Firstly, the sheer scale of the thing is almost impossible to describe. The statistics say that over 37,000 people entered. I don’t know how many people were there marshalling crowds, giving out drinks en route, watching for safety issues and so on, but there must have been well over a thousand. And the crowds that turned out to watch—several people deep along nearly the entire route, not to mention the thousands at the start, the even more thousands at the end, and all the pubs, houses, flats, shops and businesses on the way who were waving banners, playing music or hosting spectators—well, I can’t possibly estimate those numbers. The logistics of the thing were no less impressive than I’d imagined, from the initial registration process, to the helicopters watching, to the toilets, showers, and water and Lucozade stations en route, to the mass transportation of kit bags from the start to the finish, to the enormous media spectacle at the end… Purely in terms of sheer number of people involved, it was an extraordinary thing to behold.
For the first couple of hours I found the running a lot easier than expected. During most of 2009 I had worked my way up from never having done any running (or anything fitness-related at all) to completing a half-marathon at the end of October. Shortly after that, it became obvious that I’d been damaging my feet so much that I almost completely stopped running, to give myself a chance to recover in time for the event itself. Since then I’ve been on cross-trainers, step machines and so on—all good exercise, but no way to know how, or if, an hour on a given piece of equipment translates into miles of running capability. So, I went into the Marathon completely unaware of how far I would be able to run or what it would do to me. And, at first, I was pleasantly surprised. Not only did I keep up with my wife Gill for a good two and three quarter hours, but I ran significantly further than ever before—just under 17 miles—before I ever slowed down.
It was at 16.77 miles, according to my Garmin GPS watch, that I finally realised I couldn’t keep it up. I slowed to a brisk walk, and enjoyed a wonderfully Hollywood-military exchange with my wife:
“I can’t do it any more. Carry on without me.”
“Do you want me to wait with you?”
“No, you go on. I’ll only slow you down.”
“In this platoon, we never leave a man behind. I’m sticking with you.”
Actually, the fourth line never happened. What happened was that Gill continued running, and I didn’t, and we met again about two and a half hours later. I am proud, though—and I think I’ll always be proud—of the fact that I never once stopped. I slowed down from a running speed of 6mph to a walk of around 4 to 4.5mph. For the remainder of the Marathon I alternated between those two speeds. That’s much more than I could realistically have expected to achieve. I never even stopped to use the toilets. (Mind you, if you’d seen the toilets, you wouldn’t have stopped to use them either.)
When you’re in a state of exhausted despair, it’s impossible to think straight. From roughly mile 22 until the end, I was convinced that I was feeling worse, in every way, than I ever had before, in any context. It was the most horrible period I could ever remember enduring. But now, having survived the thing, received a lot of congratulations and had a night’s sleep, on reflection: I still think that time was the worst period I have ever endured. Several times I nearly fell over, and several times I nearly burst into tears. It’s hard to say what the main process was; perhaps this is “the wall” that people speak of. (If so, then I wasted my money on all the carbohydrate gels I was consuming regularly, on the salesman’s promise that “the wall doesn’t have to exist any more”.) Probably the intense sun was a contributor; I didn’t really notice it at the time as I was so exhausted by the time it appeared, but I’m told yesterday was the hottest London marathon ever, and have thorough and painful sunburn today to attest to that. Who knows. I’m not one for spiritual experiences, epiphanies or “finding myself”, but I can at least say that, having experienced over an hour of such giblet-melting despair and yet still kept going, the various other challenges I have over the next few months just don’t seem that challenging any more.
Last week, a friend told me that he’d always thought of the London Marathon as like the carnival coming to town. He was more right than I’d expected. The people of London did themselves proud yesterday, coming out in force to support and entertain us and each other. A few of my favourites were the four or five soul bands playing James Brown classics and the like (complete with full horn sections); many other excellent covers bands; a couple of steel bands; a pub that had decked its entire outside up as a pirate ship, complete with a good 20 or so pirates greeting us on the pavement; the residents of number 338 some-road-or-other-near-Greenwich who had suspended an enormous banner on the front of their house saying “338 GIRLS THINK YOU’RE SUPER DUPER”; the two blokes who cropped up in the audience a few times holding a large banner which simply said “Motivational Banner” on it; the priest in full religious garb sprinkling holy water on us as we passed; the man who had a first-floor flat and was standing on his balcony playing disco records through a speaker system while dancing in a pink wig; the fantastic group of drummers who’d stationed themselves under a road bridge for maximum, heart-thumping, primeval drumming effect… I’m sure I’ll keep remembering more highlights over the coming weeks. Like many others, I had my iPod with me, but I never switched it on. There was too much other good stuff going on. I can’t think of another time when I’ve ever spent five hours just paying attention to my environment.
Interesting, too, to see the differing responses to different runners. Running for the charity that I work for had its bittersweet side: while some charities had a massive turnout of supporters, meaning that their runners got huge reactions as they went past, it was kind of disappointing to know that this wasn’t going to happen for me. (But then, we can’t all be Macmillan; and the general lack of recognition made it all the more wonderful when I did finally meet someone who had come out to see me, at around mile 25.) For a while I also noticed an interesting phenomenon whereby crowds in different areas tended to respond differently; in Limehouse they tended to shout “You must be crazy!” whereas in North Greenwich the cry of choice was “To Infinity and beyond!” In the end I realised they were responding to the people running just behind me; in Limehouse a man dressed as the Statue of Liberty, holding a sign saying “My 30th Marathon!” and in Greenwich, of course, a man dressed as Buzz Lightyear. (A side note on the subject of novelty runners: for a good couple of hours I was alongside or very close to the “caterpillar”: two long lines of runners attached to each other with ropes and carabiners. I discovered today that the caterpillar included two of Richard Branson’s children, and also Princess Beatrice. I’m happy to report that she didn’t seem to be behaving in a particularly royal fashion—and I mean that in a good way.)
Overall, what made the biggest impression on me was the sheer abundance of goodwill and support. Our hotel was in Canary Wharf and, thanks to an excellent Lastminute.com offer, was a pretty up-market one. We didn’t expect it to be particularly Marathon-focused at all. When we came downstairs in the morning, though, there was a huge table of bottles of water and bananas for us all to take with us. We left our hotel, and London public transport was free to Marathon entrants. In the male toilet area at the starting zone, a man dressed as a Cornetto began singing to us—and 60 urinating men joined in with him. As the run progressed, runners chatted with other runners, made way for each other, apologised for bumping into each other, and were thoroughly good-natured all round.
And the crowds! Oh, the crowds were incredible. Families had brought their tiny children to the kerbside, where they were high-fiving as many passing runners as they could. Pensioners were dancing. People stood in front of their own houses handing out sweets, drinks, segments of orange, pre-cut bananas, Jaffa cakes and custard creams to us. There were applause, cheers, honking horns, ringing bells and all manner of noise-making devices. And the simple shouts of encouragement, ranging from jubilant and celebratory during the first half to encouraging and sympathetic during the later stages, were extraordinary. Whoever told me to make sure my name was on the front of my vest was absolutely right; during the low periods while I was walking, the shouts changed from the earlier “Go, Ewan!” to the almost parental “Come on, Ewan—you’re nearly there, buddy! You’re doing really well!” All from complete strangers.
So, a day of wonderful experiences, fabulous displays, a sense of achievement and, to my mind, as spectacular an example as you’ll find of all that’s good about people. Simultaneously, the hardest, most gruelling experience I’ve ever had, perhaps heightened by the strangeness of going through it in front of an enormous audience and worldwide television cameras. I find it impossible to judge how the good and the bad weigh up against each other, but my provisional conclusion is this: I’m pleased to have done it, and I never want to do it again.
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