finish before the street sweepers catch me up”, and there's a certain amount of truth to this, although I have written 5:45 on the expo wall of fame, and I know I will be bitterly disappointed if it takes me more than 6 hours. Logically, due to my training woes, I know I probably can't run more than 18 miles in total, so shall I do 3 lots of 6 miles with strategic walks in between? That involves me walking at 6 miles, though, when I'm still fresh, and looking like an absolute n00b for my adoring public around Greenwich and Cutty Sark, and besides, I don't want a repeat of the Hampton Court Half where I couldn't get going again after my banana break.
I decide to just play it by ear. That's a great plan, right?
So now, here I am, at the start of the London Marathon. Or, to be more accurate, in Zone 9, right at the very back of the queue to get to the least prestigious of the 3 start lines of the London Marathon. But, still. Everyone is nervously standing around, and I'm not sure whether they (or indeed I) want to talk - but eventually, out of sheer boredom and coldness, I decide to break the ice with the lady next to me, who is absolutely terrified, so I try to convince her that we're all going to be ok, even though I have no idea how I will get though this, let alone her. I'm not sure if it works, but at least she doesn't run away from me in terror, which I'll take as a result (probably not wearing the charity singlet helps with this...)
Now I don't like to spoil your TV dreams for you, but in much the same way that that's not Lord Sugar Daddy's real boardroom; not everyone who runs the marathon gets to start by running through the iconic gates of Greenwich Park, and what's more, that wonderful, inspirational music which you're humming to yourself even now, just reading this, is nowhere to be heard at all. NOWHERE! Can you believe it? Next, you'll be telling me that “Won't Get Fooled Again" doesn't play everywhere you go in Miami.
Obviously, I don't really expect my own personal theme song, but I do at least imagine, though, that we'll be able to hear announcements of what's happening down at the real start line, or more pearls of wisdom from Alan on the mike. But no - there are no speakers anywhere near us, so all there is is a deathly silence, with the dull thud of expensive trainers clomping across grass, as we all now start shuffling forlornly forwards towards what at the time (and now, again, writing this), feels like our impending doom.
And then, finally, at 10:17, I make my way over the start line to the sound of 'Around the World' by Daft Punk, which isn't quite the BBC Marathon theme, but it'll do. Here I am, running the first few steps of the London Marathon.
Wanna Be Startin' Something
Let's be honest, unless you're one of the elite runners, the first few miles of the London Marathon are really pretty boring - and that's ok, because you're supposed to be concentrating on settling into your pace anyway, which I do reasonably well, with the first 5 miles all skirting around 11 minutes, give or take. From the blue start, you head down through the residential area of Charlton towards Woolwich, which, without wishing to cause any offence to the good people of London SE7, isn't exactly picturesque. Still, we're not here to stare at the scenery, (not yet, anyway), and as we run down various nondescript streets, including the aptly named "Ha-Ha Road", at least there are a few people here and there outside their houses offering golf-clapping, sweets (not time yet, people), and the odd "C'MON JAMESY!" - which is nice of them, since this race has been going on for hours now and they probably lost their enthusiasm for encouraging people like me a good few thousand runners ago.
This is borne out by the fact that the kids who have stuck around to keep high-fiving passers-by are a bit half-hearted with their efforts now, but that's not going to deter me; having found the restorative powers of a some good hand-on-hand action during my previous races, I'm not about to stop it now (not until I nearly take a poor toddler's arm off with my over-exuberance, anyway.) More fun are the "HUMP!" people, who are guarding the many speed bumps in the road and warning us not to trip over them - something which proves quite handy when I'm running along texting my family to find out where they're going to be. "Around Mile 7!", comes the answer, which is perfect - I'm definitely going to be at the peak of my athletic prowess by then, so I'll look really cool in front of Karin, but also I'll be secretly flagging just the tiniest bit and need the pick-me-up.
But, wait, I'm only just over 2.5 miles in, so maybe it's as well to think about what I'm doing - and the primary thing my body is telling me, which is that I am TOO FLIPPING HOT. Ah yes, that base layer, which seemed like a good idea yesterday but is now acting like tinfoil on a turkey, reflecting heat back towards me from inside my charity T-shirt and basting me in my own juices. What on earth was I thinking? Well, the reasoning was sound - cotton gets damp very quickly when you run in it, and damp cotton plus bare skin equals more chafing than anyone really wants to hear about - but the temperature today is way above what I'd expected and I am in severe danger of overheating like an old Renault. It's for this reason that I end up pulling off to one side of the South Circular near the army barracks, turning my back on the crowd, stripping off right down to my shorts thereby letting my flabby stomach blow free in the breeze, wringing the sweat out onto the road and putting the CPT T-shirt right back on to my bare, clammy torso.
"C'MON JAMESY!", someone shouts, probably sarcastically, as the 4:58 pacemakers run past me wrestling with my garments. Now I've got a problem - what am I going to do with the base layer? Throw it away? Too expensive. Donate it to someone? Too wet and smelly. Carry it with me? I've already got a water bottle in one hand and don't fancy waving the base layer like a flag of sweat from the other for the whole race. I tuck it into the back of my shorts, where it flaps for the rest of the race like an oversized golfer's glove. This is definitely not annoying at all.
Still, I set off again without losing any appreciable amount of time, and before long I'm overtaking the Huddersfield Marathon Band - a marching band who have done the London Marathon every year since 2011, raising stacks of money for Sense and breaking Guiness World Records in the process.
They're inspiring for many reasons - chiefly for doing this at all, secondly because they start playing the Indiana Jones theme as I run past, which I assume is done just to inspire me, and thirdly because they're flipping slow and therefore very easy to overtake, and frankly every person I overtake without too much effort along this route is a MASSIVE WIN.
Pretty soon we make it down into Woolwich and round the massive roundabout in the town, where I get my first taste of the proper London Marathon crowds - it's rammed here, the people still seem fresh and excited, there's live music going on, and massive cheers as we come down the hill and head left towards actuLondon.
But there's still a very long way to go...
Next time: Miles 4-16. The crowds, the cameras, the unfortunate bladder issues...
A quick recap, in case you missed how an overweight 30-something middle manager came to think he could take on one of the world's greatest challenges. In July, I decided I was going to run the London Marathon, so I set about starting from absolute zero, building up to 10k fitness by the end of the year, and then setting off on a journey of elation and despair for the first 3 months of the next one.
Along the way, I learned what gear I needed so as not to injure various parts of my anatomy, I got to grips with the pretty demanding training plan, I raised as much money as I could for my chosen charity whilst battling injuries which sound like Finnish Metal bands, I learned what I should and shouldn't put in my gob before, during and after a long run (and then ignored it), I found what it was like to start doing runs of 10-14 miles (and enjoyed it), I did my first competitive Half-Marathon and then found what it was like to fall deep into the depths of despair during a 16-mile run in a remote forest in the rain, (and didn't enjoy it quite so much). I finally went for physio and got told not to do any more running, and my taper phase turned into a complete stop.
So I find myself the day before the race having barely run at all for a month, having only made it as far as 16 miles in training, and with my gear having only just arrived back from Copenhagen courtesy of British Airways.
What more could go wrong?
Wake Me Up
 |
I wake up at some ungodly hour with a mixture of supreme elation and bowel-emptying nerves, the most simultaneously exciting and terrifying day since my wedding (hope this ends up a bit better than that), or that day I finally got to see Genesis with Phil Collins (hmm... ditto, actually.)
Moving bleary-eyed over towards where my kit is all laid out, I spy a little note attached to something - has Karin left me an inspirational note of well wishing? "Use me!", it says, which since it's attached to a bottle of suntan lotion, I have to assume is less of an invitation to early morning rumpy-pumpy and more of a suggestion not to contract skin cancer to go with all the other things which will inevitably be wrong with me by the end of today. It's actually a good call, you never know how the weather is going to turn out on these days - and it also reminds me to pick up a hat just in case the sun decides to show its cheeky little face later and give me a nice toasting on the top of my increasingly bald pate.
Weetabix downed, I put on the rest of my kit as nicely modelled yesterday, but now including my Cure Parkinson's Trust wristband and my @ukrunchat temporary tattoo, which probably isn't meant to go on one's hand, but never mind, the desired effect is achieved when I blatantly tag both in my pre-race tweet on the train, and I get the retweets and peptalks I'm after.
Arriving Somewhere But Not Here
The train up to Waterloo from Surbiton is absolutely full of people with red plastic bags wearing old hoodies, but that's nothing compared to the lycra-clad sea of humanity heading up the stairs to Waterloo East and the waiting trains to take us to Blackheath; which, since I'm absolutely useless at running, is where my start point - the blue start - is located. I look around at various people on the train and everyone's in their own zone: either they're with friends and supporters and chatting nervously to them, or they're on their own and exuding "leave me the hell alone" so I keep myself to myself, as much as you can when someone's armpit is rammed right in your face, anyway. At least this is pre-race, I suppose.
Arriving at Blackheath station, I follow the mass of people up the hill towards the start line, through the massive gate beyond which running-muggles may not enter, and sit down in the middle of the giant grass cattle pen we've all been herded into, to decide what I'm taking with me and what's staying in the official bag to be carted to the finish in case I make it there to collect it. This isn't as easy as you might think - how many energy gels do I need? I have no idea, so I just ram as many as will fit in my shorts pockets and still leave room for my thighs. Shall I take my own bottle of water with me? Yes, definitely - I don't like being completely out of control of my hydration. Ibuprofen? Uh-huh. Vaseline? Oh god, yes. How about this 3-day old sushi? Nahh - I give that a sniff and decide it belongs in the bin.
Dropping off my bag, I'm now basically alone with my thoughts- well, as alone as you can be whilst hanging out on Blackheath with several thousand other mediocre marathon runners ahead of you in the toilet queue. Entertainment at this point comes courtesy of a very loud PA blasting out inanities from a guy with a microphone interviewing random people he finds in the crowd.
"Oh, you've come all the way from New Zealand? Marvellous."
"It's a bit David Coleman isn't it?", says the guy behind me in the queue. More like Alan Partridge, I think.
 |
| "You're not even listening, are you? You people..." |
Ready to Start
Eventually, I decide to just head down to the start line to get into my pen, where it's deathly silent, just thousands of people all standing around quietly bricking it. I think about my strategy again - when people have asked me during the week what time I'm going for, I've self-deprecatingly told everyone “I just want to finish before the street sweepers catch me up”, and there's a certain amount of truth to this, although I have written 5:45 on the expo wall of fame, and I know I will be bitterly disappointed if it takes me more than 6 hours. Logically, due to my training woes, I know I probably can't run more than 18 miles in total, so shall I do 3 lots of 6 miles with strategic walks in between? That involves me walking at 6 miles, though, when I'm still fresh, and looking like an absolute n00b for my adoring public around Greenwich and Cutty Sark, and besides, I don't want a repeat of the Hampton Court Half where I couldn't get going again after my banana break.
I decide to just play it by ear. That's a great plan, right?
So now, here I am, at the start of the London Marathon. Or, to be more accurate, in Zone 9, right at the very back of the queue to get to the least prestigious of the 3 start lines of the London Marathon. But, still. Everyone is nervously standing around, and I'm not sure whether they (or indeed I) want to talk - but eventually, out of sheer boredom and coldness, I decide to break the ice with the lady next to me, who is absolutely terrified, so I try to convince her that we're all going to be ok, even though I have no idea how I will get though this, let alone her. I'm not sure if it works, but at least she doesn't run away from me in terror, which I'll take as a result (probably not wearing the charity singlet helps with this...)
Now I don't like to spoil your TV dreams for you, but in much the same way that that's not Lord Sugar Daddy's real boardroom; not everyone who runs the marathon gets to start by running through the iconic gates of Greenwich Park, and what's more, that wonderful, inspirational music which you're humming to yourself even now, just reading this, is nowhere to be heard at all. NOWHERE! Can you believe it? Next, you'll be telling me that “Won't Get Fooled Again" doesn't play everywhere you go in Miami.
Obviously, I don't really expect my own personal theme song, but I do at least imagine, though, that we'll be able to hear announcements of what's happening down at the real start line, or more pearls of wisdom from Alan on the mike. But no - there are no speakers anywhere near us, so all there is is a deathly silence, with the dull thud of expensive trainers clomping across grass, as we all now start shuffling forlornly forwards towards what at the time (and now, again, writing this), feels like our impending doom.
And then, finally, at 10:17, I make my way over the start line to the sound of 'Around the World' by Daft Punk, which isn't quite the BBC Marathon theme, but it'll do. Here I am, running the first few steps of the London Marathon.
Wanna Be Startin' Something
Let's be honest, unless you're one of the elite runners, the first few miles of the London Marathon are really pretty boring - and that's ok, because you're supposed to be concentrating on settling into your pace anyway, which I do reasonably well, with the first 5 miles all skirting around 11 minutes, give or take. From the blue start, you head down through the residential area of Charlton towards Woolwich, which, without wishing to cause any offence to the good people of London SE7, isn't exactly picturesque. Still, we're not here to stare at the scenery, (not yet, anyway), and as we run down various nondescript streets, including the aptly named "Ha-Ha Road", at least there are a few people here and there outside their houses offering golf-clapping, sweets (not time yet, people), and the odd "C'MON JAMESY!" - which is nice of them, since this race has been going on for hours now and they probably lost their enthusiasm for encouraging people like me a good few thousand runners ago.
This is borne out by the fact that the kids who have stuck around to keep high-fiving passers-by are a bit half-hearted with their efforts now, but that's not going to deter me; having found the restorative powers of a some good hand-on-hand action during my previous races, I'm not about to stop it now (not until I nearly take a poor toddler's arm off with my over-exuberance, anyway.) More fun are the "HUMP!" people, who are guarding the many speed bumps in the road and warning us not to trip over them - something which proves quite handy when I'm running along texting my family to find out where they're going to be. "Around Mile 7!", comes the answer, which is perfect - I'm definitely going to be at the peak of my athletic prowess by then, so I'll look really cool in front of Karin, but also I'll be secretly flagging just the tiniest bit and need the pick-me-up.
 |
| Here they are, around Mile 7. Little do they know JUST how long they still have to wait for me to turn up. |
But, wait, I'm only just over 2.5 miles in, so maybe it's as well to think about what I'm doing - and the primary thing my body is telling me, which is that I am TOO FLIPPING HOT. Ah yes, that base layer, which seemed like a good idea yesterday but is now acting like tinfoil on a turkey, reflecting heat back towards me from inside my charity T-shirt and basting me in my own juices. What on earth was I thinking? Well, the reasoning was sound - cotton gets damp very quickly when you run in it, and damp cotton plus bare skin equals more chafing than anyone really wants to hear about - but the temperature today is way above what I'd expected and I am in severe danger of overheating like an old Renault. It's for this reason that I end up pulling off to one side of the South Circular near the army barracks, turning my back on the crowd, stripping off right down to my shorts thereby letting my flabby stomach blow free in the breeze, wringing the sweat out onto the road and putting the CPT T-shirt right back on to my bare, clammy torso.
"C'MON JAMESY!", someone shouts, probably sarcastically, as the 4:58 pacemakers run past me wrestling with my garments. Now I've got a problem - what am I going to do with the base layer? Throw it away? Too expensive. Donate it to someone? Too wet and smelly. Carry it with me? I've already got a water bottle in one hand and don't fancy waving the base layer like a flag of sweat from the other for the whole race. I tuck it into the back of my shorts, where it flaps for the rest of the race like an oversized golfer's glove. This is definitely not annoying at all.
Still, I set off again without losing any appreciable amount of time, and before long I'm overtaking the Huddersfield Marathon Band - a marching band who have done the London Marathon every year since 2011, raising stacks of money for Sense and breaking Guiness World Records in the process.
 |
| Yes, I was able to take a photo as I went past. That's how fast I was evidently going. |
They're inspiring for many reasons - chiefly for doing this at all, secondly because they start playing the Indiana Jones theme as I run past, which I assume is done just to inspire me, and thirdly because they're flipping slow and therefore very easy to overtake, and frankly every person I overtake without too much effort along this route is a MASSIVE WIN.
Pretty soon we make it down into Woolwich and round the massive roundabout in the town, where I get my first taste of the proper London Marathon crowds - it's rammed here, the people still seem fresh and excited, there's live music going on, and massive cheers as we come down the hill and head left towards actuLondon.
But there's still a very long way to go...
Next time: Miles 4-16. The crowds, the cameras, the unfortunate bladder issues...
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