The altruistic masochism of the London Marathon runner
William Bowry recounts the sweat, tears and other bodily fluids he encountered when he ran the 26th annual London Marathon
I loved sports day at school. In the balmy summer sun, as athletes stretched toned muscles and hurled javelins in fury, I would enjoy an afternoon of doing absolutely nothing.
Occasionally I might go down to the sports field and amuse myself by watching runners wearing the school’s buttock-bracing athletic shorts, but I never competed. To me, there was simply no logic in running 5000m only to finish in the same place that an athletic showcase culminated in a group of fat kids, strenuously pulling a bit of rope attached to another group of fat kids was, in my mind, evidence enough that the whole event was ridiculous.
With such an inauspicious athletic background, you can understand why I was greeted with screams of laughter when I told people I was running the London Marathon. Prior to 2006, I had occasionally run to a few bus stops, once ventured into a mild jog during a football game and sauntered 22 yards down a cricket pitch on a number of occasions, but I’d never come close to the 26 miles it takes to complete a marathon.
People change, however, and, back in November, one of my mother’s friends (a long-suffering NHS nurse at the Royal London Hospital) was having a rant about the fact that none of the hospital staff wanted to run the Marathon. Normally, the hospital provides runners to fundraise for the ‘Friends of the RLH’ (an organisation set up to provide support for the families of those taken ill) but, so far, 2006 was drawing a blank and the Marathon deadline was fast approaching. Perhaps ill-advisedly, (probably sipping a glass of Sangria and dragging heavily on a Cuban cigar) I raised my hand to offer my support. If old Grannies, people in fancy dress and Gordon Ramsay could run the Marathon, then surely I could as well? A few days later a ‘Golden Bond London Marathon Entry Form’ was deposited through my letterbox and suddenly, without really knowing how it happened, I was running the London Marathon.
Feeling enthusiastic, I bought a book in Oxfam called The Expert’s Guide to Marathon Training which included a 24-week training schedule. Flicking through chapters on ‘Dietary Recommendations’ and ‘Endurance Training’ I realised my training should have begun in earnest on November 6th. As it was now nearing the end of the year, a good chunk of my training schedule had already elapsed and I didn’t even own a pair of trainers. Things got worse when the trauma of this realisation made me decide to ‘rest’ during the month of January - better to start mentally fresh in February I felt.
So on a rather dull morning at the beginning of February, I went jogging. After running up Hull Rd for fifteen minutes, I passed a large roundabout only to realise I was running along the A166. I spent the rest of my run breathing in fuel emissions, getting soaked by oncoming vehicles speeding through puddles and narrowly evading death as large haulage lorries swerved past my plodding legs. Eventually, I ended up in a town called ‘Dunninton’ which was thankfully so depressing that I was physically impelled to run back to York. I eventually made it home feeling miserably tired but thankful that I was still alive. The internet informed me I had run just over 6 miles: not even a quarter of a Marathon.
I embraced the learning curve, however, and towards the end of term I was comfortably completing a six mile run within the city walls. I even started feeling confident. Unfortunately, from the 1st-7th April, I went to a theatre festival in Scarborough where I had originally planned to continue my training by running along Scarborough beach every morning.
Inevitably, the nearest I got to such athletic vision was stumbling onto the beach at 4am so I could urinate on a child’s sandcastle with a cigarette dripping out my mouth. During the whole seven days I didn’t even break into a brisk walk, let alone a run. I returned to York with lungs lined with tar, still a bit pissed, knowing I had two weeks to go before attempting to run a race whose first competitor, Philippides, actually dropped down dead.
For the following fortnight I was either sleeping or running, and when I went to London on the 22nd April I was feeling pretty good. I registered, got my official London Marathon number and, in the spirit of the occasion, even bought a can of Lucozade. Of course such enthusiasm quickly waned when a friend’s birthday party beckoned and with it came an obligatory flute of champagne. As I was glugging it down, I did manage to convince myself that Matthew Pinsent and Steve Redgrave were probably enjoying a hearty bottle of scotch in preparation for the 26 miles they were also due to embark upon the very next day.
On said morning, I arrived in Greenwich Park ready to run. Having completed a brief warm-up, I positioned myself in the massive throng of limbering bodies and waited. After a few minutes I was on my way, part of a bounding mass of bodies that was threading its way through London. After an hour’s running I had completed 7 miles and didn’t feel too bad. I had overtaken a man dressed as a banana, sped past Elvis Presley twice and was settling into my natural rhythm. I had even got used to, everytime I passed a pub, being subjected to the sight of fat men clutching pints singing Bruce Springsteen’s “Baby you were born to run”.
Things were less peachy when, on around 14 miles, I hit a problem. My nipples started to bleed. I don’t mean they started lactating blood; it was the abrasion caused by my T-Shirt that had removed their top skin and suddenly I was in the throes of serious nipple-agony. For the next 12 miles, every movement of my T-shirt was greeted with a sharp bolt of pain from my nipples, skinned raw. To make matters worse, blisters formed on the balls of my feet, which steadily got bigger until it felt like I had a squishy golf ball trapped in each shoe. Unpleasant chaffing in the groin area also started to occur - more pain. My body seemed to be falling to bits, while my legs were turning to jelly.
In hindsight, the period around 17 miles was undoubtedly the worst. I had been running for nearly 3 hours, was utterly exhausted, had no compulsion to continue and yet there was another 9 miles to the finish line. I had hit the proverbial ‘runners wall’ and felt like I was dragging my broken body (bleeding nipples and all) through the streets of London. The final mile, however, when I ran down the Embankment, past Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, was, on so many levels, breath taking. The sheer elation I felt on finishing the Marathon is something I can’t express in words; suffice to say that, almost immediately after crossing the line, I broke down in a pool of tears.
After 3 hours, 52 minutes and 56 seconds of continuous running I had finished the London Marathon; a time which, judged against the winner of the first timed marathon (G. Grigorou who took 3hours and 45 minutes), makes me an elite athlete by the standards of 1896. Chris Brasher, (the initial organiser of the first London Marathon), described the inaugural 1981 runners as “one joyous family, working together, laughing together, achieving the impossible”. With this in mind, my memories of the Marathon are not bleeding nipples, blisters or pain, but runners who had T-shirts with ‘Running for Dad’ or “Running for Jessica” written across them. They made it feel wrong to stop running.
Every year, the London Marathon, with participants from all walks of life, raises around 30 million pounds for charity. Some will run, some will walk, but that’s of little importance. The Marathon creates a sense of community: everyone striving towards the same end. If anyone is thinking about running the London Marathon in 2007, then go to www.londonmarathon.com and download an application pack. I can guarantee it will be an experience that you never forget. Just remember to pop some tape on your nipples beforehand…
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