Happily Ever After

Life in The Rural Retreat with a beautiful wife, three cats, garden wildlife, a camera, a computer – and increasing amounts about running

Earlier posts can be found on Adventures of a Lone Bass Player, where this blog began life. Recent entries can be found here.

Marathon Memories

by Russell Turner - 17:26 on 23 April 2018

I made it, in the hottest London Marathon ever held (24ºC, 27ºC on the tarmac) in which one runner died and lots more were treated on the course and across the finish line. Matchgirl, Cathy the Runner and UltraPaul, who’d been jealous of my ballot success, definitely dodged the bullet.

My official race time was 6:26:21 but included a 10+ minute pee break queue at Mile 9 and motivational stops to greet the fan club at Miles 13(ish), 17, 21 and 25. They made a huge difference. Part of me thinks I should have done better but most of me is proud to have completed the full 26.2 miles – and collect the same medal and running shirt as those who finished four hours before me.

Marathon weekend began on Friday when we waved goodbye to The Pride and cat-sitters Soo and Tony and headed south in Grandson of Seat, arriving 11 hours (including food stops) and 510 miles later at Chez Richard in Leamington Spa after a trip bedevilled by traffic, road works and, in a frustrating last half-hour, an epic detour because of a closed road. It could have been worse. The occupants of the car upside down in the middle of the northbound M6 were not having a good day; nor were the drivers sweltering in the lengthy queue behind them.

Richard was not in residence (he was away but decently sent us the keys) so bed happened shortly afterwards, ready for an early start on Saturday to catch the train to Marylebone, treat ourselves to a taxi to dump our bags at the Matchgirl-approved hotel (Grange Rochester in Rochester Row), then endure a sweaty tube and DLR journey to the ExCel centre to register for the race. Fortunately the DLR strike had been called off the day before.

Registration had opened on Wednesday but many of the 40,000 runners were in the same situation as us and the centre was packed. Non-runnery events were also taking place, which didn’t help. Despite that, I collected my race number and timing chip after only a couple of minutes’ queuing, ditto my first, frankly disappointing, goody bag. A food break followed, after which Matchgirl plunged back into the consumerist haven of runnery apparel, footwear, nutrition and stalls promoting foreign marathons. Much souvenir photography was also taking place, runners standing proudly against appropriate backgrounds while supporters snapped away. Yes, we did the same.

While she indulged herself I met up with some of the Cats Protection runners and the support team outside the main entrance for some chat and photos, where a surprising number of people (none of them Cats) puffed away on cigs and vapes. Maybe they were there for the other events.

Another packed DLR/tube trip took me and Matchgirl back to the hotel where a short while later we were joined by Cathy and Paul for some pre-race carb loading at Pizza Express. Good food, lacklustre service. Despite more runnery talk, and the earlier trip to the ExCel, the thought of running a marathon the next day still didn’t seem quite real. The others were more excited than I was.

It became more real next day when after an early room service breakfast, the hotel taking no account of marathon preparations, I slathered on half a bottle of factor 50 sun screen, donned shorts and Cats vest and hurried the ten minutes to Victoria Station to catch the 8.09 to Blackheath, venue of the Blue Start. I need not have rushed – the train was 10 minutes late following mechanical trouble at the other end. Then it was 20 minutes late.

It finally arrived, five minutes before the following 8.39 service, at which several hundred frustrated runners swarmed into the train and waited impatiently for it to leave. But it broke down again, so we all swarmed off and on to the 8.39, at the next platform, which apart from people clinging to the roof soon resembled an Indian train. Would-be travellers further down the line were out of luck. Not good preparation.

Proof that it’s a small world was furnished by my next-seat neighbour on the train (we were some of the lucky ones). Ed, who’s something in the City and recently ran a marathon in Kenya, is well acquainted with a few of the Black Isle residents who live near us.

At Blackheath the roads were partly closed and lined with spectators, already handing out sweets, there to see us pass by on the way through town. This was the marathon atmosphere I’d expected. On the common I bid farewell to Ed, who headed for the Good For Age start. Mine was Blue, for lucky ballot winners. Red was for official charity runners. The Elite runners had their own start away from the common herd.

At the Blue Start I’d plenty of time to wander around, get a problem with my timing chip sorted out, put my numbered kit bag on the baggage wagon, drink lots of the free water handed out by Buxton, make use of the unavoidably unpleasant communal urinal, then make my way to Blue Zone 8, my final starting area. Notable among the runners were the guy in RAF costume with a backpack playing a wartime medley on a loop, and one of several rhinos running for savetherhino.org. All shapes and sizes were represented, which was a surprise in the very slowest zone, from elderly and overweight to racing snakes.

I didn’t set out to do so, but I found myself right at the back (although the last-minute toilet-users would have set off behind me). This was not a bad place to be. The 5:15 pacer was a hundred yards ahead so I thought if I kept him in sight I’d set off at a good conservative pace, which I did, 45 minutes after the first Zone 1 runners had crossed the start line. Soon the pacer disappeared; I didn’t chase, I was being sensible.

The discrepancy between my Garmin and official time is because it didn’t fire up until I was over the start line and I paused it during the loo break.

Straight away we were lined on both sides by cheering crowds who were with us all the way, some waving placards (my favourite simply read “Motivational Banner”), others offering sustenance ranging from grapes to jelly babies and flapjack to chips. The aroma of barbecue that occasionally drifted across the route was a torment. Those of us with names on our vests received personal encouragement (Matchgirl hadn’t told me I’d have attractive young women shouting “Russell, we love you” as I passed) which I found very inspirational. Bands played along the route, supplemented by official recorded music stations and unofficial ghetto blasters, featuring everything from soul (wish I’d had time to watch the ace bass player) to rock plus percussion groups. The WI morris dancers were another favourite.

Two miles in I was ready for a loo break; I’ve since learned from Matchgirl that correct hydration means stopping drinking two hours before the race. I wasn’t desperate and continued with a run/walk that became increasingly ragged as the heat grew. The culture shock, after Highland solitude, of dodging around so many other runners also played a part. I finally gave in after nine miles, although that may have been more to do with an excuse for a break.

This was probably a mistake – after ten or more minutes of queuing, getting going again afterwards took some effort. And it was hotter. And the next water station had run out of water. The runs got shorter; the walks got longer. I was able to run across Tower Bridge (I might have been on TV so it’s compulsory) which is half way, but after that my running was mostly done. A few minutes later I saw my support team for the first time, and welcome faces Matchgirl, Cathy and Paul were, appearing at just the right time. I don’t know if the physical wobble I had while talking to them was caused by the emotion of seeing them, or the exertion of the previous 13 miles, but Matchgirl later admitted she wondered if I could make it to the finish.

Strangely, at no point during the day did I even wonder if I’d finish. I knew I would; the only question was how long it would take.

The support squad popped up again at 17 miles, when Matchgirl was relieved to tell me that I looked much better and despite walking had covered the last 3+ miles at a good pace – there was a chance I could finish in under six hours, and again at 21 miles, well beyond my longest training run.

Cloud drifted over at around 4pm, when I’d been going 5+ hours, which with an accompanying breeze made the going a little easier but it was still hot, another one or two water stations had run out (I cursed the people who’d thrown away three-quarters full bottles because they couldn’t be bothered to carry them), and despite the crowds, music and banners I slowed a little. I was still walking past other marathoneers, some of them running, but the steam was running out.

And suddenly it wasn’t. I didn’t have enough to run but after 22 miles I felt good again; there were just a few more miles to go and I’d be done. The crowd continued to call my name; the number of spectators grew. Many were from the charity support squads who waited to give their runners a final push but many more were people still there despite the race nearing its end and the biggest excitement being over. That helped too.

My personal support squad appeared for the last time around 25 miles, which was as big a boost as the first time, and shortly after that I passed the Cats Protection gang (Animals Asia was too small to have an official presence) who shouted me on.

Then there was 800 metres to go, then 600, then the final 385 yards. The finish line was in sight, the crowd cheered and I ran the last 200 metres (there were photographers there after all) to cross the line and receive my medal from one of the London Marathon team. I’d done it; 6:26:21 was my official time, which was spookily near to the conservative 6:30 I’d hazarded when I entered the ballot. Subtract loo breaks and chats with the support squad and I might have a moving time of under six hours.

I’d felt a few throaty lumps on the way around but was fine at the end until, after picking up a much better goody bag (the finisher’s running shirt is great), I met Matchgirl, Cathy and Paul in St James’s Park. Her congratulatory cuddle provoked a few manly tears, quickly over. The dark chocolate fruit and nut bar from the goody bag, the first solid food since breakfast, will live in my memory for a long time. The cheeseburger from a nearby stall was almost as good.

After 29 weeks it was over.

The hotel, chosen deliberately, was only a few minutes’ walk away. By happy chance there was an Indian restaurant just around the corner, so after a bath and a shower and a rest we wandered over there to be joined by Paul and Cathy for a celebratory post-race meal. What better way to finish?

This morning I felt surprisingly good. I didn’t need to do the crab walk up and down stairs; the factor 50 meant that with one or two small exceptions, none serious, I’m almost as pearly white as I was before; my only other sign of athletic endeavour is a tiny blister on one little toe. I got off lightly compared with some of the runners.

Full race stats will be released shortly, when I’ll discover what my finishing position was and how many runners didn’t make it to the end. By then I should have my official MarathonFoto pics to show off and Matchgirl will have sifted through the many she took. The few I’ve seen don’t show me looking in any way athletic so maybe they’ll remain private.

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