REPORT ON THE LONDON MARATHON

‘The Big Day’

I’m getting into an annual routine now. New Year, new resolution, focused training. January - pile in the miles. Ditto February and March. Three weeks from the big day, start thinking about the taper. One week before race and rest. Let the tension build up. Focus. A day or two sightseeing in the capital, and then, there I am, 0945hrs GMT, standing in Pen 1 of the green start trying not to worry too much about the next three hours that I have been training for since Christmas.

Last year I had finished the marathon in 2:58:59, earning me automatic entry into this year’s race. I erred a bit on taking up the offer, wondering whether to concentrate more on my shorter races. In the end though, the offer felt too good to turn down. There is no substitute for the challenge of the marathon to focus the mind and the body. I looked at last years training log, with the simple aim of bettering it this year. 182 miles last January – I would do more this year. The long runs wouldn’t be too hard, as I only did three runs over 14 miles last year. I did eleven this year. I did seven speed sessions compared to only six this year, but made up for it on the races, (ten in 2007, thirteen this year). So it was more mileage and more quality, and felt confident I could get a new PB.

In my taper I dropped the mileage and included a few sharpeners, with mixed results. Two weeks out and I did a 10K on Blackpool’s windy promenade. Could, or should, this be sub 36 minute material? Unfortunately, it was wide of the mark, high and wide to be precise and straight into row Z. It took me over 38 minutes, (“Yes, yes I know lots of you would be happy with that, but trust me, I was disappointed”,) and the only plausible excuse I could give myself was that I wasn’t race fit. I made amends the following Wednesday, on the “all out” interclub at Stanley Park. I think it must be the competition at these meets, but it always brings out the best in me. Lee and Karl are my markers, both having the better of me for the last year now. I’ve no complaints though, both have raised the bar. But they wouldn’t beat me tonight; I had a stormer, a lung buster of a race, and 4 miles in sea of pain. Even 5:20 for the first mile is just too fast for me. I couldn’t keep that up, and finished in 22:26, just 20 seconds of my PB. I didn’t run as well in the Northern Relays, and I don’t know why. Maybe it was setting off on Stage 1, against some of the best runners in the country. All I know is that after the first mile I could have given up and walked. I couldn’t even keep within six minute mileing. My runs were like watching England – bound to end in a disappointing 0-0 draw against Poland, but occasionally playing a blinder beating Argentina 3-0.

I had wanted to go down to London on the Wednesday, to do a bit of leisurely sight-seeing, but work commitments deem otherwise. I went instead on the Friday, and spent the afternoon not trying to be parted with my money in the marathon exhibition. I didn’t do too badly, although I definitely got fleeced on the pot of pasta, apple yogurt and water for £5.99 and not even a free t-shirt this year! I wanted to get my name printed on my vest, (hey, it’s sad, but great incentive when people shout out your name. Luckily, with a name as common as mine, it’s a good chance another Steve will be somewhere in the vicinity), but had left it in my car that was too be driven up by Debbie on the Saturday. My chosen charity this year was Guide dogs for the Blind, and I went to their stand to watch them in action. God forbid if I was ever to lose my sight; I would hate to lose my independence as well. Guide dogs give their owners a certain amount of life changing independence, enabling them to go about there lives as ordinary as possible. I felt proud to be running for their charity, and was hoping to raise around £300 for them. I tried to play it down I was a half decent runner at work, I reckon you can get more sponsorship if they think you are slogging it out for 5 hours, (rather than them thinking that this was easy for me because I do so much running anyway!)

Fiancée Debbie and her daughter Kerry came down Saturday, and we stopped on the outskirts of London, for ease of parking, and a cheaper hotel. As always, it meant an early start on race day, but the hotel was only a 15 minute walk from Enfield Lock Station, which was 20 minutes away from Liverpool Street.

Midweek the weather forecast was rain Saturday, (single drop), rain Sunday, (double drop), and rain Monday, (single drop). And come the big day………blue skies and a morning sun that made you feel good to be alive. The most important thing was that the temperature was cool, so all looked good. My legs were in great condition, (definitely sub three according to Brian), the slight limp I had on my heel early in the week had long since vanished, (worn out trainers I think on the interclub), I’d eaten my carbs, not ran since Monday night, rested all week, (apart from watching United vs. Roma on Wednesday night, but a worthwhile sacrifice), and felt this was the time to prove my marathon credentials.

This year I was on the green start, which “only” has 5000 runners. It also has the celebrities, but I didn’t see any milling about the start area. I was hoping to see James Cracknell, who I knew was going for sub three, (achieved it as well, not bad for the size of the bloke), to tell him he can stick by me and I’ll get him through the three hour mark! Gordon Ramsey did it in 3h 45mins, 17 minutes behind fellow chef, Michael Roux. As to most other celebrities, I wouldn’t have a clue who they were, (big brother contestants – does anyone give a flying hoot?). Floella Benjamin is an exception, always there, raising lads of money. I don’t know if she’s still famous for being a children TV’s presented, (in the innocent days when they didn’t have all night benders on coke), or an ex-TV presenter that does the marathon every year.

Not wanting to get caught out again wanting to baptise the porcelain, (or the plastic), I paid a double visit to the urinal, and then a third just to make sure. Once it was all out of my system I did some stretching, mulled around for a bit, loaded my bags, and went to chat with Carmel, (who was running), and Mick, (who was watching). A bloke puffed nervously on a cigarette, (serious!) He was wearing a comedy jock outfit, I thought it was a prop, but it was real. That’s one warm up routine you won’t find in runners world.

I huddled into Pen 1, around 20-30m from the start line at 9:25. I wanted the clock to go faster, then when it got closer to 9:45 I wanted it to slow down. The minutes whizzed by, and before I knew it the air horn was blasted and we shuffled up to the start line.

It didn’t take me long to get to the start, less than 30 seconds I think. It’s the fastest start I’ve had yet. Even so, I still seemed to get caught up within slower runners. I like the first mile – it calms the nerves, all that training and you’re finally away. The first few miles come swiftly, and by the time I was up to the roundabout at the bottom of the hill, (2-3 miles), I was happily in my target pace of between 6:40 and 6:50 a mile. My breathing and work rate were steady and I tried not to think too much about the hardships ahead.

My first mind marker was to be the Guide dogs cheering point at 5 miles. It came up sooner than expected at 4 ½ and was running past Debbie and Kerry before I knew it. I smiled and waved. Our next rendezvous would be at 25miles, at which point not only would I be almost through, I would know what sort of time I was letting myself in for.

The route through Charlton and Greenwich is wide and flat, passing retail parks, pubs, houses and shops. The Cutty Sark, (well, what’s left of it after a suspected arson attack last year), is another mind marker, and the best cheering point for miles. I looked out for Mick, but could not see him, though I suspect he saw me.

I passed the 10K mark in 41 min; so far, so good. The crowd were in good spirits and so was I. “YMCA” boom out of a local pub, and I’m ashamed to say I joined in, but the crowd loved it. Thank God they weren’t playing Riverdance. I slowly, but steadily made my way up through the field, and being surrounded more and more by better runners. The miles came and went, with each balloon bridge mile marker always a welcome site. Nothing sticks in my mind between passing the YHA at Bermondsey and approaching the corner for Tower Bridge. I just stuck my head down and got on with it.

Tower Bridge is always special. The crowds are 3-4 people thick, the TV cameras are ready and waiting, and the noise is immense. There is a slight climb up to the bridge, but it is slight and that’s probably the worst on the course. Over the river and then the work begins – this is the business end of the race. Leaving Tower Bridge, we turned left on to the “dual raceway”. The women’s elite were coming back, in groups of one.

Under the half way balloons, I clocked 1:26 – better than where I wanted to be, and I still felt I had more in the tank. I had to make a pit stop at 14 to relieve myself. I don’t know how many gallons I let out, but I must have been ½ a stone lighter once I’d finished. Typical, you go three times at the start yet you still need to go halfway through.

The course soon veers right slightly into Limehouse, cutting through a tight right then tight left to come out on the normally sleepy “Narrow Street” although bustling with encouragement on marathon morning. About this time it started to rain, and it was torrential and cold. It looked the sort that would soon blow over, and I wasn’t wrong, as by the time I had reached 20miles the worst had stopped.

The Isle of Dogs is a pretty non-descript area, and all I can recall between a curving tunnel and approaching the city slickers district is lots of straight road surrounded by cheap drab housing estates and, interestingly interspersed with yuppie apartment schemes from the “loadsamoney” generation. The Isle of Dogs is a true island since the building of a canal and docks their 200 years ago for the supply of rum and sugar from the West Indies. I think just as much sugar was imported today judging by the amount of Lucozade available. This year’s nominated flavour was orange, and the sweet smell of it was overpoweringly sickly. I had brought my own energy gel, but wasn’t sure when to take it. To be honest I didn’t want to take it at all, but good sense prevailed and I sucked it in three yucky stages just past Canary Wharf at 19 ½ miles.

The route snakes itself through the business district of Canary Wharf, (you don’t notice the tower as you are too close), its high buildings helping to focus and intensify the cheering of the crowds. I still felt relatively good at this point, and new if I could make it to the 20 in good shape I knew I could be on a winner.

The roundabout at Poplar, where you turn left back towards London, is a defining point in the race. It’s about this point you hit the 20 mark which leaves only a 10K to go. I looked at my watch: 2h 14mins. Average pace so far 6:42 Keep these legs I thought and I could be looking at a real cracking time, sub 2:55 maybe. It was an encouraging thought, but reality soon took hold in the next few miles. The legs were starting to cramp up slightly, and my stride suffered. I know now, in my own post race analysis, that with it being wet, and cool, my water intake had not been sufficient. My first sips came at 20 to help the recently consumed energy gel, but all I could manage was sips and most of the bottle landed in the kerb. Maybe I should have walked to take it? I took some more water a few miles further down, but again not enough.

I spotted what looked like a Blackpool vest ahead…..and it was and belonged to Caroline Betmead, although it took me a while to recall her name. Fortunately it came to me before I passed her, and shouted encouragement as I passed. I hoped she recognised me, for I wasn’t wearing club colours. She looked to be tiring fast and I later learnt she had a rough old last few miles and couldn’t remember finishing. She finished in 3:10, still an exception time for a female club runner. I approached another local runner in a Preston vest, but didn’t know who it was. His number covered the Preston Harriers logo at the front so I asked him if he was a Preston runner. Indeed he was.

“Hi, I’m Steve Myerscough, from Wesham”. We shook hands.

“Dave Parkinson – how are you feeling?”

“Tiring, feeling a bit of cramp in the legs”

“Me too. Don’t let me hold you back Steve – Go get it!”

I pushed on. If ever there was a time for digging in this was it. It didn’t feel like I was hitting a wall, more like I was starting to run into a large elastic band stretched out across the road, the further I got to the finish the harder it became. My times were still promising, and I never felt like l was going to creep over the 3 hour mark. At 22 miles my time was 2:27. I was caught in two ambitions. My first was to do it in under three hours, preferably beating last year’s time. My second, hatched around Canary Wharf, was to go on and not just beat last years time but to smash it with a sledgehammer. With a few miles to go, that newly found ambition began to waver. My pace had slowed 40 seconds a mile from a sprightly 6:40ish per mile that I had kept up for most of the race. Passing the back of the tower of London I had to learn the definition of hanging in there. My finish time started to become an irrelevance; I just wanted it to end. My legs were tightening and it felt like they had been replaced with legs that had never been on a run before. With legs, (almost), gone and mind, (most certainly), gone I entered the Upper Thames Street tunnel, or, as I like to call it, the ‘Valley of Death’. No crowd here, just the sound of your own breathing and the thought of months of work now condensed into two very significant miles.

I would love to have my sprinters legs through the embankment. This is the best supported bit if the route. The crowd make up for what you lack in your legs. That tiny part of your brain that you can just about hear, that, “don’t give up”, just about makes it to the sense lobes, which transmits just enough neuro whatsits to the legs to keep them rolling. I kept my head down and fought through it. The wheels had started to come off and there was nothing I could do. Then I looked up, and there, straight ahead was Big Ben. It was 12:35 precisely, just as I passed under the 25 marker. I was on to beat last years time, but it would be close, a lot closer than I had predicted 30 minutes ago. I turned into Birdcage Walk, aware that I was slowing down, with runners overtaking me easily. Half a mile is a long way here. The crowds went ballistic, and I tried, but failed, to shut out the pain. Not long now was no consolation, what I wanted was NO long now. I saw the 26, which declare 385 yards to go. I was that exhausted I could have given up there. The tank wasn’t so much drained as missing completely. It was getting exponentially harder the closer to the finish I got. I think I hobbled round that last bend, and then I heard a shout from behind, “Sub Three Lads”. I would do it, even beating last years time, but just by the skin of my teeth. As I approached the finish, I heard on the tannoy that James Cracknell, Olympic rower, had 200 yards to go. I had but two yards to go, and as I stepped on to the magic mat and passed the finishing posts, I released my utter satisfaction of completing another gruelling marathon and gaining my first PB since this time last year by punching the air in splendid delight. Happy, happy days.

Finished!

I had a déjà vu moment following the walk through the finish. There was Alex, same place as last year, just cooling down. Alex had finished in, (for him), a moderate time of 2:52, and we talked through our races together. It’s always great to see a familiar face at an event as big as this. I’m sure if there were only 500 runners in the London Marathon, at least a couple would be Wesham runners. I collected my bags and hobbled down to the repatriation area, which was still fairly quiet, and met up with my support crew. New PB I said, with a smile wider than Buckingham Palace.

We met a representative for the guide dogs and were shown around to a building behind the Mall for the post race reception where I could shower, get a massage, have something to eat and basically relax. As I was one of the first in, I got a massive cheer, which made me feel great. I opted for a shower first, and revealed two nasty blisters which I think I had for the last few miles. I had decided to buy some new shoes at the Northern Relays last week, but had only worn them in on the handicapped race on the Monday. I think the heal had gone in my previous racers as I was hobbling a bit after the interclub. It was a bit of a gamble running in new shoes, but my older pair could have been worse.

The reception was very welcoming. Being first in meant everyone wanted my race story, and they asked me why I was running for Guide Dogs in particular. The truth is that I could have run for many worthwhile charities, and choosing one over another can be a difficult choice. I suppose I chose Guide Dogs because it gives people unlucky to lose their sight the independence sighted people take for granted. If I can run the marathon and put several hundred pounds in their coffers then everyone’s a winner.

Afterwards I was able to watch the rest of the race on the TV, or look out of the window to see runners limping along The Mall. Some took just over two hours, some just under six hours, but all received a medal, and all deserve a medal. Slower runners congratulated me for getting under three hours. I congratulated for pushing their bodies for many more hours than me.

It was fitting that on the centenary of the marathon held in London, (the first, in 1908, was from Windsor Castle to Shepherds Bush and won - actual he was second, the winner Dorando Pietri was disqualified for being helped over the line – by an American Johnny Hayes, in a time that was only three minutes faster than mine), a new course PB was established by Martin Lel, in 2:05:25. Fast? That’s 4min 47secs per mile. I was chuffed just nipping under a 5 minute mile last year, before collapsing at the side of the track. These guys are special. But he wasn’t the only one with a great time. Steve Littler, who’s being showing his best form in the last few months, finished an amazing 34^th overall, (and even only just two of the elite women beat him), in a fantastic time of 2:25:25. His name wasn’t far off being in the top ten Brits that came up on the tele. And if that isn’t the best run of the year by anyone at the club then I’ll do the Blackpool 10K in a pair of frilly knickers. It was a great turnout by the club, with 14 competitors. If we get anymore it will have to become part of the club championship. And what about Mike Walsh? 76 and doing it in four hours?? Buster Martin may well be 94, (the sly old dog claimed to be 101 to get into the Guinness book of Records), but it took him well over twice as long to complete it.

These may well be my local heroes, but a man that can eclipse all is Blind Dave Heeley, running for Guide dogs. Dave, along with his sighted guide also did London. To set him apart from the other 35,000 runners, Dave didn’t bother with a taper. Oh, no - he did London fresh from doing a marathon in Tunisia the day before. And Dubai the day before that, Sydney the day before that, Los Angeles the day before that, Rio the day before that and the Faulkland Islands Marathon before that. For those who need a hand with their arithmetic that 183 miles in seven days. I did the same mileage in one intense month in January. On top of that you’ve got the jet lag, the change in time zones and the change in climates. The week after I did the marathon, I was measuring my runs in yards, not miles. Dave, you’re an inspiration to everyone.

I wanted to meet blind Dave, well at least give him a cheer, and once I found out he had finished, (5^1/2 hours, his slowest time of the week), we waited on the steps of the race reception behind the mall. I think he must have been interviewed by every journalist in London for it was a good 90 minutes before he appeared. The staff at Guide dogs, Debbie, Kerry and I gave him a massive cheer as he came round the corner. I got my camera ready and………the batteries went. I got hold of Debbie’s camera quick, turned it on and got a picture – which was blurred. Debbie put her arm round Dave and posed for a picture. Now, I’m sometimes a bit of a leper with technical equipment. And so it proved. The camera was off, I couldn’t switch it on, (doh!), and missed Debbie’s moment as the crowd cheered Dave inside. Two cameras and no pictures….sorry Debs.

Debbie and Kerry waiting for Blind Dave at Guide Dogs Reception

Well, what a day. Another London, another PB, another medal. I’m not even going to kid myself this time round. I want to be at London again next year. I want the challenge of a marathon training schedule and want to beat my time again. London 2009? Bring it on.

Written by: Steve Myerscough

Submitted: 26^th April 2008

Edited by: Brenda J Earnshaw WRR Editor