25/4/16 – One in a Million

Where to start? So, so many memories… I’ve heard the best place to start is at the very beginning, so here goes.

The alarm went off at 6:10 after a predictably restless night. Quick shower and usual pre-race breakfast: rolled oats with two big dollops of Skyr (protein-rich yoghurt), a couple of teaspoons of Cherry Jam and Peanut Butter. It was a job to eat it all as the tummy was already full of butterflies.

Sue’s dad, John arrived to give us a lift to the Station. It’s only 10 minutes walk, but why take unnecessary distance out of the legs? We were amazed by the large amount of runners at Elmers End station and quickly picked up the ‘London Marathon Runners salute’: a nod of acknowledgement, a shy smile and a flinty look of determination that says ‘Right, We’re Having This”.

In the last week, I’ve been a bit obsessed about getting my sponsorship total above £4,000 before the race. With just £26 to go as we boarded the train, I resorted to some subtle emotional blackmail on text and social media. It worked, but even I was surprised at how quickly. Just thirty seconds later, I was there. A fantastic fillip on the eve of the race.

The train trip was otherwise uneventful and soon we were plodding deliberately slowly up the hill in Greenwich Park surrounded by thousands of like-minded souls. Without being in any way loud, the anticipation was somehow deafening.  Time to take a few deep breaths, attend to toilet matters, followed by a cuppa and energy biscuits. Sue even managed to get herself on TV in the background when Dame Kelly Holmes was being interviewed (if you knew where to look).

Despite being there over an hour before, the time flew by and as the announcer was urging people to their pens, we both found ourselves in need of another wee. We had been warned about this effect, but it made no difference. The men’s urinal queue was long but moving, whereas Sue had a 20 minutes wait and was actually in the loo when Commander Tim Peake did the countdown to the start.

Not that we were going anywhere any time soon as we were in the last pen, there were about 30,000 runners ahead of us.  It took another 30 minutes to reach the start line, during which time I managed to sneak out for yet another ‘security’ wee. We both managed to cross the line bang on 10:30:00, which made race pace calculations nice and easy. 

People tell you that random spectators will shout and encourage you by name as you go by – it’s still an odd thing to hear though. Suddenly there was some real bellowing from atop a wall on the opposite side. These were people I did know: Colin and Hannah who live on the route and had come out to cheer us on at a volume only they seem to be able to manage. You had to feel for their neighbours…

A little further along, the local priest was out blessing the runners by anointing them with Holy Water, I ended up with a real face full. Cheers, Father.

My idea of staying close to the 5 hour pacer had to be revised before the start, as I was too far behind him at the start. Thus I had to pace myself to my 11 to 11.30 per mile pace, that I was hoping to achieve over the first third of the pace. I didn’t make too a bad job of it either. Pretty much bang on 11 for the first 5 miles, then eased out slightly to 1:41 (101 minutes) after the first nine.

Although the 5 hour pacer was out of sight, the 5:15 run/walk pacer was close by in the first couple of miles, but I eased away from him and bumped into Lynn – a stalwart of Lloyd parkrun. Lynn is usually faster than me although has had an injury recently. She was concentrating just on getting round and had taken a newbie under her wing. We chatted and traded places for a couple of miles, as I was being strict on my splits, eventually I moved ahead, but I was pleased to have seen a friendly face amongst the legion of runners.

Around mile 6, Colin and Hannah announced their presence again, this time with Wags, in tow. It’s amazing how just much of a lift it gives your spirits when see someone you know, even if the buggers were about to head to Wembley. It’s easy to see how people become so emotional when running this race.

The ‘Sailors that serve on the Cutty Sark’ was the next lyrical landmark on route, well I’m not sure they were actually sailors, but hey. One thing I did notice was how bloody cold it was by the river. I’d been contemplating ditching my base layer as I had been getting warm, but the chill coming off the water convinced me to keep it on. A wise move, as it turned out.

As I ran through Deptford, the crowd started to shout out ‘Go On, Big Ears’ and let’s just say mine aren’t exactly on the small side. A bit flipping personal, I thought, until the bloke who been running just behind overtook me and was wearing a giant ear on his head.  Ahh.

Sadly though, the comedy quickly soured, when I was running alongside a couple of guys in West Ham shirts. Wow! Did they get some dogs abuse from the Millwall supporting locals. This wasn’t good natured piss-taking and I saw at least one water bottle lobbed in their direction from the side (and we all know where they got them from).  I chatted to one Hammer who simply smiled through gritted teeth and said ‘I’ll back be on my side of the River soon”.

The next few miles were rich pickings in terms of support from family and friends: Mike & Meryl, Andy & Tracy, John & Sheila and Lizzi leading the Independent Age cheer-point at Mile 9.

Just past Bermondsey were my good friends Andy & Denise and their lovely kids: Scarlett and Max, who’d made a super banner for us. Andy and Scarlett were also off to Wembley and reminded me of that fact as I passed.

Soon I was turning onto the iconic Tower Bridge, almost-but-not-quite the halfway point of the race. I’d begun to gradually slow my pace to between 11.30 and 13 minutes per mile for the second third of the race as per my grand plan. On the bridge itself, I spotted the guy who runs in the Bagpuss costume being interviewed live on the BBC. Normally I detest attention-seeking idiots who do that ‘Hello Mum’ thing behind the interviewee, so I’m afraid there’s absolutely no excuse for this:

Well, at least my shame is slightly mitigated by the fact my lovely old Mum actually spotted me live on the telly.

The second half of the race was always going to be hard and as I passed the marker it was great to see Jen Cirrone – a friend who had run the Marathon last year and given both Sue and I some invaluable advice leading up to the race. She seemed very pleased to see me too and let out the most ear-splitting shriek, that had the faster runners on the other side of the road turning to look.

I was still only three minutes down at 2:33 on my intended pace for the halfway point and feeling pretty good. The only thing beginning to hurt was my face muscles from all the smiling at wishwishers… no-one warned me about that!

My next target was to keep running non-stop through 15 miles which was the longest I’d managed in all my training. I was dimly aware of needing another pee too, but the portaloos seemed to have long queues, so I tried to put it aside. As we headed south to the base of the Isle of Dogs, the temperature was dropping as quickly as my speed.

Chilly and trying not to think about my bladder, I focussed on the generous local support. We’d been led to believe that the Isle was a bit of a desert in that respect, when nothing could be further from the truth.

Between mile 16 and 17, the 5:15 run/walk pacer and his group caught up with me. I tried gamely to hold on, but after trading places a couple of times when they slowed to walk, I had to admit defeat as we entered Mile 18. I was now in the final third and still hadn’t stopped. I was forced to admit I didn’t really have a coherent time plan for that last third of the race other than to keep running for as long as I could. I was pretty sure I was going to finish by this stage, question was how? Run/walk/crawl, as necessary, seems to be a good strategy right now.

I was taking the continuous running thing, a mile at a time now and thoroughly frozen. Hat and Gloves were now back on, but they made no difference. I was also beginning to get grumpy with my fellow runners who were weaving around, a sure sight I was getting tired. Before my mood could fester further, I was perked up by a shout of ‘Go Mr Spoons’ from Mr Two Wheels – a diehard Carter fan and Marathon runner himself.

Just before mile 19, in the heart of the freezing wind tunnel that is the Canary Wharf complex, I spotted Mel, Ann and Wags’s missus, Jen. I launching myself at a very startled Jen hugging her tightly, just to get some warmth into my body, but my instinct to keep moving meant the encounter was brief enough for her not to have to physically beat me away. She forgave me later.

I finally came to a halt just half a mile down the road, I’d been warned about the short, but sharp incline up the slip road aside the tunnel and most of my peers elected to walk it. I was determined to crest it without walking, which I did, albeit barely at a crawl.

In the end it was my bladder that made the call to stop. Not because I felt I really needed to go, but because I spied an empty open air pissoir on the way down the other side of the slip road. Okay, I thought, better to be safe than sorry and, in theory, with the minimum of time-wasted. I pulled my shorts down and, to my despair, the cold had taken it’s toll. I could barely find it. The increasingly frantic scrabbling around my crotch area attracted the attention of the runner who’d just stopped at the next trap.

“You having some fun there, mate” he enquired, just a tad suspiciously..
“I’m so damn cold, it’s bloody gone into hiding’ I explained.
“Yeah, I’m having a bit of trouble meself” He responded, before proceeding to uncoil a small python from his shorts.

I know what you’re thinking, but I honestly couldn’t help but notice. If that’s what it’s like when it’s cold, then his wife is one lucky lady.  To add insult to injury, after all that, I only managed to produce a few drops.

As I set off again, I knew that I now needed to adopt a walk/run strategy myself and decided it was now time for the headphones and that playlist to get me home. My shins were feeling ominously crampy, something that has only happened before on the really long training runs and has been difficult to shift once it’s set in.

Just after mile 20 came the second IA cheer point. The look of empathy on Lizzi’s face when she saw mine told me that I wasn’t doing so well. Lizzi ran the Brighton Marathon last week so was very much in tune my feelings. As I trudged on west, my splits went south and the worsening cramp in my shins brought me to a shuddering halt. I hoped a liberal application of the emergency Voltarol would dull the pain, but the immediate effect was actually to intensify the problem. The next mile was tough, so I tried a fast walk to try and ease the acuteness.

Passing Tower Bridge and the Tower of London, I broke into a faster waddle and steeled myself to try and run the parkrun distance to the finish. At 23 miles I turned up the volume in my ears and broke into a trot again. I lasted about 500 metres before the shins flared up again and I was reduced to waddling again.

The last three miles were the hardest ‘racing’ I’ve ever done, but at least I didn’t get the faints this time. Firstly my Garmin gave up the ghost, but not before I realised that I wasn’t going to win the Charity Bet, I’d placed on myself to get inside 5:30. The noise of the crowd and the screamingly loud speaker system in the Blackfriars underpasswere drowning out my own music. I was beginning to feel seriously pissed off with the whole thing and just set off walking as fast as my legs would let me without seizing.

Such was my focus, I managed to miss my nephew Dean and his wife, who had waited an hour and half to see me, having been in the subway underneath Tower Bridge when I crossed. Sorry guys.

At Mile 24, I decided to stop and try to stretch out those troublesome shin muscles. Thing is, I had no idea which particular exercise would help. However, I can now tell you that stretching back from the fence makes the problem ten times worse by cramping the calves up as well as the shins. I could only give a wry smile as everything below the knee solidified to concrete cramp.

With St. Stephens Tower just up ahead now, Big Ben struck four times… kick off at Wembley. I still had a Semi-Final ticket sitting in my bum-bag, but I couldn’t care less at this point. Getting through the last mile was my only focus, but then something quite magical happened.

Enter Mal. Not the famous Palace Manager (a bit difficult seeing as he’s been dead a while now), but still someone who’s very much a legend in my eyes. I seen him a little earlier in the day with ‘Go Palace Eagles’ on the back of his T-shirt and we exchanged a cry of “Eagles” has we passed. He showed me a Palace flag wrapped around his waist for the Finish, I promised to look out for him.

Suddenly there he was alongside me, the large Palace flag flying proudly on a pole that came from… well, I didn’t ask. All those aches and pains suddenly dissipated, I resolved to run proudly with Mal to the finish. Very generously, he even let me share the flag carrying.

As we turned the corner towards that other Palace, we heard someone shouting ‘Palace are 1-0 up!’ – now Palace haven’t managed a first half goal in a month of Sundays (well, it feels like it), so we were naturally a tad suspicious. The lad followed it up with ‘Bolasie scored’. Oh Really?? The informant looked decidedly crestfallen when we politely ask if he was some sort of wind-up merchant, which made us think there might be something to it after all.

As we swept into the Mall, a few more people called out the score to us and we shared the flag as we swept towards the finish line, holding one finger aloft. Not to signify One in a Million, as every runner had been asked to do, but One-Nil to the Palace.

It was a glorious, uplifting end to the race. I was so carried away, I completely forgot to check my time which Lizzi later told me was 05:44:38. Mal is a Marathon vet and got us to pose with the Flag and our medals together for an official post-race photo which I would have totally missed otherwise. Thank you again, fella.

As we approached the line, I’d heard the PA guy saying that they were expecting the millionth finisher at any time – I’d just love it to be Mal. Sue and I had done some calculations beforehand and thought the time would be around 6:06, so actually I very much doubt it could be either Mal or me. However, Sue, who came in just after the six hour mark at 6:01:34, might have a real chance. It’s announced on 9 May, apparently.

Unlike me, Sue had gotten a second wind towards the end of the race and, according to the official site, breezed past 466 people in the final 7.2 kms with only 6 overtaking her. My stats for the same period were pretty much the opposite. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for her long toilet queue at mile 10, we might have crossed the line together.

For around 30 seconds after I retrieved my bag, I considered heading to Wembley for the second half. It didn’t take too long for me to realise that my legs weren’t in any real shape to tackle what would have been, in reality, another three hours on my feet. Instead, I headed to IA meeting point and necked a mini-bottle of Prosecco with Lizzi and Vicki – another IA charity runner.

I hadn’t had an alcoholic drink for a month and am no fizz drinker at the best of times, so it didn’t exactly hit the spot and I may have mentioned it… Sorry Lizzi! After a good chat, some nervous glances at the scoreline from Wembley and a couple of photos, I headed for the pub where Sue had arranged to meet her pals in St Martin’s Lane.

Unfortunately the pub didn’t have the game on, but it did have seats so it was probably the more sensible option. I checked the score just as I walked in the pub, we were still 1-0 up, by the time I sat down it was 1-1. With the taste of that Prosecco still lingering, I went for a Diet Coke. As the drink arrived, we went 2-1 up. Oh great, I’m now stuck drinking ‘lucky’ Diet Coke for the next half hour.

Half-hour and five minutes as it turned out. Watching injury time on the livescore app, is absolute torture, my hand was shaking so much I could barely focus. Every time it updated, I naturally assumed Watford had equalised. 90+1, 90+2, 90+3, 90+4, 90+5…
“Buggering hell, how much injury time is this ref playing?”
“Oh it’s over, you’ve already won” came a small voice from the corner of our table. Andrea Carter, bless her, was checking via Text Match Update and hadn’t thought it appropriate to shout this news from the rooftops. My app still hadn’t come up with the magic ‘FT’, but Sue’s just had. Two sources? That’ll do for me.

I don’t believe this, just for once in their entire history, Palace managed to get something absolutely right. We’re going to Wembley after all! Time for celebration photos with medals outside.

Later that evening, we felt well enough to head up to meet our mates returning from the game in The Green Man, Great Portland Street – a traditional post Wembley haunt. At last, I got to enjoy my first pint of proper ale in a good while. Let’s just say a Good Evening was had by all!