I ran FLM back in 2005 and one of my running friends wrote this amusing tale which probably chimes with anyone who has ever run a Marathon.
Let's be clear about this. Running a marathon is an epic undertaking.
Running London involves training in December, January, February and March,
every single weekend. You may notice that these months are not noticeable
for their warmth. So every weekend, Kevin has had to motivate himself to
get off his arse and pound the lanes of Wiltshire for hours at a time, in
rain, sleet & wind. His body has been subject to intense stresses, as
probably has his relationship with his family.
"Kevin, when are you doing your training run today so that I can plan the
rest of my day?"
"Er, well, it's raining right now, maybe I'll wait until this afternoon".
"But we were going to Ikea this afternoon".
"Right, as I said, I'll definitely wait until this afternoon"
Two weeks ago he will have reached a peak of fitness he could only dream
about. He can run 10 miles without breaking sweat. In short, he is READY!
He will have spent last week dreading every little ache, every sneeze in
case a more major problem is about to manifest itself. He will have tried
to keep away from people to avoid catching a cold. He has given up beer for
weeks in order to be READY.
And on the big day itself he will have woken up at some ungodly hour,
stuffed some breakfast down him, sat for ages on the bog because he is
damned if he's going to trust one of those portaloos, fought his way onto a
train carriage redolent with the smell of unshowered bodies, ralgex, and
banana-scented farts. He will have stood around at the start freezing while
some bloke beside him is doing something with Vaseline that would have him
arrested on any normal day on Blackheath.
And finally the start. Yes, the runners are off. But 3 miles behind the
start, poor Kevin is shuffling in a huge crowd at about half a mile per
hour. Fifteen minutes after the start, finally he's off running, only to
have to stop fifty yards later because there's been a bunching of runners.
You see it all the time on the motorways; imagine it with 30,000 runners.
After 3 miles he is finally able to run at his pace. Every mile he has to
stop and walk because some poor dears can't manage a mile without stopping
for refreshments. Why don't they open the pubs? That would clear the
streets after 5 miles.
After 10 miles he thinks he's running well. He's at his pace, feeling good,
thinking that he's over a third of the way through it. And then, the
ultimate humiliation, he's overtaken by an F-ing toucan!
The half way mark, and he can see the faster runners already at the 20 mile
mark. Surely there's a chance of taking a short cut. Not with 2,000
spectators watching. So there's no alternative but to turn east away from
the finish and trudge around the docklands. The crowds are thinner here,
it's windy, cold in the shadows of the buildings, and Kevin is seriously
knackered.
Back to Tower Bridge, and he's done 22 miles. 22 miles. Only 4 to go. But
this 4 is like no other 4 he's ever done. Normally 4 miles would take him
30 minutes. But he's exhausted, dazed, can barely run, and in fact is half
walking, half-running. Everyone else is as fresh as a daisy, apart from
those lying on the ground being tended to by St. John's Ambulance personnel.
The crowd are shouting inane things like "Come on Chippenham, nearly there".
Nearly there? At this pace (on all fours by now), he's got another hour to
go. And now he's been overtaken by a pantomime-bloody-horse. Why, why did
I do this, he asks himself. He'd rather watch a box set of Mrs Brown’s boys than go
through this.
Somehow he covers the next 3 miles, and he can see Buckingham Palace. He's
actually going to make it. Rounding the last corner, he's on the Mall, and
glory beckons. From somewhere he manages a typical sprint finish, and
overtakes a few runners. No sign of the toucan or the horse though.
Kevin, as George Galloway said to Saddam Hussein:
"Sir, I salute your courage and your indefatigability"
