A short story about a very long day...

One of the most common questions when you tell people you’re doing the London Marathon is “Have you got a time in mind?” My response was always, simply and truly, to finish the thing. Now I don’t know if this causes offence to those who have a time they are aiming for, but I can honestly say I was never offended by hearing that someone wanted to get a sub 4 so why should it be a negative that I am just hoping to get round the course in full on my feet, rather than on the outer circuit in the back of an ambulance?

The morning of the marathon was hectic. We got on the first train, following my carefully curated schedule I had printed off aswell as saved to my phone, and slowly more participants started boarding, which was lovely as I obviously convinced myself we were on the wrong train and London would soon be disappearing in the distance.

At Greenwich, the majority of passengers stood up to get off. As did my husband as best friend. This was not part of the Pdf. We were meant to stay on to the next station, and then change to another train, travel for 7 stops, then get off. “Everyone is getting off here so I’m sure it’s fine” offers Nik, who let it be known had spent the whole DLR trip raging with concern over where the driver was. I agreed, got off then unable to see any fellow blue wave bibs shouted with alarm “Is anyone here in blue?!” When I tell you, tumbleweed rolled by! The silence was deafening. Then like an angel, one man replied “I am!” Thrilled with my new friend and sense of peace, I began to potter down the stairs to realise quickly, I didn’t have my bag!

The brilliant drop off bag that completed the uniform of every runner was not on my person. I sprinted back up the stairs announcing (for the second time in 30 seconds on that platform with concern) “I’ve left my bag on the train!! Jumping on with Daniel Craig like dramatics I scoured the carriage, spotted my bag under the seat and held it in the air like a fisherman would his catch. This day was going to be fine, karma was on my side, it was all working out. Before I knew it I’d be on The Mall, medal been placed around my neck while Heather Small herself asked me “What have you done today to make you feel proud?”

It was no shock of course that when bounding back down the stairs, bag now on my back like a child on the first day of school, that my new friend from the blue wave, had carried on. I couldn’t blame him, I was giving “liability” and it was only 8.30am.

Of course now been on ground meant we were walking much further to the start point, but it’s fine, London is alive, bakeries are bringing out freshly baked breads, there are queues everywhere, but most importantly, everyone is going the same way! Upon arrival at Greenwich park, we of course had to keep walking for an awfully long time (up a hill!!) to get to the blue start. But we made it, laid eyes on the gate and then settled down on the grass. The sound of folk music filled the air as a gentleman strolled by pulling a large speaker. How lovely I thought, until I saw he wasn’t a runner or a supporter, he was waving a sign, protesting against the Catholic church and been followed by a tired looking security guard smoking a fag.

According to my schedule, it was time to get in the queue for the toilet, so off I went, through the gate, opening up my bag for inspection, proud I still had it, and made my way to the portaloo area. But these queues were gigantic. I then spotted signs for female urinals! I’d already shotted an Imodium so I knew I wasn’t in need of a portaloo as such and intrigued by the idea of a female urinal I got in that queue instead. It was at this point I thought “I know it would be terrible, but maybe now if there was an announcement that 'Due to unforeseen circumstances the marathon would not take place today' It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world." I could just get in a queue for something else. Madam Tussauds perhaps. What did happen though is I used the female urinal and it was delightful.

My bladder relieved (but my head full of questions why I was part of this madness) I made my way back to the fence where Nik and Faye were waiting. Holding hands through the wires like I was in a foreign jail awaiting trial and hoping for good news from home, I listened to how Nik had asked for a fried egg on his burger and the reaction he received was as if he had asked the chef to fry a small child instead. Not overly interested and listening intently instead to the announcements of what wave was next I interrupted his tale to begin my goodbyes. I’ll see you at Cutty Sark, I love you, You’ve got this….all the usually things you say on a Sunday morning.

It was now time to leave my bag, for the second time today. In this part of the party, you get assigned a number lorry and people attached to a bungee take your bag from you and put it on the lorry to take it to the finish for you. I considered the likelyhood of me been thrown back by the bungee people if I put myself on the lorry. But that wasn’t on the schedule.

I’d bought a hoodie the previous week for this next activity and was ever so excited. Usually it’s quite chilly while you’re waiting to start The Big Run so you’re advised to bring something warm to wear and then you can donate it just before the start which I thought was ever so lovely. Now, as it was absolutely boiling on this particular April morning, I hadn’t even worn the hoodie, I literally carried it the whole way from Birmingham to put in a big bag with everyone elses items. This will go down as the most selfless weekend of my life.

The man on the mic called for blue wave 11 runners to get ready, I had never felt less ready but I’d drank 2 bottles of water spiked with electrolytes so I may aswell do something with it was my logic. As soon as I got in the pen, the realisation really hit. I thought it already had, but this was real now. People were stretching.

Suddenly we are at the actual start point, the clock already ticking from the first people that started, which seems odd but my fellow runners didn’t seem to mind as they all started their watches. It’s time.

The first part of the marathon is out of the park onto a residential road, the pavements already lined with people cheering and shouting praise and encouragement, which is nice. Fast forward 30 seconds and the realisation really, really hit. What was I doing? I’m surrounded by people I don’t know, in a place I don’t know and I’m running. I lost all logic. Was I running too fast, too slow, not properly?

I should add, as I haven’t already, I really wanted to do this. The London Marathon had always been on my bucket list, I put it on my vision board every year and I’d entered the ballot many, many times as well as applied for a charity place that I was honoured to be offered, so it was something I purposely did. I hadn’t been forced, I wasn’t there against my will. However, I’d very much struggled with the (many) training plans I’d tried to follow. But I had trained, hard. And I'd persevered with it through everything, feeling proud of my progress as a runner.

Anxiety lives within me, it travels through my veins and settles itself in my brain like an old boy settles himself on a stool at a Wetherspoons. And everytime I got into a vibe with my training something would happen in other parts of my life which would send me on a spiral where I wouldn’t eat or sleep and absolutely certainly wouldn’t run. I self sabotage like a pro, if it was an Olympic sport, I’d have a gold everytime. So as soon as that voice starts in my head, it doesn’t quit easily. Which ironically was all I wanted to do. Quit.

But as awful as I felt running, the thought of stopping felt worse. Like how awkward would it be to ask one of the spectators to step aside so I could get past, and then where would I go? London seemed to be completely taken over the marathon, so maybe houses were fair game too? I was in a lovely area, people were all outside, lots of doors were open. I think I could keep up this pace (whatever it was) and trot into a living room quite easily.

I noticed a sign up ahead that said 1 mile! I couldn’t believe it! If the voice in my head keeps this up I can be that distracted for the next 25.2 miles that I’ll be fine. Thank you anxiety!

I’d set up a WhatsApp group for my friends and family to all get updates in one place and ever so happily videoed the 1 mile mark coming and going. “You’re smashing it!!” came the replies. Yes. I. Am.

Before I knew it I was at 5 miles and knew The Big Ship would be coming up soon. I’d had quite a nice time so far. I’d high fived children, sung along with choirs and hadn’t tripped anyone up. I voice noted the group to alert Nik and Faye I was approaching as Cutty Sark was due to be the first meeting point. Then, there it was. I must admit, I was quite underwhelmed. I’ve since looked at images on Google and yes it’s very impressive. Ships usually are. But this particular one, on this particular morning was doing nothing for me. Most importantly though, where were my squad?

I just kept going, the road seemed to curve round so we could see the ship from a slightly different angle. I still didn’t get it.

Then lots and lots of people and colours and noise. The plans were (on my Pdf) that Nik, Faye and now Christina would be as close as possible to the Marie Curie cheer stations so as I kept running I saw the yellow and felt such relief. “MARIE CURIE” I screamed, at Marie Curie. They looked very excited to see me, which was nice. But I didn’t see my people, so I kept going.

A little deflated, I feel my phone ring and my husband’s name pops up. “We are almost at the cheer station” I’ve past it I reply and although I was sad to have not seen them, and sadder my Pdf was failing, I also felt quite smug. I must be going so, so fast!

I’ll see you at Tower Bridge then.

Now, as much as I’m really doing this, my foot is quite sore. I’d had Nik swap over my shoe laces to the ones I’d been given by my charity at the running show and I have wide feet on a normal day, but it now feels like my feet have widened to an abnormal width. If we were in Clarks on one of those magical machines that measure your feet, I’d most definetly be off the scale. My shoe lace keeps coming undone so I keep having to stop on the pavement to tie it up again. Which is pointless, although it’s quite nice to be on the sideline that on many occasions I stand there a lot longer than I need to. Even gave out the odd high five.

Someone says Tower Bridge is 10 minutes away.

Some bloke jogs next to me and says “It’s a long way isn’t it?” “It bloody is” I reply. It was Joe Wicks, the Body Coach.

Christina calls then to say where they are on Tower Bridge, Nik does the same. In the background I can just hear Faye screaming for everyone. She was made for this. I need my phone charger and a flapjack.

Much like The Big Ship, The Big Bridge just appears. Round a corner you go then it’s there! I’d had a voice note from one of my bosses to say when you run onto Tower Bridge put your arms up because it’s on the telly. I did. And I wasn’t. Then there they were, the three beautiful faces I’d been so desperate to see. I’d imagined this for ages, running into my husbands arms, someone videoing it. I could then lay it over a powerful song. For the likes.

Instead though, I ran straight to Christina and told her I loved her. It’s very true and I also hadn’t seen her that morning as she travelled separately so I was just so happy. Romantic moment ruined, by me and my pure love for my best friend, I looked at the three of them who looked back at me with curious faces. What do you need?? To stop, I said.

I then announced my foot wasn’t ok and the shoelaces were stupid (sorry Marie Curie, it’s not you, it’s me) “We’ve got shoelaces!!” screamed Faye and just like that, in the middle of The Big Bridge, whilst thousands ran past, simply stopping for quick hugs or the odd selfie, my shoe was removed like a race car wheel and the shoelaces changed with speed a runner could only dream of. Whilst unlacing and lacing again impressively fast Nik tells me my pace is too good! Well forgive a girl for forgetting everything she has learned and trained and just belting it through the capital city. You don’t understand I thought, I’m in The Big Run!

After what felt like nowhere near long enough they began to encourage me to carry on. I didn’t want to, I needed human interaction from people who were stationary but I’d commited to this, my pace was too good for goodness sakes.

I waved goodbye, took some haribo from the woman standing next to them, and trotted away.

There were lots of professional photographers on The Big Bridge but in that moment I forgot everything I’d planned for this opportunity. The photo of me on Tower Bridge is identical to that photo of Nicole Kidman in 2001 that everyone thinks was taken after she signed the divorce papers. My arms are outstretched, face to the sky, I am happy.

I didn’t get my phone charger or flapjack.

Just after Tower Bridge I saw my best friend from school, this was a brilliant moment. We had a hug, she told me I was doing so good, didn’t mentioned anything about my pace.

Now, I was mentally prepared for this next part, as this is the point when running one way on the road, on the other side of the barriers are earlier runners going the opposite way, almost at the end. As mentally prepared I was, the fury I felt was dramatic even for me. How dare they show us this? I felt neither inspired nor empowered. I decided to get in a queue for a toilet. I needed normality. I didn’t need a wee though.

I look up and see one of my Belief Boosters projected on a screen. Next to my name read “You can do it Love Mom and Dad xxx" She’d even added a hug emoji. My belief was boosted, I abandoned the queue, I could do this.

Everyone who has done the marathon tells you about Canary Wharf and how difficult it is, but honestly, until you live it, and almost die in it, you can’t get it. To say its the trenches is kind. It’s like when the London Marathon was invented, they looped round there, continued with the planning then realised they hadn’t quite made it 26.2 miles so decided to make the Canary Wharf section longer. It was dismal, dark, depressing. Even the voice in my head was silenced with doom. I’d downed a few of the energy gels I’d packed in my bag already, but decided now would be a good time to have another, I didn’t have my flapjack after all so I ripped it open like a hyena in The Lion King. I didn’t know myself anymore.

That took up about 3 minutes of the Canary Wharf nightmare.

I’d had problems with my left knee in the past and earlier in the year I’d started getting a pain when running so invested in a knee support, and up until the hell of The Wharf it hadn’t been too bad. But then, in the depths of despair, surrounded by tall buildings and filled with big feelings my knee jarred. From that moment, every step I took felt like a knife in my kneecap.

I decided to add some electrolytes to the next bottle of water I was gifted. A distraction if nothing else. But I couldn’t get the lid off. Like in a dream when you can’t dial a number on your phone. Everything was impossible.

To add insult to literal injury, I was starting to chafe. I spotted a St John’s Ambulance cluster of angels. I limped over to them and could see them internally trying to decide what on earth I’d burden them with first. When I declared I was chafing they presented me with two packets of what I believed to be lubricant. I thanked them and made an assessment. The closest portaloos were back behind me, but I didn’t trust myself going backwards. I was barely going forwards (and according to the TCS tracker I was almost at the finish) but going backwards would be ludicrous. At this point I was still standing infront of the Lube Givers in Green so I announced, as if they were eagerly awaiting to hear of my next move “I will make it to the next portaloos!” They thought I said I’d make it to the end. So cheered me on. I took it as a win anyway.

Somewhere, after what felt like 75 miles and more years later, I saw portaloos. In I climbed, down I sat and into tears I burst. I sobbed my eyes out surrounded by discarded gel packets, dirty tissues and empty rose bottles. Like a festival of fear. I dried my face on my vest, tried to pin my bib back on and gave myself a talking to. I’d be seeing my people soon, I can still do this, I am doing this! I pushed the door open, feeling like Shania Twain cerca Lets Go Girls! Stepped out on the street, nodded to a street cleaner and continued.

I’d forgot to apply the lubricant.

Back in I went, lubricant applied and speech to myself repeated, off I went again.

Then, like sunshine on the cloudiest of days, there were my people. I was so happy to see them and tell them how horrendous I felt! And to finally get my hands on that flapjack. I told them how much my knee hurt, how awful The Wharf was (like they hadn’t been stood in it waiting for me for ages) and how absolutely vile the flapjack was that I’d been looking forward to since The Big Bridge. It was disgusting. All in all, it was quite a dreadful reunion.

When I started again, dragging my knee along like a bedraggled pirate, a few corners later, I noticed with absolute despair, I was actually quite alone. I don’t know when it happened, I didn’t feel like throngs of runners had passed me. I knew I'd been moving very, very slowly due to the fact my knee was killing me. But maybe I’d spent too long in the portaloos giving myself motivational speeches. But unwilling to break the habit of what felt like a lifetime. At the sight of another, I limped in.

I decided to have a look through the WhatsApp group for inspo and saw my friend Gail send through a photo of the finish line on her TV. I then looked at the time and realised, I wasn’t going to be on the telly. The finish line footage stopped at 6pm and I was miles away (literally). I then sent a tragically, tearful voice note to say I wouldn’t be on the telly. I listened back the next day and cried again. I was a mess. The replies came in thick and fast. It didn’t matter, I was doing amazing, just keep going.

So on I kept. Barely.

At some point during this horrendously, horrific hell, a photographer took my photo. I love that they thought this was a moment I’d want to remember.

I can’t really explain what must have happened next, but I found myself on a kerb, crying my eyes out to a lovely TCS volunteer who probably thought she’d be home by now. She helped me up, and over to the Green Heroes I went once more. Through tears I told them my knee was the problem which was quite clear as it proudly swelled through my leggings. On inspection they devised it would need to be cut off. The support not my knee, although at this point, I’d of agreed to either.

So in what became the lowest moment in a string of low moments. I stood on the side of the road behind a foil blanket while I pulled down my leggings and a lovely lady cut through the fabric, releasing my knee and removing my dignity.

I asked her to call my husband and update him while I cried hysterically that I was at the back of the pack and there was nobody behind me. In those few minutes I made the marathon into a race, and concluded I had lost. “No!! There are thousands of people behind you!” she replied while her colleague relayed to Nik that I was ok, but not ok.

Now, I’ve always been so in awe of St Johns Ambulance and all their training but never realised they were qualified in the art of making things up so easily. But God bless them as that lie was exactly what I needed to hear to continue. On the pavement.

I’d always known that after a certain time all participants still on the course had to move to the pavement, I just honestly never believed that would be me. But here I was, still dragging my leg, still in so much pain, and still crying. And most importantly, still doing the marathon. Barely. But still.

A wonderful volunteer on a bike appeared next to me as did the sweeper coach. I welcomed the lady on the bike, but waved on the coach. If I’m still on my feet, I’m still in the game.

Somewhere, between Embankment and Embarrassment Nik appeared. The lady on the bike rode away, probably from the marathon entirely, and I collapsed into my husbands arms. Almost like I’d planned on The Big Bridge, but this was not for the likes, this was exhaustion, defeat and a sprinkle of devastation.

The pain was almost unbearable and I was simply gutted it had come to this. Nik looked me dead in the eye and asked if I was going to get to the end. Yes of course I replied, without a shred of faith in my words. And just like that I remembered why I married this man (Not that I'd ever forgot but it's just what you say isn't it?) This kind, lovely man who hates crowds, noise and chaos had spent the whole day surrounded by loud people whilst paying extortionate prices for everything and was now holding me up and walking the remainder of marathon with me.

Alongside The Thames, Faye and Christina appeared. Christina offered me every painkiller she had on her person and Faye, still having a brilliant time, told me how she’d been allowed to use a megaphone for all of 30 seconds before it was taken off her.

I repeated that I was dead set on finishing, then flung myself onto the wall facing the water and cried. Awkwardly locking eyes with a group on a boat party. Not wanting to ruin their fun I buried my head in my hands instead. Many times I promised if I could sit down on a bench for just a couple of minutes I’d be right as rain to carry on. We all knew I was lying but I hadn’t been to the St John’s Ambulance school of stretching the truth, so nobody believed me.

I soon realised, what came with the honour of completing the marathon on the pavement. A different finish line. I would no longer be running down The Mall concluding my marathon success. I was been redirected to St James Park. Had Heather Small been relocated too? Would she still sing “It’s never too late to try” because honestly, it felt like it was.

Non-Marathon involved people were now everywhere, some walked past on their way to their Sunday evening out and offered words of encouragement. Others looked at the four of us like we'd escaped from a dungeon. The right turn into St James Park cuts like a knife. It really stings knowing you aren't going to get to go down The Mall, even if it had been empty of supporters it would have still been nice. But again I reminded myself, as did my exasperated cheer squad, that I was still completing the marathon.

Instead of crowds and BBC cameras, the last stretch of St James Park offers ducks, swans and volunteers waving light sabers to make sure you go the right way. The big burgundy and white light structures that displayed the mile markers previously are replaced with smaller blue posters. But you're still in it. I was still going.

And then, there it was. The end. The finish line. I thanked my human crutches and broke free. My knee reminded me instantly that been unaided and upright was not wise, but I didn't care. I did something I hadn't done for a very long while. I ran.

I arrived through the archway full of pain and elation. Both engrossing me equally. So much so, I continued past the girl holding the medal. I turned to her so she could place it around my neck. Heather Small must have gone home but I didn't mind. It had been a long day for everyone.

Medal around my neck I collapsed on the grass. At least there is grass here with it been a park, The Mall doesn't have that. I later learnt that the confetti cannons, music and party atmosphere is put together by a beautiful group called "Team Finish Together" founded in 2022 to ensure everyone who finishes in the park feels just as celebrated as those who finish on The Mall. Without these fabulous people I imagine it's not the nicest vibe to complete the marathon.

Another hard to read fact was that of the lady who tirelessly kept going all day, and night, but at 0.3miles from the finish line was told to stop as it was midnight and the course had to close. She didn't get her medal and although we all realise when we we sign up to something such as this, with a mountain of terms and conditions, that they must be adhered to, it still seems so cruel with only 0.3 miles of 26.2 to go that she couldn't finish to get her medal.

So in conclusion, London Marathon, you broke me. I have blisters, an even more dodgy knee than before and for a few days I still beat myself up that I took aslong as I did. But I got my medal. Raised £3,870 for Marie Curie and proved to myself that I can do hard things.

And also found out Female Urinals are actually, rather great.