It’s a funny thing, running a marathon. From the day I was allocated my place, this looming event niggled away at me. From the drinks I felt I should choose (fewer cocktails, more mocktails), to the food I ate (swapping burgers for beetroot), to my evening plans (basically, I was a right bore). And then suddenly, it was over. And bizarrely, I miss it.
I had been working towards it for 10 weeks. “Working towards” meant grudgingly giving up my precious Saturday for a long run in the rain. Every time I was scheduled a run I cursed the place down beforehand, slamming the door on the way out. “You don’t really have the marathon joy, do you Hannah?” a perceptive friend remarked. No. I had the marathon hate. I shared the ups and downs of my training here, and I’ll admit, there were more lows than highs. I loathed the London Marathon.
My irritation peaked in the week prior. I was a paranoid, furious, amateur runner with an overly ambitious collection of neon lycra. I worried about everything. Don’t slip in the shower, don’t fall off a kerb, don’t stand on a plug, don’t catch a cold, don’t sneeze and pull a muscle in your back. My head was muddled: run a bit, but not so much that you lose energy. Eat loads of carbs, but not so many that you just wee them all out. Confused and fed up, I was convinced that I would be that person to pull a calf muscle at mile two. Or cause a pile up by tripping on a water bottle at mile ten. Or shit themselves at mile 12.
The most consistent piece of advice I received was a suspiciously enthusiastic “just enjoy it.” Friends claimed it was one of the best days of their life. “They must have had a pretty sad life,” I concluded “if that’s one of their highlights.”
On Sunday 13th April I stood in my start zone, directly behind a naked man sporting only a thin blue ribbon up his bum crack and a bunch of balloons bobbing over his head. This was his version of running gear. My eyes scanned his impressive toned body before they rested on his pale but pert bare bum. And that was the moment I realised I would enjoy the London Marathon.
Within seconds of crossing the line my firm-bummed acquaintance had unclenched his cheeks and shot off. For me, the miles stretched on. Advised to go “consciously slow”, I found myself unconsciously ignoring advice, trotting at a faster pace than I’ve ever managed before. At mile three, I abandoned my meticulously planned Bruce Springsteen set list. I overheated. My face turned red, so sweaty in the heat that it stung and itched. I decided to have an energy gel. It shot over my head on to the person behind me. They got angry. I ran away.
The miles continued. I slowed to an almost backwards jog to take a few snaps crossing Tower Bridge, before adopting a frantic and abnormal two-handed wave for the crowds at mile 14, like some kind of hero, or Z-list celeb. And then I saw someone shit themselves. The shock, the horror … the selfish relief that it wasn’t me. I mustered up every ounce of energy to overtake, charging past to avoid being caught in that tailwind.
From miles 15 to 17 I had some thinking time. I contemplated life and decided to take up a new hobby, perhaps learning to play the drums. I could do anything after all, I was running a marathon! By mile 19 I was so distracted and things were so fun (no, really) that I was genuinely considering entering an ultra-marathon, that one in the desert with all the sand. Yes, I decided, I could easily run across hot sand for days.
At mile 20 I hit the wall. As simple as that. Within 30 seconds of visualising myself bounding across the Sahara on a multi-day marathon, my legs seized, my mind froze and I was convinced I couldn’t finish. Not many people can eloquently explain what “the wall” feels like, but I can. It’s a f*cker of a place, where your body tries everything to convince you you can’t go on, and you must convince it that you can. I whimpered. And that’s when I went for the crowd.
https://youtube.com/watch?v=Z_8JLkwzpd0%3Fwmode%3Dopaque%26feature%3Doembed
Normally the type to shy away from unwanted attention, I found myself pinging from barrier to barrier, pumping up the crowd like a WWF champion. Or in reality, embarrassingly reminiscent of a drunk Delia Smith trying to rile up the Norwich fans during that football match. Unlike Delia, I hadn’t sneaked a glass of vino tinto, but I knew the crowd’s responsive cheers of “dig in Hannah, you’re looking good” (I can assure you, I wasn’t), were the only thing that would get me to the finish line. From the 85-year-old man with a pipe seeking a high five, to the six-year-old kid handing me a water bottle reassuring me I was doing “exceptionally well”, every person in that marathon, whether running, working or watching, played a part in getting me round. I reached 26.2 miles.
For a week following the marathon my body hated me. Running for the bus was a slow hobble. I hollered for assistance lowering myself on to and off the loo. My head throbbed for days. But I had my life back. I gorged on burgers. I drank beer. I hid my well-worn trainers at the back of my wardrobe. I didn’t wash a single item of lycra.
But at the same time, I was lost. I had heard that training for the marathon would be worse than the main event, and it’s true. I hated that training, but unexpectedly, I still miss it. The London Marathon itself? My friends were right: one of the highlights of my (sad) life. So what do I do next?
• Hannah writes a blog called Burgers and Bruce – a food, travel and music blog. Follow her on Twitter @BurgersAndBruce
• She’s contemplating a triathlon, and has signed up for the Prudential 100 mile cycle ride
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