Right, where was I? O yes, 2005.
So the BIG DAY. You must excuse me, as I writing this six years later I can not remember too much about the day but there are certain things I certainly do remember. One of these was that it was hot. Very hot. Too fucking hot. It was an absolutely glorious day, especially for April - so hot it was that a couple of people that we due to watch the race to try and see me run actually gave up after a while as they were concerned they would get sunburnt.
The other thing I remember is that I had not cured a problem I had been suffering from during my long runs...the attack of the, er, runs. I had not been afflicted with this before...in all my years of playing sport/going to the gym I do not remember the need to go scurrying off to the toilet, half bent over whilst gripping my stomach. Nor did I have this problem on my shorter runs, only on the the longer ones. Obviously during training runs it is mild inconvenience, growing in stature the further you are away from a public toilet.
[Which, incidentally, brings me on to one of my bugbears: the total apathy of the need of such a basic human function as going to the toilet. There is a distinct absence of public toilets and the fact that those that are in situ are either shut whenever you need them or you have to pay to use them. Why the fuck does one have to pay to use the toilet? It is not a lifestyle choice. It is not something anyone would choose to do indulge in if they did not have to (scat aficionados aside). It is also, generally, not something that you can time to coincide with when you happen to be next to one. When I am king, there will be more public conveniences.]
During the marathon, of course, it's magnitude is heightened, especially when you do not seem to be the only one with such an issue. It think the need came on round about the seventh mile but I could not see any public toilets. I did not see any until I got to around the fifteen mile point, where you enter the northern part of the Isle of Dogs (whilst I did not see any I am assured that there are every couple of miles, and not every ten or so). I had to queue up to use the toilets. I trued to keep myself fresh by lightly bouncing around (not too much, for obvious reasons) and pacing about. By the time I had queued, got in and done my thing, and got out again, ready to continue the run, ten minutes had passed.
Up until this point I had been chugging along nicely on pace (9mm). Haaving checked my splits (on the London Marathon website) they were:
10k - 56:08 (9.08mm)
20k - 1:49:40 (8.51mm) [53:32 (8:38mm)]
HM - 1:55:41 (8.50mm)
So far, so good. That all changed, however, when I stepped out of the toilet. The enforced break had meant that my legs had turned to jelly. I could do anything with them. I tried to run but they near on collapsed underneath me. I walked, which I could manage and then sped up to a shuffle and then to something that resembled running gait. I could only keep it up for a few hundred metres before I was resigned to having to stop. I stretched my hamstring (why? Probably as I had seen other people do it). I started walking, then sped up to a shuffle.....and so it repeated, for the next couple of miles. By this point I had given up with the motion of running. I was now getting cramp (something I had always been prone to) and it made it all but impossible to break out into a running stride. Instead I walked. In fact, that is a slight misnomer; I marched. I was mad. I was livid. I could not believe this was happening. I was fighting back the tears. I looked like shit.
But I was not alone. The closer I got to the end they more of us there were; zombies strewn across firstly Lower Thames Street, then Upper Thames Street. Staggering around; brain dead; mouths ajar; spittle dripping down sweat smeared chins. It was at this point I realised how annoying I must have been for the runners during the miles passed. Not that I was getting in the way like these other jokers, taking up the whole road, seven abreast, like they were taking a stroll in the country on a Sunday afternoon (though, we were not far off) - I kept myself firmly to the left - but in the sense of demoralising people. How much easier is it to give up if you see someone else seemingly having done so. How difficult is it on your resolve to keep running, keep the pace up, when you see others that have fallen by the wayside. Those of a stronger constitution probably fed off my failure and used it to spur themselves forward, but how many others did I help, in part, to destroy?
Of course, at the time, this was not my concern. My concern was to finish...and hopefully with all my faculties in place.
30k - 3:00:17 (9.42mm) [53:32 (11:23mm)]
40k - 4:40:16 (11.29mm) [53:32 (16:13mm)]
I was latterly bouyed by the crowd in the latter stages and, of course, by the fact that the end was nearing, albeit slower than I would have liked. In fact, despite not having run for miles (or maybe because of) my legs suddenly felt better. Upon the encouragement of some Aussies (though they could have been Kiwis!) I strode out into a run. When their voices dimmed, I started to walk. They shouted at me again (why were they still watching me? I must have been entertaining) so I started up the run again. When I knew they were out of sight, I stopped. However I soon started up again when I saw the 800m to go sign. Off I went, all out, giving it to the max...only I got about 300 metres and realised that 800 metres is a lot longer than I ever remembered it being. I stumbled down to a walk, rounded the corner to see the finish line, and set off again, for the line.
FINISH - 4:52:17 (11.09mm)
The last part of the race, from 40k to the end, I ran at 8:34mm.
So, in short, a little longer than my intended 4 hours, but I had achieved it, I had finished my first marathon. Was I pleased? Was I fuck! After taking about an hour to get through the crowds to meet up with Mrs McNude, I hobbled to, and got showered and changed at, the gym opposite Victoria station and got in, pretty much, the nearest pub to there, got four pints of beer down me and then fucked off home.
The experience did, however, ignite within me the desire...the desire to never run again. Not just the marathon; running at all. And this I stuck to, for at least six months. For six months I did not lace up my cross trainers (I did not realise you were supposed to buy specific running shoes, I just ran in an old pair of cross trainers) again to run. And I felt the happier for it.
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