Call the Midlife (29 page)

Hilarious.

Twenty minutes later I’m in a Nike shop in Covent Garden.

‘You do know that if you’re running this Sunday you really shouldn’t be changing your shoes this late in the day?’ says the friendly and helpful in-store running consultant.

‘Yes, but I have a friend who has assured me it’s what I need to do.’

‘Well, I sincerely hope they know what they’re talking about,’ he replies, unconvinced.

All around us are massive posters of one Paula Radcliffe.

I haven’t the heart to tell him.

Saturday, 25 April

ONE SLEEP TO GO

Saturday morning the birds are singing. Although not too loudly. That’ll be because it’s been raining all night. I can’t remember the last time it rained. Not that it was centuries ago or anything like that, it’s just that I could barely recall running once in the rain since I embarked upon my shuffling dream.

And there’s more rain on the menu, according to the weather folk. All weekend one way or another, particularly forecast for tomorrow morning and the race. I’ve not been actively avoiding the rain, more like it’s been avoiding me. Not to worry, though. Apparently light rain is no bad thing come marathon morning. We shall see.

Lying in bed, the clock ticking ever loudly, I remind myself I must be more excited than nervous and come Monday morning this whole great adventure will be over. After a hundred days, now we’re down to just over twenty-four hours.

As the morning goes on, I get calmer if anything. Nothing to do now except enjoy every moment from here on in. Tash and I take the boys for a scooter ride to the running shop, I need to pick up some gels. The guy says for me to take four, three and a spare. ‘Any more than that and they’ll be causing more harm than good.’ Tash buys a new pair of trainers. She already has her running revenge meticulously planned.

After a couple of hours have passed we’re still out. I begin to feel my legs starting to ache. Nothing much but I’m hyper-aware of anything. Like when Eli rattled into my right calf from behind ten minutes before on his scooter. We stop off at the fancy-dress shop to buy the giant inflatable banana for Tash and the kids to wave in the crowd so I can see them tomorrow.

After returning home to pack my marathon bag, we set off for the Tower Hotel where I met Paula and Steve the day before. When we arrive it’s even busier than yesterday, sunny too. I check in and then go to register. I’m met by two wonderful forces of nature by
the name of Jo and Matt. Jo gives me my race number, 25201, and a briefing on what happens tomorrow morning. Matt, who ran the race last year, gives me another take on what to expect. I’m happy to listen to as many marathon accounts as possible, picking up any scrap of useful experience that might come in handy.

Matt then tells me how emotional he was when he crossed the line last year. He ran into the arms of his wife as they both broke down. He was running in honour of his son who was stillborn. He breaks down in front of me, as he’s perfectly entitled to. He apologizes, but realizes there’s no need as he looks up to see tears rolling down my cheeks. After a few beats we both snap out of it and suddenly we’re back in the room talking layers, Vaseline and an early start. He seems like an extremely good guy.

Again the general mantra is:

‘Whatever you do, don’t start too quickly. It’s so tempting with the adrenaline and relatively fresh legs to how your legs have felt for the vast majority of your training.’

I can’t hear those words enough.

‘And enjoy it. That’s the best advice anyone can give you. There’s absolutely no point in putting all this work in and then letting your own stupid ego get in the way of a great day. Get around, have fun, get to a pub and talk the hell out of your experience.’

The clock is ticking.

Tash, the kids and I have lunch back in the brasserie. Steve comes over from the terrace, where he’s having a relaxed drink with some of Paula’s friends and family. We exchange numbers. I tell him I’ll see him in the bar later.

‘One won’t hurt, will it?’ I ask.

‘Maybe even two,’ he replies with a mischievous smile.

It’s 5.15 p.m., time for the fan club to leave. The next time I see them will either be thanks to the giant inflatable banana out on the course or after the race somewhere. Tash is dewy-eyed. The kids wish me luck and give me one of their super-special never-let-go hugs. My favourite thing in the world.

Moments later, with the hollow clunk of a London black cab door,
they’re off and on their way home. The runner is alone. Just as I was when I started this caper, seeing if I could shuffle once around Virginia Water lake without stopping. And now here I am: sixteen hours, a bus ride to the start and 26.2 miles away from accomplishing my goal.

Should something, for whatever reason, between now and the morning stop me from competing in tomorrow’s race, what I’ve already learnt about myself will have made this amazing adventure more than worthwhile.

I really can’t recall ever feeling this comfortable and at ease with myself at any point in my life before.

Top Ten Running Bag Contents:

RACE DAY EVE

OK, I must have a plan. And I do. The dream is to run as many ten-minute miles as possible without stopping and then graduate down from there to try to get inside five hours. If I could pull this off I would be in seventh heaven. Not that I’ve ever come close to that before. But the thing is, it’s not actually that fast, it’s just doing twenty-six of them consecutively that’s the issue. To run under five hours all I have to do is 26 miles at an average speed of
11.37 minutes a mile, which is really quite slow and in a way a lot more tiring. The longer the plod, the longer the slog, therefore it’s in one’s interest to try to go about one’s marathon in one’s optimum time. The less time you’re out there, the less time everything has to affect you.

I have also never prepared for any of my previous long runs like I have for the marathon itself. I’ve had hardly any alcohol for seven days, I’ve gone about fuelling my body the right way for the first time in my adult life and I’ve been getting seven hours plus sleep a night. Therefore I have no idea really what I’m capable of.

I need to do a rough gross calculation so I’m not distracted during the race while wondering what to do and whether to rest, maintain, hold back or push. That’s if I have a choice, of course. How about I try to maintain a ten-minute-mile pace for the first half and then see how I feel? If I can manage that, it will leave me with 2 hours 49 minutes to get round the second half. Which will mean a gnat’s breath under thirteen-minute-mile pace will get me there.

This is all assuming my left knee or right Achilles doesn’t go and I can manage 26.2 miles in the first place.

Actually, how about I aim for a ten-minute-mile pace first half but allow myself ten minutes thirty, just in case, and bring my second-half pace down to twelve minutes thirty seconds a mile. That seems to be a lot more sensible.

OK, that’s what I’ll do. That’s the basic plan. Anything more complicated than that and I won’t be able to focus when I’m knackered. And if it goes awry early on, then I’ll just shuffle, smile and wave and remember to ‘enjoy the day’.

Formula is:

10.00 miles in first half gives me 13.00 miles’ margin in second half.

10.30 first half gives me 12.30 second half.

11.00 first half gives me 12.00 second half.

11.30 first half gives me flat, i.e. same second, half.

Presuming the second half is going to be slower because that’s what all the stats say, 11.30 flat – i.e., all the way through – is a high-risk strategy. If I can rack up thirteen ten-minute miles for the first half, that would be the dream start.

Sunday, 26 April

Waking thoughts:

The human race is so bizarre. We are extraordinary, yet for the most part totally predictable, creatures of habit. It’s 5.15 a.m., less than five hours to the start of the race, yet the whole hotel is still in bed and fast asleep. In an hour or two all kinds of mayhem will be going on, but right now, you could be forgiven for thinking it was Boxing Day morning.

I’ve managed about six hours’ sleep, one way or another, which is more than I thought I would get. That’s the good news, the not-so-good news is that I over-massaged my right shin with my knuckles last night and it’s come up inflamed and painful this morning.

Idiot.

Don’t do ‘anything’ radical last minute the day before, unless it’s an emergency. You know the score, yet still you panic.

Right, I’m off for an early breakfast before the rush starts, I’ll have a shower and get ready after that. Major priority before I get on the bus: try to have a substantial relationship with the loo.

From the window of the brasserie, the Shard has become the Shroud. Low, dirty rain cloud covers London, the worst day for weeks. It’s wet, very wet, and cold. Apparently good news for the quick runners. OK, well good for them, but seeing as I’ll be out for more than twice the time they will be, how about it brightens up around midday after that?

Also found out via the Twittersphere that Jenson Button is running number 25202. My number is 25201. For the moment, at least, technically he’s behind me.

What to eat for breakfast on race morning is no longer up for debate, I find myself in the queue for the buffet with elite athletes
from all over the world: Russians, the Portuguese Paralympic team, the US wheelchair team. It’s porridge, watermelon, pineapple, croissant, bagels, scrambled egg, coffee – basically anything you damn well like. It’s all energy and everyone’s going to need as much as they can get. Although the Russians also have a huge container of POWER PORRIDGE (written exactly like that) on their table. Hilarious, I wonder if there’s anything in it or it’s just the Ruskies at their breakfast-table intimidating worst.

Back from breakfast, the most important mission of the day, ahead of getting to the finish and spotting Tash and the kids en route, is accomplished. A lavatorial download of monumental proportions and with some considerable gravitational force, I might add. I don’t mean to be vulgar but you have no idea what a relief that was. There may be more to come, but I’m not sure there could possibly be anything left.

Time for another quick bath.

My heart is racing.

I am both mega-nervous and hyper-excited. I’m also quite tired but I really don’t care. If I can’t get myself up for this, then I might as well call it a day where everything’s concerned.

I lie on the bed until the absolute last minute before I think I need to get changed. I remember Dr Guy Meadows’ words: ten minutes of sleep can enhance a person’s performance by 100 per cent over a four-hour period thereafter.

That’s what I’ll try to do.

At some point between now – 6.48 a.m. and 10.10 a.m. I will try to achieve some brief unconsciousness. Little chance when I’m more excited than an elephant in a bun factory. Right, painkillers, cream, Vaseline, KT tape and it’ll be jump-on-the-bus time.

Oh no. I can feel another rumble in the jungle coming on. Maybe my original download wasn’t the final article after all.

The foyer of the hotel is jumping with excitement and anticipation. There are recognizable faces everywhere, some of them I can put
names to, some escape me. We are directed towards an old Routemaster London bus waiting for us on Tower Bridge. What a perfect way to start our collective day of self-discovery.

I sit on the back seat upstairs with a friend of mine, a far too handsome fifty-year-old Geordie by the name of Graeme Lowdon, who is the extremely affable team principle of Manor F1. We had a sneaky pint of Guinness last night over which to compare notes and calm each other down, during which Graeme informed me most of his training had involved running round various Grand Prix circuits of the world.

‘More and more teams go running when we get to the tracks nowadays.’

Is it me or is the whole planet suddenly waking up to the magic and simplicity of pulling on a pair of sweatpants and trainers and going out for a relaxing, feel-good jog?

In front of myself and Graeme on the bus are Helen George, she of
Call the Midwife
, Greg James from Radio 1, Christy Turlington, the ex-supermodel and veteran of no less than four marathons, to her right is Jenson Button and his missus, Jessica, and behind them is the man mountain and all-round superhero that is double Olympic rowing gold medallist James Cracknell.