Call the Midlife (32 page)

Next my thighs and quads. Thighs are fine but my quads are definitely letting me know they need a bit of TLC from now on. Could mean it’s time for another gel, take one just in case, more isotonic hydration required and nearly forgot, my halfway point second dose of Ibuprofen – crucial. This may all sound a little over-elaborate for someone only trying to break five hours, but around me much younger and clearly much fitter bodies are breaking down in chronic pain. They have either not planned or trained properly, or haven’t listened to their bodies until it’s too late.

It’s very difficult for anyone to blag any distance over a half-marathon without encountering serious consequences.

When it comes to long-distance running, if you can feel anything that’s not quite right, you are potentially only moments away from it developing exponentially into a chronic, race-threatening issue. Ignore any red flags at your peril.

I get to work consuming what I need to in order to put my mind at rest. Next I give some thought as to how my fragile left knee is holding up. This is unquestionably my biggest concern. But so far, so good, it seems fine. I even try to imagine some pain. Nothing. Although I know it will come. It has to.

No matter, for now, I couldn’t be more grateful. My forty-nine-year-old bag o’bones is doing me proud.

Paula’s advice whispers in my ear, there to protect me all the way.

‘You will almost certainly have three dips. Be prepared, always.’

And Paula would know. Of course she would. Better than anyone else in the world.

And so I must wait, ready for something to go wrong, something to break down.

I keep on running. I keep on giving thanks. I am praying. To God. Archbishop Sentamu, I have made my decision. I’m in.

‘One foot in front of the other, that’s all you need to do.’

‘A quiet run is a good run.’

Each mantra doing the trick, helping me notch up another ten, twenty, few hundred yards, then half-mile and then mile.

Each celebratory offical mile marker a huge fifteen-metre-high arch of balloons festooned with cascading ribbons snaking in the wind, a huge digital clock next to each one to let the marathon parade know how it’s getting on.

My growing list of NO ONE TELLS YOU now includes the giant screens and pulsating music that sucks the runners into the underpass sections and spits them out the other side. I heard subsequently this came about because in past marathons such sections had become mass latrines.

NO ONE TELLS YOU either about how sticky the road surface gets around the energy gel stations with each subsequent discarded sachet. Tens of thousands of them necessitating a major jet-washing operation in the wake of the back markers. Later, as we make our way back west up Commercial Road, we see exactly that taking place. In less than twelve hours this, one of the world’s busiest arterial routes, will be back open for business servicing the nation’s capital.

As I enter at the Canary Wharf area still no major issues except for a few helpful twinges here and there to keep me on my toes. But by and large I am almost running in shock, like it’s a dream. I know
I have at least another five miles in me for sure. The training is paying off. I am enjoying every second of my marathon.

And I’m so glad I’m having to write this down because it’s making me retrace every moment and realize just how special it all was. I’ve heard people claim not to have been able to remember whole swathes of their marathon experience, something I never really understood until now. Canary Wharf, though, I will never forget. The crowds there were absolutely huge, even compared to the mighty Embankment, which was yet to come.

Not only were the endless weaving throngs either side of the route ten, twenty, even thirty people deep in parts but they were elevated as well, tiered in some places. Bloody huge. Bloody loud. Bloody brilliant.

After the general breathlessness of the Isle of Dogs and all that wonderful crowd had to offer it’s back out into the relative openness of the couple of miles that followed. I vaguely recall going up a long graduated slope leading to a maze of traffic lights and a roundabout I’m not sure exactly where but I think it may well have been the flyover section above the tunnel where a fantastically loud drum-troop had provided our live soundtrack half an hour before. Another gel station and then it was time to turn north towards Bow.

We were now no more than a mile away from the old lock keeper’s cottage from where we used to broadcast Channel 4’s
Big Breakfast
. Another fond memory, another five hundred yards of super-fuel. Smiling works when it comes to marathon running. And if not, there was still the crowd, still hundreds of thousands of them.

After Bow, time to turn left and embark upon the home stretch back into London and the cacophony of noise that I have read so much about. As we runners have clocked up what is now over four marathon hours, it becomes more and more evident our army of support has been doing similar when it comes to their own partying. Everyone is still entirely good humoured but there is a certain amount of bawdiness creeping into the proceedings. Like a
well-attended Test match building to a thrilling climax.

Having hit the 20-mile marker, I am now in double unknown territory. Not only have I never run this far before, I have also never run as far as this without stopping. This is all new to me, I’d always stopped in training for one reason or another. But not today, not for a step; my legs have now been doing whatever it was for longer than I could be sure they were able.

Again, Paula’s words flash into my psyche:

‘Three dips, be prepared for three dips. They will almost certainly come. It could happen at any time. Be ready for them. Especially when you’re feeling particularly strong. That’s when your race is most likely to take control of you as opposed to you controlling it. Over-confidence is a killer. Quiet, mindful confidence is the key.’

And something is beginning to happen in my weak left knee. I’m almost relieved. At least I know now. There’s no way a knee so vulnerable only a fortnight ago could make it round 26-odd miles and not break down. As usual it begins with a twinge, a warning. I chance a few steps running differently to see if I can nip whatever’s about to happen in the bud. A few seconds later, pow, there it is – the debilitating stab I’ve come to know so well and been waiting for. If this were a training run I would pull up immediately at this point. But it isn’t, it’s the marathon, and I need to see how much pain I can take without stopping.

I recall Kilian Jornet’s tales of running with freshly chipped bones rattling around in his skin, blood curdling at the back of his throat, I know it sounds silly but this is it for me. I may never get the chance to run this far as part of such a wonderful occasion ever again in my life. I am willing to do anything I can to get to the end. And I’m so close, I can almost smell Tower Hill and the Tower of London.

Before I can summon up anymore helpful distractions, however, a second much more intense stab of pain stops me dead in my tracks. In fact I pull up so abruptly there’s an audible gasp from the crowd.

‘Right, I know what this is,’ I tell myself, or at least I have an idea
what it is. The IT band located down the side of my upper left leg is so tight it feels as if it might snap at any moment. It feels more like bone or a metal rod than a tendon, pulling on my knee – torture. Somehow I must get enough life or elasticity back into there to ease the tension just enough for my brain to give my body permission to run again. Furiously, I massage the general area of my left quad and thigh with the knuckles of both my right and left hands. After twenty seconds I try to run again. And I manage, but only for a few hundred yards. Then I am forced to pull up again, more welcome sympathy from the folks behind the barriers. This time I ask a lady in the crowd if I can lean on her shoulder while I do some emergency stretching of the whole of my left leg. She’s happy to help.

A moment later I’m back on the road, the pain has abated, I have no idea why nor any time to care. I can see the 22-mile marker. I look down at my watch. Sub-5 hours won’t be possible if I have to walk for any substantial distance hereon in. But I realize also that I have far more fuel in my tank than I anticipated I would by this point. I decide therefore the most useful course of action is to increase my pace dramatically with immediate effect. As I do so my Garmin begins to register sub-10-minute-mile pace for the first time today.

‘Who knows what’s going to happen?’ I tell myself. ‘I might as well just go for it.’

The next half-mile is fantastic. Truly fantastic. But I know I’m running on borrowed time. As I approach St Katharine Docks it happens again: pow, again I jump to a stop, again more gasps from the crowd and another willing shoulder for me to lean on. I dig my knuckles in as deep as they’ll go to the skin above my left kneecap. The idyllic rhythm of the first 20 miles a distant memory.

I am now in full crisis mode.

The only strategy available, to finish, any way, any how, it really doesn’t matter any more.

Paula was right, of course she was. ‘Expect at least three dips.’ Christ, I’ve had all three of mine in the last mile and a half! Not so much a case of ‘hitting the wall’ as the wall collapsing right on top of me. For the first time I begin to panic. Doubt explodes within
me. I question everything. I can no longer think straight.

I need help.

Please.

And then it comes.

Boom.

Most clichés are true, which is how they became clichés in the first place. Ergo, allow me to confirm everything you may have heard with regard to the last 3 miles of the London Marathon. The crowd literally picks every runner up and carries them home. I am in tears as I recall the sensation. It is incredible. A wave of human spirit for us to ride on, all we have to do is try to stay upright. Even though I know my knee is not working any more, my brain has no choice but to ‘not feel it’. The crowd won’t allow that to happen.

My levels of adrenaline and endorphins have reached a new high. The like of which I had no idea existed. I cannot stop smiling. This is simply extraordinary. Beyond comprehension. Beyond belief. Total Nirvana.

‘The crowd will carry you.’

I start to run as fast as I can while being able to sustain it. As the clock ticks slowly by, I am now passing more people than are passing me. Not that any such thing matters per se, but this observation tells me two things:

1. People are pulling up and having to walk all around me, so who’s to say I won’t be next?

2. I am at my limit, this is definitely a calculated gamble.

Less than 2 miles to go and though my watch is telling me I’m doing fine for pace, each second seems to take longer, therefore it feels longer. My legs start to feel heavy for the first time. Way markers take an age to arrive. I scale them down to consecutive lampposts. But they remain in slow motion.

Then as we dip down again to negotiate the final underpass on the Embankment, the crowds disappear up as we stream by.

My knee goes again, with no one there to lean on this time, I slump against one of the huge concrete slabs. I can hear people screaming encouragement from above as they realize I’m in trouble. I just grab
hold of my left ankle with my left hand, pull it up behind me and snap my knee back as hard as I can. I don’t know particularily why, it just seems like the right thing to do. I have to get home.

Having not dared to look at my watch for a mile or so I have little or no idea where I am with regard to my dream of a sub-5-hour time. Now, with the chance of having to stop running altogether back on the agenda, I have to look to plan for the worst-case scenario. Feeling slightly nauseous, I glance down. My watch reads 4:41:17.

Yeeeeees!

That means I have NINETEEN minutes left to cross the finish line in a time beginning with 4 hours something. That’s all I want. That’s what all this has been about. The shuffling at Christmas. The running to Kensington to buy my first proper running kit. The clandestine hours away from my family. The countless visits to Phil the chiropracting genius. The hyper-glycaemic tablets that it took me ages to find online. The life-changing decisions to do with diet, sleep, smoking. The marathon paranoia, i.e. the maranoia, for the fortnight leading up to the race, about not pulling a muscle or stubbing your toe going for a pee in the middle of the night. My new love affair with drinking water and discovering the nuances of the city where I’ve lived, worked, laughed and cried for the last quarter of a century. The weight loss. The new-found energy. The realization that a pair of trainers and a spare hour or two out in the fresh air will forever give me more joy than a thousand exotic sports cars and a hundred Monaco Grands Prix put together. The list goes on.