Call the Midlife (30 page)

If I thought the hotel foyer was buzzing, the top deck of this bus is ready to explode. The sheer volume of conversation is deafening. Everyone is totally wired, totally up for it, like a bunch of school kids setting off on the most exciting daytrip ever..

‘Sleeping the night before a Grand Prix – not a problem,’ says Jenson. ‘But last night – not a chance. I barely got four hours.’

That’s how much the marathon means, even to someone who’s seen as much competition as the man from Frome has.

I try to sleep just for a minute, resting my head against the cold wet glass. Sometimes the kind of ambient hubbub currently coursing through the top deck can be surprisingly comforting. It almost works, I nearly drop off; not quite unconscious, but I definitely cross over into a land less ‘present’ for a wee while.

As we approach Blackheath the narrow residential streets open
up into what is usually a vast and rather magnificent blanket of green. However, not today. It has been replaced temporarily by a makeshift village of marquees, fences, floodlights, portaloos, big screens and food and drink outlets. But the main thing that strikes me is how dank, dark and dreary it is and still freezing cold.

No matter, this is the sight we’ve been waiting for, we’re all just glad to have made it this far. Within an hour and a half, all our prior trepidation, nervousness and anticipation will be forgotten, we will be underway and on our way: each of us one of 53,000 dreams realized.

Wonderful.

Although . . . hang fire a second. No one tells you about the drama of the last hour before the start. I honestly thought I was totally prepped and ready to go, yet it turns out I don’t have a second to spare. And it isn’t just me: everyone’s the same. We’re all constantly fiddling with this and checking that and pinning, unpinning and repinning our numbers on to our shirts. Laces are done and undone a hundred times, socks checked and rechecked for stones or grit, Vaseline shared, dropped, lost and found. Not to mention vital last-minute tips for us first-time marathoners.

‘What have you taken?’ one highly experienced marathon veteran caringly asks me.

‘Two Ibuprofen,’ I answer.

‘Is that it?’ He sounds aghast.

‘Yeah, but I plan on taking two more after halfway,’ I squeak almost apologetically.

‘Have you taken any Pro Plus?’ he whispers.

‘No.’

‘You might want to, they make it more difficult for The Wall that comes to find you around mile 18.’

I don’t need this explaining twice, I’m in. He takes four, I take two.

‘Have you had an energy gel yet?’ asks another seasoned elite competitor.

‘No, I was going to have one at 10, one at 14, one at 18 and then
my fourth one if and when I need it after that.’

‘Mate – take one now, immediately, and then take one regardless every forty-five minutes. Don’t even think about doing anything else.’

‘I’ve only got four.’

‘Here, I’ve got loads, take as many as you like.’

Now, you see what’s going on here? It’s actually awesome. These two guys are aiming to finish almost two hours ahead of me, almost twice as fast, but that’s not the point. Once again the mutual respect in evidence is on a scale I’ve never witnessed in anything I’ve been involved in. That’s what’s so cool: we are all running our own race against our own demons, insecurities and potential weaknesses. There is zero hierarchy, only ultimate camaraderie. I can’t tell you how uplifting that feels.

More tips, more Lucozade Sport, more coffee, more cereal bars, more bananas, more pees. Having deposited our bags back on the bus to be transported to the finish line, intermittently we are ushered in and out like cattle for various pieces to camera, photocalls and interviews. I am the surprise entry. I will talk to anyone and pose for as many snaps as they like. That was the deal, remember? These people have given me the chance to do something I never thought would be within my reach. I am theirs for the day.

Eventually it’s time for us to make our way en masse to the start line.

Fuck. Fuckety fuck. With bells on.

I am pumped like never before.

My legs feel perfect, like coiled springs.

As the huge digital clock ticks down to 10.10 hours BST, everyone turns to wish anyone within earshot good luck. I can’t see anyone who isn’t tense and I can see hundreds of people.

‘All right, everyone, here we go,’ says the starter. ‘Altogether – TEN – NINE – EIGHT . . .’

Seven counts later and finally, after months of wondering and worrying and working out the optimum race pace and nutrition and hydration and target times, we are released, pigeons set free to
find our way home.

For the first few seconds I feel physically sick, not so much from nerves – although I am nervous – but more from feeling overwhelmed by the whole situation. I’ve never fainted in my life but suddenly I begin to understand why people do. When something means so much and it finally arrives, it floods your very being with almost suffocating relief. It’s almost all too much.

But then the strangest sensation comes over me, snapping me out of my fug. Here I am, in amongst thousands of people, a giant mass of humankind, a like-minded cross-section of the human race moving forward as one, all there for our own individual reasons, all with our own agendas and issues, sharing the single common denominator that we have all made our minds up to don our running gear on this April Sunday morning and get ourselves to south-east London and attempt to run 26.2 miles in what is now ‘absolute silence’.

No one has said a word for at least the first half-mile.

And I mean no one.

All I can hear are thousands upon thousands of rubber soles striking the tarmac and pavements all around me. Some heavy, some soft; quick strides, long strides, the odd stumble here and there. It’s clear everyone is feeling the same way. The hush speaks volumes. Tense, apprehensive, focused, but most of all euphoric realization that we are finally doing what we have all been training for over the last few weeks, months and, for some I’m sure, even years.

There are many moments of my marathon experience that I will never forget but this turns out to be the one moment above all others. Totally out of the blue, as eerie as it was magical, but most of all completely unexpected and so special. In fact, writing about it now is bringing big happy tears of joy to my eyes, delayed emotion that I must have subconsciously postponed in order to be able to get on with the job in hand.

After our collective experience of whatever that special moment was, almost simultaneously we all begin to snap out of it, like individual bubbles bursting, back into life, into the here and now. Realizing that it’s all OK, that this is it, that we’re doing what we came to do.

The odd comment begins to be exchanged, a giggle here, a laugh there, all more in a tacit sigh of relief than an attempt at meaningful communication. Or perhaps not, perhaps it is the most cerebral interaction, a group ‘Relax, we thoroughly deserve this. Let’s take a chill pill and breathe in every second of every step.’

With each second that passes, more and more voices begin to be heard as each of us remembers we were born with the ability to speak. We become one huge wave of pacing euphoria. All our senses on high alert, taking in the sight of us all, the sound of us all, the fact that the vast majority of us will be on the road for the next four to six hours. As all these thoughts and anomalies continue to sink in, I feel ever more at home. This is where I’m meant to be. And then suddenly it happens. There you go: I am smiling. That’s what this is all about. And I already know I won’t stop smiling until I cross the finish line.

But . . .

‘Whoa! Wait a minute. What the fuck was that? A bollard, a bloody bollard.’

We all came to, just in the nick of time. I can’t say this often enough: there are so many things about running a marathon people don’t tell you, things that are not even hinted at on the hundreds of training plan websites. Suddenly we’re no longer jogging leisurely towards our first-mile marker, we’re smack-bang in the middle of the world’s most covert obstacle course.

In all the moving footage I’d ever seen of the London Marathon on television, the shots were always primarily of two throngs of people. Those dressed in bright, gaily coloured running gear bobbing
up and down inside the barriers and those cheering, waving and holding encouraging banners on the other side. Never had I seen film of thousands of runners funnelling into residential streets so tight they had to run everywhere and anywhere there was a space, regardless of whether that was on the pavement, on the road or somewhere in between the two. Or the fact that there are bloody bollards, bloody speed humps, bloody pillar boxes, bloody dogs, bloody pedal cars and bloody small children, popping up from nowhere, threatening to take you out at any given moment.

Thank God then for the heroic luminous-jacketed marshals who are on hand to scream, shout and generally frighten us away from all this surprise clear and present danger. And then don’t forget the myriad potholes, the varying and rapidly changing road surfaces and the thousands of kerbs. All of which I had encountered in training, but that was when we could see a good twenty feet in front of me as opposed to the few inches in front of me now.

No one tells you any of this shit.

There’s more extra-curricular education on the course to follow. Like the way you need to think about positioning yourself at least a quarter of a mile before one of the many and hugely efficient and superbly run drinks-stations. If you’re on the opposite side to where they are, there is zero chance of darting over at the last minute; this would cause certain and absolute carnage. As a consequence of which, I miss my first two fuel stops before I manage to figure this out. Necessitating planning for my third and each subsequent hydration station thereafter becomes my main priority for the rest of the race.

Now here’s another thing that NO ONE TELLS YOU when it comes to mileage: it’s generally accepted that if you have run a relatively survivable 18–20 miles in training, the adrenaline on the day will get you to 26.2. This I find both the most exciting and frightening aspect of my marathon. Because until you’ve actually completed the course, you just don’t know for sure. And it’s an experience you’ll never get to have twice.

Except!!!

It’s not 26.2 miles!

In effect it ends up being at least 26.5 miles, if not closer to 27 miles, depending on which lines you take, how many times you end up zigzagging looking for friends and family in the crowd, the elusive fuel stops and nipping off for a number one or, God forbid, the dreaded number two.

The latest internal tremors of which started again for me at around Mile 7. I know there can’t be much left in there, but there’s usually enough regardless to cause an issue in most situations if lady luck is not on your side. Anyone who has experienced a pre-endoscopy barium meal will testify to that.

As I daren’t risk a follow-through, I decide to take the next available course of evasive action, whatever that might be. However, it’s far from obvious what form that might take: there are no portaloos for a good few miles yet and the crowds are too deep to request the benevolence of a marathon-friendly East End resident. But then, as if from nowhere, my prayers are answered.

I see a break in the crowd up ahead on the left-hand side and lo, not only that, the gap is there because it’s the entrance to a fire station, which of course has to be kept clear in case the watch on duty receive an emergency call. Now, as I pretty much had an emergency call of my own to attend to, I immediately began to channel all the positive energy I could in the direction of my potential loo haven.

I’ve always had a very good relationship with firefighters, probably because of the many occasions I’ve made mention of the fact that becoming a fireman was all I ever wanted to do when I was a kid. Right up until the moment I was told by my careers officer that I couldn’t, due to the fact I wore glasses which would preclude me from being able to wear breathing apparatus. I was determined that was going to be my life and was genuinely devastated at the time.