How (not) to Run the London Marathon (Part Three)

Previously on How (not) to Run the London Marathon: Miles 4-16. Waving at the TV cameras, lapping up other people's crowd support, and weeing in a park.

And don't forget to go back to Part One, either, for miles 1-4 and especially if you want to understand how I started out like an oven-basting turkey...

I Didn't See it Coming

Mile 16 (The Isle of Dogs): So, having made it to the same point as my longest training run without bursting into tears yet, everything from here on out is a bonus. Looking around, there are now significant numbers of people walking, and every one of them I overtake whilst still keeping on running is a small personal victory. “HA!”, I think. “You started out too fast, lady! You, over there, you didn't do enough training! I've got much bigger calf muscles than you, red top dude. You're even more bald than me, man in expensive gear!”

This keeps me entertained for a bit, until, coming down Westferry Road, I start to hear Bon Jovi’s “Livin' on a Prayer” coming from somewhere. This is extremely motivating (even though it is Bon Jovi), because I've not had my music on at all until now, and as one with the other runners around me, I start yelling along with it – and then suddenly we turn round a small bend and realise that it's not a recording, it's a full gospel choir singing from a balcony up above the street. Another lifetime memory moment, I start running sideways to enjoy as much of it as I can (or as much as I can without knackering any parts of my body that don't need any further excuse to stop working, anyway…)

As the heavenly sounds fade away into the distance, my spirits start to sink again and I try anything I can to distract my mind from the various bits of me which are now becoming increasingly uncomfortable – but it's then that I spot someone in a green Macmillan shirt who looks sort of familiar from a Twitter photo - yep it's @mr_egregious, a best mate of a best mate, who I've been chatting with online about the training. He's having a bit of a hard time right now, so I slow right down, call out to him and we have a good old laugh about just how insane this whole thing is, which goes some way toward taking both our minds off things for just a tiny fraction of this ordeal.He's feeling done in and wants to walk, though, and I feel just about human and want to carry on, so off I go, and he becomes just the latest in a long line of people that I feel superior for overtaking. (Don't worry - he catches me up pretty well later on and I promise I don't think anything mean about him as I go. Honest.)

I'm quite impressed I managed to recognise him from this, actually...

This probably helped.

I'm at 16 and a half miles now, close to where Karin has texted me to say she is waiting, and never have I needed to see anyone as badly as I need to see her right now. Every step seems to take 20 seconds, as I clump heavily onwards, feet pounding the pavement like I hate it for doing this to me – my running gait now looking more like a reverse moonwalk – it's no accident that most of the official photos from the second half of the race make it look like I'm not lifting my feet off the ground at all...

But then, there she is by the side of the road, and I'm overcome with emotion and exhilaration and just run over to give her a big kiss and a cuddle, which I'm sure is extremely hygienically pleasant for her. "I love you so much", I say, prompting a chorus of  "awwww"s from the people all around. I don't explain to anyone at this stage that I feel I should say this just in case we never see each other again.

It's another wonderful moment, and it propels me to somehow keep going for another mile or so, despite the fact that my legs are now basically numb and quite possibly about to fall off - and then, there I am coming up Limeharbour, at 17 and a half miles, 3 hours and 21 minutes after I started, and I suddenly realise that I'm in trouble. I'm hit by the realisation of the fact that I've really always known, that I can't pull another 9 miles out of the running bag based on adrenalin and willpower alone. There is no sense in pushing it so far that I have to be picked up by the “fail bus” that comes around to collect stragglers every so often – and everything about me really could do with a break.

I stop and walk.

It'd be easy to consider this a massive failure, and to beat myself up about it, but I've already done more than I thought I might be able to do a couple of weeks ago, WAY more than I ever thought I'd do when I was at my fattest and laziest a few years back, and 9 times as far as to my school friend Rob's house for cake. It means there will be unfinished business to take care of at some point in the future (I'm not going 6 feet under without being able to say I ran a full marathon), but for now, this is all about damage limitation. There are still 9 miles to go, and it's not an option to give up on doing this on foot.

Besides which, I've forgotten my Oyster Card.

It's alright, Joanne and Derek are walking, too.

Walking in My Shoes

Walking feels very odd - my legs are stuck in a weird pointy-outy position and don't want to go inwards at all, making me feel a bit like a dog with its parts on display. The soles of my feet feel like I've been standing on them for days after attacking them with a cheese grater, my toenails appear to have been steam rollered into the tops of my toes, and the only consolation is that I don't seem to need any of the Vaseline that's being liberally offered by St John's Ambulance guys at the side of the road.

I decide to stop completely on Marsh Wall and have a stretch of my hamstrings, calves, basically anything which feels good. It's lovely, but it's not getting me any closer to that finishing line, so I have to push off again. We’re 3 hours and 30 minutes into this, and if I go at my “worst-case” walking pace of 16-minutes-a-mile, there'll be another 2 and a half hours to go. This thought somehow propels me to get running again.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHWWWWW” – There it is, that familiar stabbing pain just below my right knee which signals that my Illotibial band is incredibly displeased with me. Previous occurrences of this have either come at the end of a long run and left me limping to a bus or train, or have stopped me dead in my tracks mid-run. Neither of these are an option today, so I push on through it. The first 20 seconds or so are absolute agony and I worry that the ITB might snap, but it's a resilient old piece of connective tissue, and it gradually gets used to the idea that I'm a complete masochist and shuts up complaining long enough for me to build up some momentum and forget about it. If only I'd thought before now of running through the pain until it went numb.

Now we're coming up to Canary Wharf and the 19 mile mark, and I do some alternate run/walking, whatever feels comfortable – I even stop to pick up some Lucozade Sport, which as the magazine promised, does indeed taste very different during the race. It tastes warm and syrupy and utterly disgusting. Thanks, Lucozade.

Notice how the spectators are just standing there, staring. That's because we're all walking and don't deserve their support. Fair enough.

I need whatever I can get in the way of inspiration at this stage, so it's finally time for the music to go on. Banging tracks from Muse, Saint Etienne, New Order, Porcupine Tree and, er, Phil Collins match the thundering pace of my heart beat, which by now doesn't drop below 140 even when I'm walking. But somehow what really does it for me on this occasion, as I go round in little "C"s between the skyscrapers, is “Hellstate”, an old 80's instrumental demo track from a long defunct band called Freefall which contained some of my mates. The slow intro and gradual build-up of the track act like a spring coiling up as I plod slowly along, and as a massive drum fill announces the fast, loud, keyboard-y section, I literally spring off again, exhilaration in my heart which lasts all of 13 minutes, but still, it gets me to the next mile marker. 20 miles. This seems like a massive milestone, and therefore a good time to take another breather. (Actually, to be honest, all the time seems like a good time to take a massive breather right now.)

I've been going for getting on for 4 hours now and I can feel that I'm done – in fact I'm way beyond done; if I was a halibut on Hell's Kitchen, Gordon Ramsay would have slammed his fist into me and thrown me in the bin by now. But there are still 6 and a bit miles to go, and I have to get there somehow, anyhow, so I start clutching at mental straws – something, anything to distract me from the pain in my legs, the burning in my lungs, and the pounding in my head. I start by looking out for landmarks and trying to come up with personal connections to them – oh, there's that Whisky bar where I got hammered with a client a couple of years ago. There's the wine bar where me and my flatmate John used to dress up in suits like pretentious wankers and go and sit drinking overpriced beer after lectures at uni. (GET IN THE SEA.) Actually, a lot of these memories seem to revolve around alcohol for some reason, which isn't very helpful really, since my stomach is just awash with water, energy gel, Lucozade Sport, Jelly Babies and Mini Mars Bars, and the thought of more sugar and liquid makes me want to vomit even more than I already do.

Noooo! No more!!!

My kingdom for a bacon sandwich… my imaginary kingdom, that is… I don't have a kingdom…What would my kingdom be like? I bet I'd be a rubbish King, I'd never make any decisions... I suppose you don't have to, if you're King, you can get someone else to do it for you while you sit eating roast swan... I probably don't even like roast swan… Swans are odd, aren't they? Very long necks. I wonder why they have such long necks… Probably to get to the bottom of ponds. Ugh, I bet it's manky at the bottom of the Serpentine. 

See, another 1/10th of a mile gone, right there.


I Don't Feel Amazing Now

I spot some Parkinson's UK supporters and try them out for a bit of sympathy - “I know I'm not one of yours but can I get a cheer anyway?” They give me a little cheer (C'mon, we're all on the same side, this is not the general election!) - and this helps a bit. Even better, there's a lady further on handing out bananas, and I immediately fall in love with her despite the fact that she appears to be in her 70's. We're in Poplar now and here's the 21 miles marker – 5 and a bit to go – that's less than a 10k race, right? I can eat those for breakfast!

The route is now dull as heck, though, and any running I do is getting extremely difficult, if you can call it running at all, and not old-lady-power-walking which is what it looks like. We go through a residential estate and there's quite a nice vibe, with people outside their houses having barbecues and playing music and all that jazz. “Keep going! You’re such an inspiration!”, shouts a lady sitting in a deck chair puffing on a cigarette with a can of Stella in the other hand.

I'm just trying to get going again when I spot a man lying at the side of the road looking extremely pale, apparently unconscious, on a drip and being tended to by the St John's ambulance – luckily he's the only one I see in such a bad state, but it later turns out that someone does sadly die after crossing the finish line, and I'm reminded again just what an endurance feat this is, how you absolutely need to train properly and how it isn't just about the running. The other exercises, the cross training, the practice races, the drink and energy gel practice, the food – everything they've been telling you to do and I've been mocking for page upon page, is to help you get through this. I'm scraping through it, but I'm not as well prepared as I want to be, and I just thank goodness that I have the good sense to know my limits, and know when I'm beaten.

From here on in, everything starts to become a gigantic blur. I can only think about the fact that there's still 5 and a bit miles to somehow cover and there's mostly just one long straight road all the way to Westminster now. Hazy thoughts of that lonely run in the French forest start cropping up to panic the shit out of me, the crowd is starting to thin out a little (although they make up for it in enthusiasm) and I really don't know where my family is.

In dire straits now, it's time to break open the emergency box and resort to the worst advice I've been given, the most shameful advice that I can possibly admit to having considered. Yes, in the week before the race, a colleague at work is chatting to me about the run, and he tells me he's heard this great tip from an elderly man who's still running marathons in his 80's:

“He said: I find someone in front of me with a really cracking arse, and focus on that!”, says my colleague, with a cheeky glint in his eye.

Except that he put it a little less pervily, and he was joking... and my colleague definitely wasn't...

Weighing up my responsibilities as someone's life partner, someone's uncle, various people's boss and a feminist and honorary Scandinavian, against my desire to get to the end of this without jacking it all in, I decide there's nothing for it but to give this a try. It feels wrong, it feels dirty, but I'm ashamed to say it kind of works. At least I try staring at some men's arses as well to make it feel less wrong – never let it be said that I am not an equal opportunities perv.

Luckily, I'm awoken pretty quickly from my arse-reverie by someone nearby:

"Can anyone help me open my gel please?"

I look round and there's the same lady again from mile 8 - we have a good chuckle about this but nobody's really in the mood for talking  - we're getting into the City and along with most of the people around me, I'm walking more than I'm running now. A few steps run when I feel able, and then a torturous, painful walk that I would definitely curtail with a sit down and a pint, were this a nice country stroll. I take every cheer I can get from the crowd and try to use it to run a few more steps - some people on a balcony shout “Come On Jamesy!” and I wave at them with my hat but it's all I can manage. If only I could run on my arms, they seem pretty strong now.


Don't Stop Me Now (cause I'm having SUCH a good time...)

I'm really in deep despair now and text my sister Rachel to ask where they all are, with the answer coming back “Mile 23!”, which now becomes my main goal, I have to make it there and pronto. I contemplate starting a to and fro conversation to pass the time, in fact to be honest I could basically walk along playing Angry Birds at this stage but I figure I'd get a bit less crowd sympathy and encouragement as well as falling into the Thames, so the phone stays in my pocket, where due to some absent-minded fiddling, I manage to take this lovely series of snaps of the lining of my shorts.

Like this...

And this... well you get the idea.

It's a good job I decide to focus on the way ahead because there, all of a sudden, like a blue and white beacon by the side of the dark, dark road, are the Cure Parkinson's Trust cheer squad. I was sure I'd missed them, and I greet them like long lost friends, greedily chugging down their jelly babies and attempting to stop for a chat, but they're having none of it… “Go on, keep going!” says Anna, which isn't really what I want to hear, but it does prompt me to give running another go, to cheers from my temporary fanclub. At least they manage to take this, the only non-official (read: non-expensive) photo I know of, of me running this blooming thing.

Then there's mile 23 and there are all my family, getting sweaty hugs and high fives - “THIS IS VERY HARD…” I start bellowing, and again I try to stop and chat as much as possible, but they don't want to be responsible for a bad time (HA!) and shoo me off on my way, where I run off for about 13 steps until I get lost in the crowd and then start walking again - to be honest, the running metres are now slower than the walking metres, so the only reason to even pretend to run is to stop people thinking I'm just being lazy and shouting at me ..

"Come on mate! Nearly there! Come on, RUN!"

"F**K THE F**K OFF", I don't shout.

“Come on Jamesy, you can do it!”, shouts a lady from a bridge up above the road near Cannon Street. Now this is more like it. Adrenalin suddenly surges through my veins and I forget for just one second that everything south of my navel is in agony. “YES, YES I CAN!”, I yell, and push off again to cheers from her and her friends – another highlight of the whole day. For them, I mean, obviously.

I look like I'm having a whale of a time.

We're close now, but not close enough; we'll never be close enough until I've got that medal round my neck, and even with just 2 and a bit miles to go, my brain is tying itself up in knots between self-preservation and determination to finish this. Going under the Blackfriars underpass, there's blaring music from the day's hit parade  (e.g. “Don't Stop Me Now”) and motivational messages adorn the walls (“Pain is temporary, Pride is forever”). In my emotional state, I don't even make a pretend “vomit” sign - in fact it moves me nearly to the point of tears, as I well up, thinking about everything I've put in to get to this point, how much everything hurts, and why I'm doing this, what can be achieved for Parkinson's sufferers with the nearly £1500 I've managed to collect.

But I can't fully let myself go yet, I'm not there. Somehow I make it to the mile 25 marker and I'm able to tell myself that even at my slowest run/walk pace, this only means 15 minutes to go – what's 15 minutes when you've been going for over 5 hours? This somehow prompts me to “run” again (what passes for running at this stage, anyway), and I stop/start down the Embankment, around the corner by the Houses of Parliament and up onto Birdcage Walk. (Skilfully, I manage to buy only the photos from the “start” phases.)

YES! Look at me, still running so close to the end when all around me are walking!
(There's one from about 5 seconds after this where I am clearly just out for a stroll...)

Eventually I see a sign that tells me there's only 800m to go, but this suddenly seems like the hardest thing in the world. 800 metres - that's literally miles! I can't do that... I don't have anything left in the tank at all. "I'd rather not know!" I say to someone next to me, who completely agrees. But now it's even more important than ever to run. Giving up, with this pathetic little distance left? What kind of failure would that make me? In fact, no, I'm going to do this as fast as I can, I want to get over that line, to find my family, to collapse in a heap and burst into tears.

Suddenly I spot a guy with red hair, wearing a yellow Salvation Army t-shirt. I used to know a guy with red hair who was in the Salvation Army, but it's obviously not him… oh, it is him. “Stan?” “Bloody hell, James?” We've not seen each other since school, and now here we are running the last 400m of the London Marathon together. We manage to pass the 200m mark together, chatting as much as is physically possible whilst our lungs are in danger of collapse - "First marathon?”, I ask. “Yeah and last!". But he's beaten. “Seriously, go on without me.”

So I do. There are 200 metres left. Is this the hardest part? No, it can't be really, but it's up there. There's no longer any option to stop and walk – I cannot, I WILL not – that familiar sound of a moose trapped in heavy machinery is coming out of my lungs again but I'm not going to be beaten.

“WOOOOAAARRRRGGGHHHHHH….. MUST…. HHUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRR…. DO….YEEEEEEEUUUUUUGH… THIS!”

Finally, I can see the photographers by the finish line and I raise my arms in a majestic victory pose, which comes out quite nicely apart from the weird angel thing on top of Buckingham Palace giving me a Statue of Liberty-esque crown. And there I am, I cross the line running faster than I've run all day, with the sound of polite applause from about 5 people ringing in my ears, I come to a stop, my medal gets put round my neck, and I stagger away towards the luggage truck, waiting for the emotions to hit me, the tears to come flooding out as I reach the culmination of the last 10 months…

“Ooh, an apple! Thanks…”

Well, at least I've got a nice one of Dan and Clare.

Afterlife

I've just got my goody bag and there's an apple in there, which tastes like the food of the gods - there's some water, there's more Lucozade Sport (ok NOW I will have that, thanks), and some London Pride, too (really? WARM BEER?). But that apple, seriously.

Nope, the expected tears and emotional release never come, they're overtaken by overwhelming pride and smugness which is probably intolerable for the rest of the week, but I don't care, I've earned this.

(Actually, I feel less smug and less like I earned this, having read various blogs/tweets/comments in the last week where people opine that if you didn't run all the way you didn't really do it, you're not really a runner, and you should have left the place for someone who could run all the way. Well, to that I say, you may have a tiny fraction of a point, but seriously, up yours. I used my own ballot place to raise £1,500 for the CPT, thereby making sure someone else could have a golden ballot place and raise even more money. And if you're bitter because you didn't get into the ballot and really wanted to run, then get off your sodding arse, find a charity and raise some money - there are always charities looking for people right up to the month before. If you really want to run this, you can. Just might need to think about someone other than yourself, that's all.)

I look surprisingly alright, here... It didn't last long.

I later find out that I've come 29769th out of 36000, with an official time of 5:27:11, and an actual distance run (according to Endomondo) of 27.3 miles (although some of those were just into a bush). Considering I thought I'd have to pull out a couple of weeks ago, I'll take it.

Well, I started quite nicely. Gradually slowed down, and then just started having fits, or something...

My family come to find me, led by Karin, who's the first to run up and give me a big hug after I come out of the champions' pen where I've picked up my bags and had as much of a stretch as I can without making noises that cause me to get arrested. Everyone says I look absolutely fine and chirpy, something that's not really backed up by any photos, in which I’m so pale, I appear to have departed my body and run the end of the race as a spirit, floating free on the breeze...

My niece looks very chirpy though, for someone wearing that medal...

The chirpiness lasts as long as it takes me and all my supporters to find somewhere to eat, which isn't that easy on a Sunday in Central London at the best of times, but we eventually end up in Pizza Express by Waterloo, where I somehow manage to arrive by combination of walking and tube (how???)

There's quite a wait for a table because for some reason the place is full of marathon people. Everyone I spot wearing a medal gets a little knowing glance and a raised eyebrow by way of a “Well done” - usually resulting in a conversation that involves our times somewhere along the way. I don't instigate this because I'm not exactly overjoyed with mine - but the conversations go one way or the other, depending on whether I beat them or not.

1) "Yeah, I just missed the three hour mark, I was SO gutted. What did you do?" Oh, a bit better than I feared - I just don't think times are that important really, are they?

2) "I'm really happy, I did it in 5:40! How about you?" Yeah, I did it in 5:27, you know, it was a bit worse than I wanted to but, it's the charity that counts... where are you going...?

We eventually sit down at the table and it's at this point that I realise just how godawful I feel. I'm thirsty as hell, and oh god, actually I feel really sick. The smell of food is making me want to retch, so I just look at the floor and try to stop the room spinning, occasionally getting up every so often to hobble to the toilet in my bare socks and wee out a thimble full of brown sludge the colour of the Bakerloo line. After a while I do feel like I can eat, so I order far too much food and wolf it down - after which I immediately fall asleep with my head on the table. "Can we please get a taxi back to Surbiton?", I keep saying. It's before anyone in my party has heard of Uber, so no, we can't, there's more public transport and thousands of steps to contend with- still, at least there's an opportunity to get some more "Well done, mate!"s as we make our way back out of London with lots of other wounded soldiers being propped up by their partners and parents.

And then we're home - and I finally manage to charge my phone back up and get bragging on social media, which I will bet you a million pounds happens before I get in the shower or take any Ibuprofen. And then bed, oh sweet lovely bed.

Annoyingly enough, like last night, it takes a long time to get to sleep, The pain is indeed secondary, but it's secondary to the thousand things going round and round in my head. It's been one heck of a day, one heck of a year, actually - and I'll have to do it all again properly at some point, but for a first attempt, I suppose I did okay?

The end result of the last 10 months of training.
Yes, this story was from the 2014 London Marathon - I didn't mention that before because I didn't really think it was that important, it's basically the same every year, innit? It took me a year before I could really bear to start thinking about it again...

A massive "Thank You" to everyone who stuck with me through this epic battle of words, all the way to the end - without your nice comments, likes, retweets and all that jazz, it probably would have been just as hard as all the running, but without any of the fun.

Big thanks to Karin, Helen, Rachel and my parents too, for putting up with me immortalising them in probably-not-100%-accurate quotes, and also for me typing away for hours on end and ignoring them when they were trying to talk to me.

Big shout out also to the @ukrunchat posse, who gave me all kinds of advice along the way but now don't remember who I am because I abandoned them all when I got injured and then changed my Twitter name a couple of months ago (that was a good plan, wasn't it?)

Massive gratitude also to everyone who came and cheered me on the day - all my extended family and the lovely people from the Cure Parkinson's Trust (what do you mean they weren't there just for me?)

And lastly, MASSIVE thanks to everyone that sponsored me for the Marathon. Donations are closed now, but if you've been affected by any of the issues raised along the way (stripping in public, weeing in bushes, crying in forests, eating too many cakes), then please consider sponsoring my friend Lana who did this year's London Marathon two weeks after this year's Brighton Marathon, and is now doing the London to Brighton 100k run like a complete fruitcake, all in aid of the CPT. Good luck, Lana!

And last, but not least - this is SO true...

Picture: @runningstories on Twitter

How (not) to Train for a Marathon (Part Six)

Previously on How (Not) to Train for a Marathon: We discovered why you can't run in the pitch black, what Mo thinks about my 10k time, and examined just how much fun you can have running 14 miles.


Practice Races

"Week 11: Run a Half Marathon (See p58)" reads Sunday the 2nd of March's instruction in the Marathon training plan - the idea being that doing a 'test race' gets you used to what it's like on race day.

What's on page 58? Oh, of course, it's a "feature" (advert) about the Silverstone half marathon race which, completely coincidentally, is organised and sponsored by all the same people as the London Marathon. "Register now, as this popular event is filling up fast!"

I laugh in the face of your pathetic attempts to manipulate me, Marathon training plan, I shall find my own Half Marathon race, from which you will obtain zero money, and I will have a much better time because I won't have to drive to sodding Silverstone. Of course, I now have a dilemma, because when someone gives me a plan for what to do when, you can bet your life I'm sticking to it to the letter, otherwise the whole thing is going to crumble and fall by the wayside like my diet plans after one Malteser.

I just spent a very long time Googling pictures of Maltesers.
There's some seriously good stuff out there if you know where to look. I can hook you up.

I try to find a Half Marathon that's a bit more local to me (yes, a Local Half Marathon for Local People), and find one that looks good, but it's not on the same day. Still, I decide to swap weeks 11 and 12 around in my training plan. It annoys the schedule nerd in me to my very core, but decide it probably won't make that much difference in the end.

And then... I'm halfway through week 10 and having palpitations just thinking about doing that 14-mile run from last week again PLUS another 2 miles, when I spot something on Twitter - there's a Hampton Court Half Marathon! And it's this weekend! Of course it's sold out, but someone on my feed has a spare place which he can't use, and it'll just go to waste... of course it's too late to transfer it officially, so tonight, Matthew, for one night only, I am going to be "Charles Hedges". I can still do 16 miles, can't I? I'll just finish the race, cross the line and then carry on past everyone else and run home. It'll be just like that time my friend Rob crossed the touchline playing rugby, and carried on running right off the pitch, thereby losing our team a certain try.


23rd February (Hampton Court Half Marathon)

What I am supposed to do: 16 miles
What I actually do: 13.01 miles, and then another 1.27 miles, and then give up
How Does it Go?

Here I am, at my first ever Half Marathon race, and I have a curious mixture of excitement and terror in various parts of my body. Will I be able to do this? Will I come last? Will I have to stop and adjust my pants halfway round and get arrested for indecent exposure?

Of course, I know I can do this- I've gone further than this in training already, so what I'll do is pretend it's just another training run, I'll go at my normal pace (11 minutes a mile or slightly more), not care about my time, ignore all the other people around me and just run my own race. I line up behind the 2:30 pace setter and decide to stick with them as an insurance plan. Lights out, and away we go, and before I know it I've done my first mile in 10:15 - slow down, boy!

Luckily, the previously documented 'first few miles' syndrome kicks in pretty quickly, and there are a lot of people on the route, so I drop right back to 11:30 for a couple of miles, to catch my breath, and then as we reach Hampton Court itself, I get high-fived by Henry VIII as I pass and something in me clicks as I speed off down the towpath towards Kingston (this time, being able to see.)

DEFINITELY the real one.

Miles fly by, and I keep my mind on enjoying the scenery, humming along to my banging tunes, and high-fiving random kids who've come out to watch (this is surprisingly motivating, actually). It's a really nice race with a good, flat course, and lots of excited spectators. And a Henry VIII.

With one mile to go, I'm starting to flag - somehow knowing exactly how far there still is to go is actually demotivating (it's the reason why I groan audibly at every race when I start seeing the "500 metres to go" / "100 metres to go" / "No honest you're really really nearly there now" signs) - but it's not as demotivating as seeing all the people who've already finished, sauntering back to their cars with their goody bags and eating their bananas provocatively.

But all that pales into insignificance compared to those who, as they're strolling, medal around neck, start calling out "Well done! You're doing really well! You're soooo nearly there!", in the world's most condescending tone which probably only exists in my head, but is nonetheless one of the most irritating things known to man aside from Piers Morgan. "I WILL DECIDE WHEN I'M NEARLY THERE, AND IF I CAN'T SEE THE PISSING FINISH LINE, I AM DEFINITELY NOT NEARLY THERE, THANKS!", I (don't) shout back, with veins popping from my head in apoplectic rage.

Still, the facts in the cold light of day are that I actually am pretty close to the finish, which I duly arrive at in what is a great time for me at this stage in my training, and as I cross, feeling damn good about myself, I slow down to wander over to the table where the goody bags are kept. There's a small queue, but I probably only wait about 30 seconds before grabbing my bounty, turning round to get going again, and...

"AAAAAAHHHHHH..."

Remember that knee pain I mentioned at the end of the 14-mile run? Yeah, I've failed to get that checked out, and somehow the act of stopping for 30 seconds has rendered me completely incapable of moving again. I hobble away from the finish line and find a quiet spot out on the road - thoughts of now running another 3 miles completely gone. I manage to do a bit of stretching and eat my banana, and I'm just pondering what on earth to do when my sister Helen arrives on her bike, hoping to catch me finishing, but now finding herself in the unenviable position of having to help me get home.

Still, at least she can take this "sort of victory" photo for me, although she somehow makes me look about 2 feet tall in the process. (Or maybe that's just my awesome attire.)

I do some more stretches and hobble around a bit, and then suddenly I feel ok. "I feel ok", I say.

"I'm going to try to run home, you can cycle alongside me..."

I don't know if you've ever run a really long way, cooled down properly and stretched, and THEN started trying to run again, but I hope not, for your sake. This is the worst idea ever. I manage one-and-a-bit miles, Helen cycling alongside when possible, but bicycles aren't actually designed to go as slowly as an ant trying to roll a can of baked beans up a hill with its face, so she heads off into the distance every so often to spare my embarrassment.

I give up halfway home and hobble the rest of the way. Upon arrival, I check my Endomondo to find that it's only tracked 13.01 miles for the actual race, which is odd since it will nearly always track more than the advertised distance due to me weaving in and out of even slower people like a Subaru driver on the M3. Checking on Twitter, there's an apology from the organisers of the race along the lines of "Yeah, sorry, there was a marshalling error - someone sent you the wrong way before you'd really even got going, so the race was only 12 and a bit miles. Sorry about that!".

I would say I'm at the lowest point I will reach on this journey - but there's still one more rung on the despair ladder to fall down onto...


Final stats: 13.02 miles in 2:20:43 and 1.27 miles in 14:50. Ugh. 



Really, really, really long runs

Ok, now it's time for the big boys' stuff. We've skirted around the Half Marathon distance for a few weeks like, well, teenage me at the edge of a school disco dancefloor, but now it's time to grow a pair of balls, and go out there and do The Robot. Or something...

Because I messed things up last week by doing a Half Marathon the week before, it's now time for my 16-miler.


Monday 3rd of March

What I am supposed to do: 13.1 miles
What I decide to do: 18 miles (for a reason I can't quite work out now)
What I actually do: 16 miles
How much I actually cry: A little bit

Taking my "find a new route every time" theory to its limits, I have relocated for a couple of weeks to my parents' house in the French countryside, where I am trying to recover from a stressful few years' work ahead of starting a new job. For some reason, the stress levels actually seem to increase while I am there - and it's only with the benefit of hindsight that I can see that the Marathon training is a massive contributor to this. The amount you put your body through week in, week out, the worry about whether you're doing enough, the pressure of your sponsors and charity counting on you, the constant feelings of not being good enough and that you're going to fail...

(So that's now the "cheap form of exercise", the "helps you lose weight", and the "relieves stress" myths that we've debunked over the last 6 blogs...)

This therefore marks the first lengthy run that I've done away from my beloved River Thames, and I have carte blanche to go wherever I like - but, wait, it's not that easy. It needs to be somewhere that I can run off the actual road, which counts out the immediate surroundings since for miles around there are only country roads and farmers on tractors -who, to be fair, do at least seem to enjoy the unusual spectacle of grown men in luminous lycra chasing sheep down the lanes.

It also needs to be somewhere where I don't keep having to stop to cross roads, and somewhere that if I have to stop for a pee, or to heave up my breakfast at the foot of a tree, nobody is really going to mind. Step forward the Forêt domaniale de Châteauroux, which is a large forest just South of the city of Châteauroux, with paths, and small forest tracks, which lend themselves perfectly to just such an occasion. I plan out my route using a run planning website, for some reason marking out an 18-mile route even though I actually only need to do 16. (As of now, I cannot remember why, and am calling myself an idiot for making my life harder, but let's ignore that for the moment.)

The numbers here are in Kilometres, just to confuse you.

There's obviously no way I'm going to manage to remember this route, so I print the map out - unfortunately it covers such a large area that it has to go on 6 sheets of A4 to have anything like the right amount of detail. So I assemble all the pages, tape them together, fold them into something that sort of fits in my hand (about as well as my stomach fits in my trousers right now), and get into the car, in which my parents will drive me the 45 minutes to my designated starting point.

If I've been nervous before, it's nothing compared to now. I sit in the back of the car, yawning and fidgeting, in scenes reminiscent of my Dad driving me to my first music exam, or to my first residential course away from home, or to university halls. All I want to do is sleep, to go back inside in the warm, for the car to turn round and my parents to say comfortingly "It's ok, you don't have to do this, let's just go home, shall we?"

But of course, I really, really want this at the same time, so as the car pulls into the layby where I'm about to begin this ordeal, the adrenalin starts pumping, I get in the zone and bid them a brusque farewell (probably just like when they left me at uni), and make arrangements to rendez-vous at the checkpoint marked 16 on the map above, to provide energy drinks and moral support.

The road ahead of me. It's awfully straight, isn't it?

A quick stretch and a warm up march with knees up around my ears (another reason why I want to be away from civilisation), and off I go.

The folly of my route choice immediately becomes clear: as you will have noticed from the map above, there are an awful lot of very straight roads in this forest, and as I realise gradually, there's nothing more demotivating than running mile after mile on the same straight road with nothing in your sights but the horizon, and identical trees as far as the eye can see. A bend would be nice, or a clearing, but the first few miles pass without such luxuries. Still, it's a nice sunny day, I've got some good tunes in my ears (it's today that I discover how surprisingly many of the lyrics to "My Name is Prince" I can remember), and the act of  trying to hold my water and the map at the same time whilst simultaneously unfolding sections of it and seeing where I need to go at the next intersection without losing the whole thing in the wind, keeps me occupied quite nicely.

I take a 90 degree left turn just before the 3 mile mark, and start heading inwards on the second side of my very irregular pentagon - things are feeling good, I'm running at a good pace nicely under 11 minutes a mile, and I'm reminded again just why I love this so much. I even take my headphones out for a bit and listen to some French birds singing in their French accents. At the 5 mile mark, there's a path I mustn't miss, as it turns me back into the forest instead of letting me exit into civilisation, but I can't see it. I keep going, desperately looking into the undergrowth for where this elusive trail might be, but before I can find it, the trees end, I'm suddenly running down a very suburban street, and into the town of Le Poinçonnet.

There's a nice church, at least.

I've run right off the map and have no idea where I actually am, so on goes the data roaming and in comes Google Maps, (all without stopping, by the way) and it's at this point that I realise I'm 2 miles or so off course. My heart sinking, I try to figure out which way to go, do a brief unintentional tour of French Cul-De-Sacs, manage to find my way back to the main road and head straight down it, back towards the forest and the hope of regaining my route and meeting my parents at some point today.

Around 9 miles into my run, I finally make it back to something approaching the planned route, and start again on the long, straight slogs, running on and on with seemingly no progress being made, but at the 10 mile mark, I turn a slight corner and find something different to cheer me up - half a mile of very steep hill leading down into a valley, and then half a mile of very steep hill leading up to my checkpoint, for the majority of which the path is made entirely of sodden grass and calf-deep mud. I've always said I didn't fancy doing a Tough Mudder, and this proves it, as I squelch slowly and painfully, actually losing my sodden wet trainer at one point, up the incline towards the spot where I know my parents are waiting with supplies.

Finally, about half an hour late, I arrive at the designated meeting spot, and there they are, the first human beings I've seen in hours - My mum is first, holding out a banana and an energy drink, both of which I eagerly grab, and then a few steps further on, there's my Dad, with a replacement bottle water, which I greet like a pint of Kingfisher at the end of an economy flight to Banagalore. I'm elated to see them nearly as much as the items they're holding, and my spirits suddenly take a massive upswing.

It looked a bit like this spot, but to be fair, so did the entire run. (With the obvious subtraction of leaves from the trees.)

It seems rude to just run right past them, so I jog on the spot a little, determined not to stop completely for fear of a repeat of last week's knee incident, and we shoot the breeze a little, chatting about how things are going and why the heck I'm so late. Obviously I now can't do the full route I'd planned because of my exploratory survey of suburban French architecture, so they suggest that if I turn left at this very checkpoint, there's a straight road which goes right across the diameter of this forest, so I can run right down there with no danger of getting lost, and not have to worry about the map any more. They'll meet me at the other road (around 16.5 miles) and we can decide then whether I'll carry on to the full 18 or not. (I think you can sense where this is going.)

It seems eminently sensible, so I leave the map with them, and with a renewed spring in my step, head off on the last section, with 5 miles to go until the next opportunity to get back in the car. What follows is probably the darkest and most difficult hour of my entire life. There aren't actually that many trees by the road at some points, so from side to side I get to enjoy a bit of a grassy bank and some bracken;  but in the distance the road stretches endlessly ahead, upwards into the distance, towards the main D990 which bisects the forest like a knife through a Florina. (It's a type of French apple, what do you mean you've never heard of it?)

I climb 200 feet over the next 2 miles, trudging wearily along this minor road, all alone, looking out every so often for cars (since this is one of the few forest roads that actually allows traffic) - and eventually I reach the roundabout that signifies that I'm halfway down this final, gruelling stretch. I'm at the 14 mile mark as I (thankfully) select the correct exit from the roundabout and cross back into the forest, and I can't see how I am going to make it to 16, let alone 18. All my leg muscles are burning like I've never felt before, my lungs feel like they're about to be expelled through my mouth, my head is pounding with intense pain, and I start moaning out loud with every breath...

"WUUUURRRRGGGHHHHHH", I go, again and again. "YEEEEUUUUCCCCCHHHH". The road continues to stretch endlessly on into the distance, I focus on my feet, or the tarmac 10 metres ahead, anything to avoid looking at that damn road and the finish point that I can't even see. The music is still going, but I can barely hear it any more, all I can hear is the pounding of my heart, and a voice in my head. "You knew you wouldn't be able to do this. You knew you couldn't run a marathon. Why did you even try? 

All the while, this voice fights with thoughts of the people who love me, people who've sponsored me and want to see me succeed and above all, thoughts of my Grandfather who I'm doing this in memory of. As I start thinking about him, my brain makes the twistedly ironic connection between the vision of him, shuffling along slowly, unable to pick up his feet as the Parkinson's got worse and worse, and the sight of my own feet, barely leaving the tarmac now, with each step getting shorter and shorter, and the rest of my body just being dragged along for the ride like a sack of potatoes,

It starts to rain. There's still a mile to go, and the fact that at least I'm dry (the one last good thing left to me) is gone. Onwards I still go though, slowing right down to nearly 12 minutes a mile but not stopping, never stopping. If I stop, I will fail - and I'm not going to fail.

My actual route. It's not quite the same, is it?

"16 miles in 2 hours, 55 minutes...", says the computerised Endomondo lady in my headphones. The rain is still falling. It's getting colder and darker. I'm running down a hill, quite unlike Kate Bush, and at the bottom I can just make out a car sitting there with its lights on... Is it? Please, let it be... IT IS! My parents get out and start coming towards me, and I just start bawling my eyes out as I try to force the last few steps out of my legs, which by this point are locked into a position they're probably never coming out of.

"WAHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHAAAAAAA", I say to my mum, "I DON'T WANT TO... I DON'T KNOW WHY... I just can't...."  - she grabs my arm as I come to a stop and lean against her for support, as my dad runs back to the car to bring it as close as possible. The rain is still falling, and I know there are still 2 miles left to my ultimate target, but I don't care. There will be an 18 mile run one day, but that day isn't today. I try to do some stretches against the car, but my knee is in agony, and my parents have to hold me by both arms to help me so much as get into the car. I look down at my shirt and it's smeared with blood which has run in the rain, my trainers are caked in mud and my socks are soaked through with brown water.

Yes, I went there. It was time.

We go back to theirs and I have the most wonderful bath and cup of tea that I've ever experienced, and spend the rest of the day hobbling back and forth between the drinks fridge and the sofa.

Two days later, I post this on Twitter. Perhaps I will be able to do this Marathon thing, after all....

Next time: Things start to unravel in the final weeks, as I make my last preparations for the big day...

BUPA 10k 2012: Expectations

Originally published on Gigging Forever in May 2012

Right, this is my last running update before the BUPA 10k, which will be good news for most of my readers, since these running posts aren't terribly popular - except for the one about pants, that one's been a smash hit. Who knew?

It's now just under 2 weeks to go, and sadly I think this means my dream of powering past the elite athletes laughing as they're jogging towards victory is out of the window (and if it's anything like last year, then I won't actually have started by the time the very fastest are crossing the line anyway.)

Yes, Mo even appears on the front page of the official
BUPA 10k magazine, just to make me feel much better.

Last year I ran the course in a very respectable (for me) 1 hour, 4 minutes and 50-odd seconds, followed by another 10k a few weeks later in which I managed to shave almost 2 minutes off my time. Sadly, after that I then failed to do any exercise for the next 9 months, which is probably why there is no way in the world that I will be beating last year's time.

I'm still working my way through the 10k programme of walk/run and have now made it to week 7 of 12 (walk 4 minutes, run 2 minutes x 10). My maths isn't too hot but I estimate that in order to achieve my personal best doing that, I will need to run at about 30 miles per hour. To be honest, I'm not sure I'm up to it.

Not allowed? Shame.

I have finally, therefore, let go of the notion that I will be able to do something more impressive than last year, and have managed my expectations accordingly. Being a consultant / project management-ish type, I'm good at managing other people's expectations but for some reason it doesn't often work on myself. 

I have, however, set myself something realistic to aim for. On Saturday just gone, it was a lovely sunny day, so I thought I'd go out for a run - not the wimpy walk/run I've been doing, no a proper run. Just to see how far I got without stopping. The sad and crushing answer was... about 1 kilometre. Not because I'm unfit and my lungs/heart were giving out, no I wouldn't mind that, it was my stupid calf muscle. And not even the one I've previously mentioned, which has been treated by means of a nice South African gentleman named Simon sitting on me and prodding it violently.

Apparently making that calf muscle nice and strong has had the effect of making the other one so weak in comparison that it just gives up and goes home after about 7 minutes of exercise - well, until it suddenly decides that it's ok for no apparent reason and lets me run again.

It was for this reason that my "run" turned into a "jog / walk / jog / sit down on park bench and massage leg / walk / sit down on steps and cry (with anger and frustration - not pain, I'm not a sissy) / walk again a bit / sit down for 5 whole minutes and contemplate how I will tell the Cure Parkinson's Trust that I have to give back my sponsorship money / walk / jog / suddenly realise that it's not hurting any more / run / run / stop at ice cream van outside Hampton Court Palace to buy bottle of water / wait for nice man to bring me change from his car / run / jog / sprint last 1km."

In this ramshackle and roundabout way, I actually managed to cover 10 kilometres in 1 hour and 24 minutes. Which, frankly, I had been starting to think was a good 40 minutes quicker than I was ever going to manage this year.

Therefore, I have now erased last year's times from my scorecard and am starting anew. My new personal best for 10k is 1 hour and 24 minutes. Surely, SURELY, I can't do any worse than this on the 28th of May? There won't be many places to sit down and cry on the day, for starters...

----------------------------

2015 Update: I did finish the Bupa 10k, with a certain amount of walking. It took me far too long, though, and there was unfinished business, so I came back and did it again in 2015 and finally cracked the 1 hour mark, finishing in 57 minutes. Get me.

-------------------------
Music for bench-sitting, step-crying and change-waiting:

Rush - Tom Sawyer
Zutons - Always Right Behind You
Holy Ghost! - Hold My Breath
Jean-Michel Jarre - Chronologie Part 4
Lindstrom - Where You Go I Go Too (Part 1)
Paul Simon - You Can Call Me Al
Simian Mobile Disco - Hustler
Yes - The Calling
Pet Shop Boys - Discoteca
Robert Miles - One and One
Phoenix - 1901
ELO - Turn to Stone
Kissy Sell Out - Bethnal Green Cafe
Bob Sinclar - World, Hold On (Children of the Sky)
Tinyfish - God Eat God
Billy Joel - Running on Ice

BUPA 10k 2012: Only in Your Underwear

Originally posted on Gigging Forever in April 2012

It's about this time in my running programme that my thoughts normally turn to that most tricky of subjects. Yes, pants.

If you're of a nervous disposition around conversations relating to underwear, you may wish to bow out now. Go on, off you go, I'm sure there's some football on.

Football underwear! Would you look at that...

Right, pants. Now pants aren't something I normally give a huge amount of thought. They're either there, or they're not. (You'll be happy to hear that mostly they are.) But when you get to a certain stage in your running, your choice of pant becomes quite important.

The ideal is to try to find a longer legged trunk, as this provides a protective barrier between your fat thighs, thereby stopping them rubbing together like fleshy sandpaper. Trouble is, however long the picture on the packet makes the legs look, they never actually come down beyond 80's Speedo length. This poses a problem when starting to run for any significant amount of time, as I have just begun to do this week. If you dare to be even slightly deficient in the pant-leg department, there's a whole wonderful world of pain and embarrassment which awaits.

Nope, these still won't be long enough.

The problem first announces itself with a tiny sting in the inner thigh area, about 15 minutes into your hour's run, and it's at this point you realise that you're going to end up on the sex offenders' register before too long. The thing is, you see, that one of those lovely "legs" on the trunks which are supposedly protecting you from chafing horror, will invariably start to ride up and roll itself into a little sausage-shaped bundle of cotton in your running shorts. A fabric chipolata, if you will. A fabrolata.

The bigger your fabrolata, the more it rubs on your most intimate areas as you run along and the more it flipping well hurts. Easily as much as being stabbed in the eye. Therefore it's clearly not an option just to let it be - but what's the best way to resolve this problem? In my experience, there are three options for the poor runner who finds himself in the pant-leg-sausage predicament.

1. The Pocket Manoeuvre

This move is the most subtle, involving simply trying to pull down the leg of the trunks through the pocket of your shorts. You can disguise it to a certain extent by pretending to be fiddling with an imaginary or real iPod in your pocket, although unfortunately it takes quite a while to achieve with any great success and there's therefore more of a chance that someone will spot you and notice that you're spending rather a lot of time with your hand fiddling about in your pocket. That and looking really rather pleased with yourself once you're done. Not my preferred option.

Here we see James Bond attempt the double pocket manoeuvre
 in suitably suave fashion. See how stoic he looks in the face
 of horrific chafing trauma. 

2. The "Up and Under"

This move represents the middle way in both ease of execution and efficiency of results, as it involves reaching up the leg of your shorts to pull down your trunks from the inside. It's good in that in order to achieve this move you have no choice but to bend over slightly, which can help to mask what it is that you're doing. I think it's fair to say that you do look a bit of a tit bent double whilst trying to maintain your speed, though.

Probably the preferred method if possible, although it's best if there's no-one running directly behind you - nobody attempting the "Up and Under" wants to cast a sneaky glance back through their legs and spy a horrified looking lady reaching for her mobile to dial the police.

I couldn't find any pictures of anyone with their hand up their shorts.
 Instead we have the logo of "Up and Under Asset Management",
who will no doubt be extremely pleased to be associated with this blog.

3. The "No, I don't give a shit anymore, this is REALLY hurting now."

Sometimes, dear reader, you've tried all of the above, and nothing is quite hitting the spot. There is nothing for it at this point but to go right in there and sort it out with some direct action, and by that I mean sticking your hand down the front of your shorts and just fixing it once and for all. Yes, there's nothing quite as satisfying as your hand down your pants... and nothing so hard to achieve subtly.

It's one thing when you're out running in the open air, as there's bound to be some point along the way when you're not that close to any unsuspecting members of the public. Avoiding school chucking-out time for lengthy runs is also, for this reason, heartily recommended. Unfortunately, if you've decided to make this particular training session a gym-based one, there really is no good time to carry out this manoeuvre.

Look how happy she looks about her workout. I'm guessing her smile
 would fade upon seeing you rooting around in your boxers.

Equally unfortunately, there is sometimes no option. It's therefore important to position yourself carefully when choosing your treadmill - the ones right in the middle face the door so everyone is going to see your every move, and believe me, there's no way to make this not look dodgy from any angle. Off to the side, then, and if you can manage to position yourself between two big sweaty blokes then so much the better as they're less likely to look at you to start with, and even less so if you start delving into your nether regions. (There are male codes.) Besides, it's likely they've been through the same thing themselves and would just give you a knowing / approving nod if they caught you in the act.

This was the background to my last workout (yes, there was a point to this whole thing...). As much as it makes me feel like a real man, there's only so much rain running I can do, so I had to resort to the gym yesterday afternoon. I carefully chose my treadmill using the rules above and was quite happily moving into the second half of my 70-minute workout when I felt that unmistakable twinge in the trunk vicinity and knew I was in trouble. The guys who'd been working out either side of me as planned had moved a few minutes previously, to be replaced by two very proper-looking ladies who, to make matters worse, were friends and were intent on carrying on a conversation across me whilst running.

20 minutes remaining of my workout, and, options 1 and 2 already exhausted several times over, I found myself with no option but to move onto option 3. Luckily by this point, the ladies had tired of their chat and were very much 'In the zone', which afforded me the opportunity to perform a swift number 3 on my right leg. Looking shiftily from side to side, and seeing the lady on my right still engrossed in 'The Voice' whilst sprinting towards some imaginary finish line, I felt rather smug at the thought of getting away with it in style.

It was at this point that I realised that I was in that most tricky of situations, the 'Double Fabrolata'. Yes, my left pant also needed attention, so I had no option but to get right on with it and get it unrolled as soon as possible. Sneaking a quick glance to my left, I was pleased to realise that lady number two was also caught up in the exploits of old satsuma face Tom Jones, so decided to go for the swift 'in and out' action, all the while looking furtively leftwards to make sure I didn't get caught.

I bet he's never stuck his hand down his...
nah, what am I saying?

Now, the difference between my left and right arms is that one is usually wearing a watch. And the thing about a big chunky training watch is that it makes a swift mission into one's goolies more of a long, drawn out affair. Not that I'd thought of this, hence finding myself frantically trying to pull my hand out of my pants, as the watch got stuck in the waistband of my shorts, and my neighbour turned to say something to her friend. Finding myself looking shiftily into her eyes as I desperately tried to free my hand from my special place, I had no choice but to raise my eyebrows and smile, defeatedly, as if to say, "Yep, that just happened." 

I've often been compared to Mr. Bean, but never have I felt so much like people had a point. Oddly enough, the two ladies left shortly after this incident, though I'm sure there was no connection. I finished my run without further incident but feel like some kind of line may have been crossed with the good people of Nuffield Health Surbiton and suspect that however much it rains, I'll be doing the next few runs outside...

Why not help rehabilitate my reputation in the community with a few quid's donation to the Cure Parkinson's Trust? 

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/JamesHendry


Music for Pant Rummaging:

- The Housemartins - I Smell Winter
- iio - Rapture
- The Walker Brothers - Nite Flights (Simian Mobile Disco Mix)
- Camera Obscura - French Navy
- Mansun - I Can Only Disappoint U [sic]
- Rilo Kiley - Portions for Foxes
- Guillemots - Kriss Kross
- Moby - 257.zero
- New Order - Round and Round '94
- The Killers - When You Were Young
- Lightning Seeds - Life's Too Short
- Faithless - I Want More
- Genesis - Match of the Day
- Saint Etienne - We're in the City
- Simian Mobile Disco - 10000 Horses Can't Be Wrong