Whilst out running the other day in my favourite park, I came across a black, plastic alarm clock sitting on a bench.
The time read 5 minutes past 5.
I took some photos of it and then continued my run, although my mind kept returning to the alarm clock, just sitting there on the bench, in a really secluded corner of the park.
I thought and thought and thought, convinced it was a sign or a metaphor that I could apply to my life.
I found an alarm clock.
I found time.
Perhaps I should be finding the time.
To write that letter.
To hold hands with Kristin. Just because.
To finish my book. And then start a new one.
To talk to Norman, the 90-year-old man, who sits at the same table drinking a latte, every single day, in the bar where I work.
To go for that singing lesson, even though I’m scared.
To go for that horse riding lesson, even though I’m scared.
To talk to my niece about life and gain inspiration from her perspective. She’s ten and her head is full of wild dreams and jelly beans. It’s a great place to be.
To smile more. At strangers.
To learn how to bake a cake.
To lie on the floor, listening to my favourite music whilst staring at the ceiling.
I don’t like myself very much at the moment. I’ve felt this way for a few weeks, and at first, I attributed it to the normal emotional comedown of running a marathon. ‘Post-marathon blues’, they call it.
‘Black and greys’ would be far more apt.
I was listening to a Taylor Swift album the other day, I’m not sure why, I don’t really dig pop music, and yet one of her songs, ‘Mean’ jumped out of the CD player and smacked me square in the face, it’s lyrics weaving their way into my mind, illuminating it with a big, bright light bulb.
“You, with your words like knives
And swords and weapons that you use against me
You have knocked me off my feet again
Got me feeling like I’m nothing”
I wondered who she was singing about, who she aimed those words at, who treated her in that way? She spits those words out with such defiance and brazen fierceness, and yet you can hear the dark depths of someone who was broken and deeply hurt. In that moment, I realized that the reason her lyrics were speaking so clearly to me, was because they illustrate the way I have been treating myself of late. I have, in more ways than one, been knocking myself off my own feet.
“You, with your voice like nails on a chalkboard
Calling me out when I’m wounded
You picking on the weaker man”
It’s amazing what we can do to ourselves, isn’t it? I can single-handedly crush my own spirit like an unwanted coke can. One motion, and I’m crumpled and ready to be kicked around on the floor.
Last year, I wrote a post about learning to love myself. That post was spurred from some hard lessons I learnt after a painful break-up. It was a terrifying but enlightening time, and I seriously had to question a lot of things about myself.
As I said, hard lessons learnt.
I emerged empowered…and burnt and jaded and wary and sensitive and unsure of stupid things, like what my hobbies were, or what kind of films I liked to watch, but most of all, EMPOWERED and I genuinely started to like myself.
Cue to present…
Oh, hi! Where the fuck has that empowerment gone then? Have you seen it? Maybe it slipped away, silently, when I was too busy liking myself and making new friends and enjoying the new me? Maybe it’s hiding somewhere, watching me look for it? It’s laughing and pointing and shaking it’s head whilst I’m scrabbling around on the floor, wondering if it fell down the back of the sofa. Or, maybe this empowerment, this ‘liking yourself’ is a bit like a relationship. You meet someone and everything is just wonderful; you can’t get enough of this person, they’re just so hilarious and amazing and when they do that thing with their hair, it’s just adorable! And then a few years go by, and that thing they do with the hair is just so damn annoying and they’re not that great anymore and you seriously question what you’re doing with them. Maybe it’s a bit like that? Only, you can’t break up with yourself, because you’re stuck in your own head, so you just start ignoring yourself, hoping that you won’t notice the jibes and passive aggressive undertones that start to creep in to your internal dialogue and then when your girlfriend turns to you every night and holds you tight and tells you how much she loves you, you seriously start to question whether it’s possible to reciprocate her love, because you feel so damaged and you have no clear benchmark – mainly because the person who was supposed to love you unconditionally, decided to check out and end it all, just at the point in life where adulthood beckoned and you needed a launch-pad, leaving you walking around in your twenties with a huge bag loaded with ABANDONMENT.
“You, with your switching sides
And your wildfire lies and your humiliation
You have pointed out my flaws again
As if I don’t already see them”
I emailed my girlfriend, Kristin, today, and asked her what she made of it all – you know, this ‘not liking myself’ business.
“I believe that it’s impossible to always like yourself”, she replied. “You will go through a million patches of not liking yourself for the most ridiculous of reasons. You can be anything you want to be in this life, our world is full of opportunities. You have to stick at it yes, but you also have to accept times of self-doubt, times when you look at what’s ahead and you think it’s just too big to handle, times when you completely forget that it should also be about the journey – it makes you reflect. It all comes down to the fact that you have to have the other side in your life. Without rain there is no sun, without tears there is no laughter, without feeling you don’t like yourself sometimes you wouldn’t even know how nice it feels to LIKE yourself”.
The black and white boy cat, from across the road, often saunters proudly through my garden with a fat, grey, wood-pigeon in his mouth.
I’m really scared of dead birds.
I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s the way their wings thrash furiously during their last moments.
Maybe it’s their feet.
I just don’t like the look of birds feet.
Yesterday, the black and white boy cat from across the road, sat under a tree in my garden; his tail swishing from side to side, his eyes firmly locked on his target: A fat, grey, wood-pigeon.
I watched from the window.
Frozen.
Then a flash of black and white.
Then nothing.
Just silence.
I peered out from behind my hands, my heart in my mouth. Thumpety thump.
Out of nowhere, a tiny, white feather gently floated past the window before settling on the ground.
I looked for the bird.
The certainly dead bird.
But I couldn’t see it.
The black and white boy cat took his position once more under the tree.
He’d missed.
Later, I thought about the tiny, white feather and how I’d presumed it belonged to the bird I presumed had been killed by the black and white boy cat.
I smiled to myself as I stood in the garden and picked up the tiny, white feather and held it in my hand, all the while wondering if the universe was sending me a sign or teaching me a lesson to somehow stop fearing the worst.
After drowning in post London marathon blues for well over a week, I figured that watching episode after episode of The Gilmore Girls, in bed, whilst eating giant bars of Galaxy chocolate and emailing my friends with the subject line ‘I CAN’T STOP CRYING’, wasn’t the best way to deal with my frail emotions, and so I made the decision to switch up my exercise routine. Working out, especially running regularly, has been a god-send for me, and I have successfully managed to quell my anxiety issues through the simple act of donning a pair of trainers and blasting around the park for an hour, or spending 4 hours every Sunday, jogging along the riverside.
With the Berlin marathon coming up in September, as well as a summer of racing ahead, I spent an afternoon scouring the Internet for plans that would switch my training up a level. In the end, I opted for a Hal Higdon marathon programme, which is pretty intense and also includes a day of cross-training each week. Hal advised that the cross-training should not involve any side-stepping or strain, as it’s imperative that your legs are in the best condition possible for the number of miles banked during the week, and therefore suggested a light cardio activity such as cycling or swimming.
I hate cycling.
I hate swimming.
I reasoned with myself that I could go the gym and work-out on one of their elliptical trainer things, but quite frankly, after my last episode at the gym, I’ve been giving it a wide berth of late.
Exasperated, I took to the Internet again, kicking up a Google shit-storm as I punched in an array of search terms to assist my quest, only to find that Jillian Michaels and her evil-Nazi home exercise DVD’s came out top-trumps every time. I have a history with Jillian Michaels, and it ain’t pretty.
I considered my options. I could a) Make peace with Jillian and accept that her exercise DVD makes me cry like a baby and HURTS, but holy-hell it gets you ripped. Plus, she’s sexy-hot, or b) Find another home-exercise DVD that’s slightly less brutal.
I opted for the latter.
This is where Billy Blanks comes in.
I found his Tae Bo DVD on Amazon and having read through some very favourable reviews, decided that I would give it a try. I eagerly placed it in my online basket and whizzed through the checkout procedure, knowing that in 2 days or less, I’d be stood in front of my laptop, Tae-Boeing (made up word, nothing to do with aeroplanes) my heart out.
I was ready.
Well, I say ‘ready’. I was ready for the work-out and I was definitely ready for the promised results (“fantastic workout, low impact, high calorie burn”), what I was not ready for, however, was Billy Blanks and his budgie-smuggling, Lycra clad body.
Wrong. Just wrong. On so many levels.
I decided to continue with the workout and do my best to ignore the fact that Billy looked like a fucked-up homoerotic superhero, and concentrate solely on his tutelage.
This is where Billy Blanks tried to kill me*.
I’ve never been one forfollowing instructions or guidance. I much prefer to go it alone, to figure it out at my own pace. This is also the reason why the furniture in my house often looks a little odd. Flat-packassembly manuals are for boring people.
I naturally skipped the ‘introductory’ workout DVD, justifying to myself that as I’m now an accomplished marathon runner and as fit as a fiddle (and clearly a complete twat), it was entirely unnecessary for me to waste my time learning how to perform basic punches and high-kicks, and selected the ‘Advanced Get Ripped’ workout instead.
5 minutes in, I was accompanying each move with a defeated mutter of “fuck you, Billy”.
10 minutes in, I started to cry. Like, a really guttural ugly-cry.
15 minutes in, I was splayed out on the floor, clutching my chest, convinced I was having a cardiac arrest. At this point, the socio-cat trotted over, sniffed my face before turning on her heels, obviously planning to return later when I was dead. So that she could eat my face.
Eventually, I painfully hauled myself from the floor and texted my girlfriend, who was holidaying in the South of France:
Me: I think I am having a heart attack. I can’t move properly, or breathe.
Girlfriend: Oh dear, go to the doctor. I am drinking Champagne and sitting by the pool.
Me: I will. Enjoy the Champagne.
Two hours later…
Me: Phew, I’m not having a heart attack. I just went on WebMD and diagnosed myself with a strained chest muscle.
Girlfriend: I dont think its reliable. Neither am i anymore what with the bottle nearly done. I Love you. bye
Me: ?
And that, my friends, is how Billy Blanks tried to kill me*.
Have you ever experienced the sensation, where you feel that your mind has somehow left your body, and you’re looking down on yourself, watching, and wondering, “what the hell is going on here?”.
Yes?
At mile 15, that’s what happened to me.
It wasn’t that I was delirious, in fact, I felt fully cognizant, but I knew that something weird was going on in my brain, almost like I was floating effortlessly on a wave created by the deafening din of the crowds. I took another PowerBar energy gel shot and hoped it was just a case of low sugar levels. I’d heard so much about ‘hitting the wall’ and desperately hoped that I wasn’t, not with another 11 miles to go. I decided to concentrate on a mile at a time, and to hold my pace. My thighs were starting to burn a little a lot and I had an overwhelming urge to stop and stretch them, but I knew I might not have the conviction to start running again if I did, so I just kept on putting one foot in front of the other, promising myself that if my thighs continued to hurt a mile from now, I would allow myself to stop.
As I rounded a corner, I heard my name being shouted, it was Kristin’s voice. I figured I was imagining it, I had arranged to see them at around mile 17, not mile 15, and so I lowered my head once more, and concentrated on maintaining a steady pace. “LIZZZZZZZZZ”, there was her voice again, louder this time and much clearer. I looked up, and saw her, waving frantically in a bid to get my attention. Stood next to her were Emma, Katja and Priscilla, and they were waving too, I spotted the ‘banana here’ banner and ran over to them. Priscilla shot this video of the exact moment, and as I’m sure you will agree, I was definitely a little dazed and confused…
Kristin: “Keep going!”
Me: “What mile is this?”
Everyone: “17!”
Me: “Is it?”.
Emma: “Spot on, excellent!”
Me: “I thought it was only mile 15″.
Emma: “You’re doing good then”.
Me: “YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”.
Long distance running, for me at least, is a mental game. Seeing the girls supporting me, willing me to keep going, was like someone had injected me with 50 shots of espresso, my spirits soared and I couldn’t stop smiling. I ran with vigour and confidence, knowing I’d see them again soon.
At this point, I noticed that a lot of runners around me were starting to flag with exhaustion, the presence of St John Ambulance crews and medics grew ever stronger, as they helped countless runners get back up on their feet again. I pushed ahead, determined to keep running, “you will not walk, you will not walk”, I repeated to myself, swinging my arms to strengthen my pace, “you will not walk, you will not walk”.
And I didn’t. Not once during the entire race.
Mile 21 arrived and so did the girls.
Notice how I didn’t stop? Yeah, I was still playing the mental game of “sure, you can stop in a mile if your thighs still feel like they are being stabbed by RED-HOT KNIVES, but for now, Liz, you ARE going to keep running, because if you don’t, I’ll kick your ass into next week”.
Marathon running is all about being kind to yourself, folks.
Knowing I only had 5 more miles to go, I looked forward to seeing my Mind family at mile 22. The crowds lining the streets were more than 6-deep in parts and the noise, oh the noise, it was out of this world. People hung over the railings, waving flags and banners and handing out jelly sweets and water. For as far as the eye could see, there were people EVERYWHERE. I cannot even start to explain just how electric the atmosphere was, the rush I experienced was similar to something you feel at a music concert, where the combined cacophony and energy of thousands of people transports you to a higher level. I just could not believe that I was running the London Marathon, I remember feeling the same during the Paris half-marathon only a month earlier, and reminded myself to take it all in, as it was beyond anything I’d ever experienced before. Just writing about it, brings it all back – it was truly magical.
At mile 22, as I neared the Mind cheering post, all I saw was a symphony of blue and white.
The Mind supporters screamed my name and whooped and hollered as I ran past, and I grinned back at them, honoured to be running for such a wonderful charity.
Once I had passed them, I knew there was only 4 miles to go. I powered ahead, feeling happy and content, and looked forward to seeing my family at mile 25.
The crowds lining the course were now 10-deep in parts. I was deafened by the noise and completely overwhelmed. Spectators would shout my name, looking me directly in the eyes, and with resolute authenticity, would shrill, “you can do this, Liz, great pace, not long now, go!” I would nod appreciatively and yell a thank you, and then the same would happen again, just 500 metres on, “keep going, girl, KEEP RUNNING!!”
People who have run the London Marathon before have described the crowd support as being treated like a celebrity. It certainly felt that way to me. Complete strangers urging me to keep moving with such warmth and earnestness was enough to make me want to fall to my knees and weep. I felt proud to be a Londoner (calm down, Dad, I won’t forget my Northern roots).
At mile 25, I looked everywhere for my family. They weren’t where they said they’d be, and I started to think I’d missed them. My heart sank. I remembered something that Kristin had said the day before, when I was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to see my supporters during the race, “it doesn’t matter if you don’t see them, it’s more important that they see you”. I thought of them all, standing somewhere in the crowd, and held my head up high, quickening my pace - I wanted to make them proud. My Dad saw me as I headed towards Westminster. He was stood on a skywalk and spotted me below. He said that I seemed to be running with such stamina and power - which was true, as amazingly, even after 25 miles - I felt completely energised and like I could run forever.
The countdown to the finish line started with an ’800 metres to go sign’, and as I ran along Birdcage Walk, I couldn’t quite believe that this was it, I’d very nearly completed my first marathon! I almost wanted to stop, and turn back, to run it again, so that it didn’t have to end. I turned the corner and saw Buckingham Palace, followed by a ’385 metres to go’ sign, I attempted a sprint finish, although I had no idea if I was actually running any faster, my legs had kind of ‘locked’ in a steady pace over the last 25 miles, so it’s probably more likely that I managed an awkward looking trot instead.
No matter what I looked like on the outside, inside I felt fierce and capable.
When I crossed that finish line, as cliché as it sounds, I knew from that moment, that I could achieve anything I set my mind to.
Other than walking normally again.
It took a week and an intense sports massage for that to happen.
I don’t have the words to express my sincere gratitude to everyone who supported me on the day, especially my dear family, Kristin, Emma, Priscilla and Katja. You have no idea just how much you made my day so very special and one I will never forget.
When I turned my beloved iPhone back on and saw all the Facebook well-wishes, Tweets, messages and emails, I was deeply moved. I thought of you all as I ran the 26.2 miles, and I’d like to thank each and every one of you for sponsoring me – your money has gone to an amazing charity and it will help to improve the lives of people who are struggling.
At the start line, I met a girl called Vicky. Well, I say “at the start line”, there isn’t an actual start line, unless you’re a celebrity or an elite-runner. Everyone else is allotted a ‘starting pen’. Starting pens are a little like European cattle trucks, only with less cows (although I did see a few people dressed as cows, so it kind of added to the effect of live-animal haulage).
Vicky helped to calm my nerves, and as we chatted she told me that she was aiming to ‘just get round’, as I was, and so we agreed to run together at a 10 minute mile pace. As our starting pen started to move forward, I looked to Vicky, quizzically, wondering what was happening. “This is it!” she squealed, “we’re on our way”. And that was it. No air-horn, no starting gun, not even a 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, GO! Just a slow shuffle over the starting line, and off we went. I stayed with Vicky for approximately 0.7 seconds, before she promptly picked up speed and left me for shit. I reassured myself that I was running at a steady pace and figured that she’d probably burn out a lot earlier than I did, at which point, I would pass her with a victorious fist shake and a supercilious eyebrow-raise.
I didn’t see her again.
The first few miles of the course weaved through pleasant tree-lined neighbourhood streets, and the crowds were already out in full force. Children held their hands out, begging to be high-fived by the passing runners, and hungover-looking adults stood outside their homes, sipping coffee, and wearing dressing gowns and bemused expressions that said ”Yo, why are 37,000 people running past my house?”
I checked out my pack of fellow marathoners, a mixture of sport-looking folk, nervously glancing at their GPS watches every second, and the more ‘casual’ runners, some already walking, as well as a man called ‘Eddie’ who was clearly very well-known, because people kept slapping him on the back as they overtook him and saying “go, Eddie!” Eddie had a bright dyed-pink beard, which I am glad I remembered, as I just used this as a reference when I typed his name into Google (something I have been meaning to do all week). Lo and behold, Eddie is famous, he’s a BBC London radio host, and was running this year after being diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma during his training for the 2007 London Marathon. What an inspirational chap!
At mile 7, I knew that Kristin and Emma would be waiting for me. I couldn’t wait to see them and quickened my pace, snaking around the runners in front who were slowing down as the road started to thin. I knew I had to look out for them on the right hand side, and I scoured the faces in the crowds, a dazzling blur of coloured flags and banners and balloons. I saw Kristin first, she was shouting my name from the top of her lungs and jumping up and down, and then Emma, holding the now infamous banana banner high above her head. I grinned manically at them both and waved as I passed them, craning my neck to soak up the last seconds of seeing them before running smack bang into the back of another runner, very nearly tripping them up. Not cool, Liz. Not cool.
On I ran.
The mile markers passed by, one by one, which isn’t a surprise, really, as that’s what miles markers do, and I found myself feeling strong and capable. It was a rather spiritual experience actually, running along with so many thousands of other people, unified and bound by sheer determination and a mutual respect for each other and the distance ahead.
As I ran over Tower Bridge, the roar of tens of thousands of people shouting in unison was ear-splitting, exhilarating and slightly terrifying, all at the same time. I spotted a woman named Sasha, who for some reason, (I suspect craziness), decided to hula hoop her way round the marathon course and into the Guinness Book of World Records. I saw my chance to jump in front of the television cameras and film crews, who are notoriously stationed on Tower Bridge each year, and therefore decided to hang a metre behind Sasha, knowing the cameras would be trained on her, hoping they would catch me too. I still don’t know if my cunning plan worked, did anyone see me? I was the girl with the blonde, wild curls, blue running top and a shameful desperation to grab my fifteen seconds of fame from the coat-tails of someone far more worthy. Gah, marathon running makes you act like a prick. And hallucinate. Or so I thought…
Here’s a conversation between my sister and me, after the race:
Tower Bridge signalled the half-way point, which was a relief. For about five minutes. And then it slowly dawned on me that I had to run the EXACT SAME DISTANCE again. I didn’t feel physically tired as such, but I started to experience mental exhaustion, knowing that I had over two more hours of willing my body to keep moving in a forward direction.
Let me assure you, this is no mean feat.
I also started to get paranoid that I was either dehydrated or over-hydrated. I had read so many articles detailing the combined dangers of marathon running and water consumption, and therefore started to ‘check’ myself for symptoms. Which was all well and good, only, I couldn’t quite remember what I was supposed to be looking out for. I did remember, however, from my equine days as a teenager, that the way to check if a horse is dehydrated is to pinch its skin. If the skin quickly returns back to its original shape, the horse isn’t dehydrated. I decided that this theory would be the same for humans and so I became the mentally deranged running girl, purposely pinching her arms and chunnering away to herself to “only sip at the water, DON’T GULP IT DOWN, sip, sip, sip!”
At this stage, I was actually growing weary of the crowds. I realise I sound like a huge ass-hat for saying that, and believe me, I WOULD NOT have got round without them, but hearing your name screamed at you every five seconds seriously starts to fry your brain. Imagine walking down a busy shopping high street, happy in your own head, when you suddenly become increasingly aware that your name is being repeated. Over. And. Over. And. Over. Throw in a “YOU CAN DO IT’!” and “DON’T YOU DARE STOP NOW!” and “IT’S JUST ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER!” and I was ready to stop, march over and scream back “WHY DON’T YOU EFFIN GIVE IT A GO THEN, HUH?”
But I didn’t.
I smiled, and waved graciously, all the while cursing under my breath, still pinching at my skin and wishing I had my iPhone with me so that I could swing by the WebMD website and diagnose myself once and for all with dehydration or whatever the opposite of dehydration is called.
A 5.50am alarm signalled the start of my London Marathon day, rousing me from a sleep in which I dreamt of nothing but horrifying marathon disasters, such as looking down at my feet just as the starting gun was fired, only to realise I was still wearing my slippers, or even worse, arriving at the start line and being told I’d missed the race completely as I’d got my dates mixed up.
Let me tell you, I was glad to be awake.
After wolfing down a breakfast of wholemeal toast and boiled eggs, I re-checked my bags for the eleventy billionth time (oh, OCD, how you still plague me so), and plastered my entire body in Vaseline. Yes, Vaseline. You see, there’s something called chafing. And it hurts. A lot.
After getting dressed, a job made far easier by my, ahem, Vaseline lubricated body, I charged round the house and began ordering my marathon-support team, including the cat, to hurry up, bellowing the time every five seconds, in the manner of a Sergeant Major ushering troops to war.
Oh yes, I was a delight to deal with.
Despite my best efforts, we ended up leaving the house for the train to London, 5 minutes later than my uptight carefully crafted time-schedule anticipated, and so I drove to the station at break-neck speed, foot firmly on the gas, screaming obscenities at the learner driver pootling along in front of me.
Car parked, we ran to the station. Well, I ran, Kristin and Emma, both asthmatics, huffed and puffed and trotted behind me as I called back to them with friendly and concerned remarks such as, “I’m the one running a marathon today, get a move on”.
As I said, deeee-light.
Luckily, we didn’t miss the train, and we took our seats amongst a handful of other marathon runners, whom I eyed beadily like an eagle hovering over its prey. Kristin and Emma chatted animatedly, and I stared out of the window, my heart racing and a ball of anxiety forming in my stomach which threatened to unite me with my breakfast. Occasionally, the girls would talk to me, asking me questions about how I was feeling or offering me some water, yet I could barely muster a reply, I felt disoriented; a potent mixture of sheer excitement and agitation coursed through my body.
I did have to laugh though, when I took this photo of Kristin and Emma and their ‘banana here’ supporter sign, which, only the day before, Kristin insisted on holding in front of her at crotch level, giggling like a pubescent schoolboy.
Juvenile behaviour.
Arriving at London Waterloo, we made our way to Waterloo East, where we were to catch a connecting train to the marathon start. As the train pulled into the platform, people jostled with their elbows, barging in front of us, desperate to get a seat. “This is 500 times worse than my commute”, Kristin commented loudly, rolling her eyes.
The train trundled along towards Maze Hill station, towards the ‘Green’ marathon start, and I watched from the window as the white, whipped clouds began to part, making way for the warming sun. I smiled. Only the day before, as I flicked through 5 different weather forecasts, horrified by the cloud and rain icons that cruelly taunted me, I quietly asked my Mum to make the rain go away. It seemed she’d heard my request and sealed a deal with the weather-Gods. Amen.
Departing the train, with Kristin carrying my kit-bag like a mule and Emma bringing up the rear, we followed the crowds through a neighbourhood estate, winding our way through car-lined streets dotted with signs warning the runners not to wee in people’s gardens:
I didn't.
As I turned a corner, it became abundantly clear that the station name, Maze Hill, was called this due to the GIANT HILL that was presented before me. It was also around this time that Kristin and Emma conveniently decided to bid farewell to me, in search of a cafe serving hearty marathon supporters breakfasts. After hugs, kisses and “good lucks!” a plenty, they left me to navigate the steep incline alone, kit-bag slung over my back, head bowed. The last few weeks of marathon training is ALL about the taper – which, in a nutshell, means cutting back your training, so that your body can rebuild to peak strength. I think, where the London Marathon is concerned, the tapering period is simply a way of preparing runners for the pre-marathon EVEREST MOUNTAIN MARATHON you are forced to navigate, before the running event even begins. Why the London Marathon organisers don’t organise ski-lifts/Stannah stair-chairs to ferry their runners to the peak is beyond me; do I have to do all the thinking here, London Marathon organisers? Jeez.
In between gasping for breath during the ascent, I talked to a woman who had run 4,058 marathons already. This year. “What time do you hope to complete it in?”, she asked, “erm, I just went to get round”, I replied sheepishly AND THEN SHE SNORTED. SHE SNORTED! “I’m a good for age runner”, she added, “how did you get on the Green Start?” My head now imploding with nerves, I may also have ugly-cried a little, but only a little, out of the eye furthest away from her. I bet, when she was a kid, she pulled the legs off spiders. What goes around, comes around, Lady. You’ll see.
Although I now felt a tad thwarted by Ms Good For Age and her acerbic pig-snort, I was quite excited about the Green Start - I’d heard that it was also where the celebrities set off. I’d spent the days before the marathon, researching who they were, and other than Nell McAndrew, Will Young and Gordon Ramsey, I didn’t recognise a single one - something I congratulated myself on, actually.
I’d been pre-advised by knowledgable marathon-types to immediately find the toilets, as the queues can get ridiculously long. Advice well-followed, there I queued for over fifteen minutes, nervously shifting from side to side, well aware of the colossal feat ahead of me, fighting with the frightening thoughts filtering through my brain. “YOU CAN DO THIS”, I kept telling myself, “YOU CAN, YOU CAN, YOU CAN. You’ve come this far, DON’T WUSS OUT, porta-loos really aren’t all that bad, plus, you brought your own toilet roll and hand disinfectant, YOU CAN DO IT.”
Emerging from the porta-loo a hero, I walked over to the changing tents, slinging my kit-bag down on the ground and rifling through it in an attempt to locate my Vaseline pot. Yes, more Vaseline. It’s like crack, I tell you. One hit is never enough. It seemed that everyone else had the same idea, and I was greeted with some sights that fiercely burnt through my retinas and into the centre of my mind, where they will linger forever. Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants to see the under-carriage of a male veteran marathon runner.
A tannoy announcement reverberated around the start, alerting all runners to hand in their kit-bags. This was the point of no return for my iPhone, as I had chosen to not run with it, and so we tearfully said our goodbyes as I packed it away in my bag. “See you at the end”, I whispered to my beloved gadget, “I’ll be relying on you to call people, so make sure you bust through the network mayhem, don’t let me down”.
I then, very slowly but surely, made my way to the start line.
