It is so near now my nose has begun to twitch. In less than 72 hours I’ll have to start thinking about my running vest, my shorts, my nipple plasters, my Vaseline pot, my toilet. And thinking of 40,000 people dressed in Lycra and cotton standing behind a line worrying whether they’ll ever experience pleasure again.
Just writing this is making me feel ill. That dry tongued, winded, ill feeling you get when you know something awful is about to happen, that you’re about to go through a truly ghastly experience and you can’t get out of it. I’m being reeled in like an unfortunate fish to the waiting net of hideousness. I don’t think it can get much worse.
And then it does … my mother calls from Taunton to spread the news that she’s coming to London for the race. She’s raised some sponsorship for me from a few bewildered friends.
“It’s only £200. No one reads the Guardian down here you know,” she says. My dad is apparently preparing a cheese sandwich packed lunch. I’m 34 years old, but suddenly I’m 14 again and my parents are coming to watch me compete. They’ll probably bring a hamper and blanket. Can things get much worse?
The next blow comes in the form of a late injury. I was going along quite nicely the other day, dreaming of glory and beer, when I felt a twinge in my knee. In fact it was more than just a twinge, it was a dull, throbbing, deep pain – like someone was pushing a thick metal rod under my kneecap and was gently trying to lever it off. I was initially surprised. I stood there looking quizzically at my joint, not really connecting with what was happening. And then I understood and I was angry. I was injured. If I could have kicked myself without falling over I would have done so. How could this have happened? Did I not know what I had been through? Did I not appreciate what it had taken to get me here?
I worked it out. I’ve trotted 310 miles since this wretched training regime began – 310 miles. From London to the Scottish borders – fuelled by sandwiches, pasta and sickly sweet isotonic fluids. I’ve endured pain beyond my wildest fantasies, learned more about bowel movements than I’ll be able to forget, fallen off one treadmill, had 237 conversations about running (four of them interesting), beaten one five-time olympic gold medallist in a half marathon, been attacked by one dog, subscribed to a running magazine and seen more of north London’s streets than a north London street sweeper. In a short space of time – three months – I’ve become an expert. People have taken to asking for my advice about things: exercise regimes, sports injuries, gardening, origami.
Perhaps I’d missed it before, but now I realise the marathon has become the focus of my life. I’ve evolved around running.
So this is where it leaves me. I’ve not run for nearly 10 days. But although worried, I am also silently joyful; it’s a medical fact – I can’t get any fitter before Sunday. I’ve done the best I can. I have to take it easy, take the lift, not the stairs, treat myself to a Starbucks with full-fat milk. I need to rest, relax, enjoy. Besides, surely 90 days of hard training have benefited my body in other ways. I consult the mirror in the bathroom and my lightened mood darkens.
I see little difference. Previously I could get by being called slim with a baggy shirt on. Today I’d be called baggy if I wore a slim shirt. No change. My jaw line looks about the same. My ears still move when I chew. I have a split finger.
I suppose it should come as no surprise. After all, I’ve managed to drink or eat every calorie that I shed. My fridge has rarely been so popular – I’ve broken the handle twice and fixed it with superglue. After all, why was I doing the marathon – for the fun of it, charity, the challenge, to get fit?
I break off my thoughts to take in the latest piece of terrible news. The race organisers have made a mistake. I’ve been given my running number. It’s 9,363. Fran, my flat and running mate, is in the 40,000s. We will be starting from different gates – literally miles apart. But Fran’s my running rock. I know we’ll get round together. There must be some mistake.
I go onto the Flora London Marathon website and call up last year’s results. There is a device by which you enter an individual number and it brings up results for that runner, time, place. In 2000, number 9,363 was Ian Stidston, then 37 years old and British. He came 1,129th with a time of 2:59:46. That’s a sprint. I’m in with the elite. Even if I get to the start with my dodgy knee I’ll be ridiculed within five miles. My ears will be flapping with the breeze of passing runners.
I need some advice. So I give Ian a ring. This year he’s sensibly appearing in an amateur dramatics production. He tells me of the joys of crossing the line, the camaraderie of the finishing tape when stranger talks to stranger in euphoric harmony. He warns me of downs – “the cobbles at Tower Bridge are the worst” – and tells me of the ups: “They give you a goodie bag at the finish and I ate everything.” He tells me he followed a three-hour “marker” or pacemaker round the course and came in 14 seconds under his target time. I can tell he’s still happy.
The clock ticks. All there is to do now is sit and wait and follow the best advice. All the research shows I should be fuelling my muscles with high-carbohydrate meals and not trying anything fancy. The last big meal should be Saturday lunch, then a light snack for dinner. On the morning, it’s a small scrambled egg and a glass of water. I’m going to be good. I know it’s silly, but I’m desperate to get round. I want to feel as if I’ve achieved something: raised cash for charity, toughened up my head, become more aware of my body. I guess I also want to know what my limits are. Can I really run 26.2 miles without a stop? Can I cope? Will my parents be proud of me?
There are tens of thousands of other people out there probably thinking similar things. And on Sunday we’ll all find out.
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