This is it then. Five more weeks of running, sleeping, eating, working and, well, just more of the same really. It is truly amazing how, by this point in the proceedings, preparation for the marathon takes over your life and there is little time for anything else, other than the those thoughts that are constantly lurking deep inside your head.... fear, excitement and with every day that passes, more and more regret and anger for that stupid decision to enter in the first place.

     But enter I had and now I had to dig in and get on with the training schedule that was becoming an increasing burden on my life.  Week 19 had been hard going and, as was usual with the training schedule, an easier ‘recovery’ (Ha!) period followed. I had seen a pattern develop now and, true to form, after struggling with the first 5 days and believing I would never run a marathon, got a day’s rest and felt fresh for the final longer run of that week.

     Week 21 had always promised to be the hardest of all my preparation, finishing, as it did, with the longest run of the schedule falling on Easter Sunday. The business was mad, sleep was limited, I had a bit of a cold, stress levels were high and my morale was low. After debating whether to defer the run by one day, I decided to get it done between jobs on the Sunday afternoon. The schedule asked for a three hour jog, with no emphasis on mileage, but my aim was to do at least 20 miles in that time. I was not up for it at all and reluctantly set-off, bottle in hand, oat bars in socks, music in pocket and huge chip on shoulder. I had always struggled for the first 3 or 4 miles of any run but this was a particularly hard slog for the first 15 minutes or so and I started to feel the way I had when I’d over trained after Christmas. I just about managed to get across the footbridge and on to the cycle path of the A259 before slowing to a walk. More than ever, it seemed that this marathon would not be happening and now I had two choices! Turn around, walk home and try again tomorrow or...... I took out my phone, found ‘A Town Called Malice’, whacked up the volume and with images of Billy Elliot beating up his toilet, burst into a slow but ‘jiggy’ jog. The jog became a run and then that was it. I was fine. Cheers Billy & Paul! I’d learnt one lesson on hydration from my previous longest run and by the time I grabbed a new bottle from my mum and dad’s water station on Bognor seafront, I was doing pretty well. I certainly faded dramatically over the final couple of miles –hitting the famous wall, perhaps- and my legs seized up alarmingly the moment I stopped, but I’d done 22 miles in three hours, ten and, given what had gone before, was over the proverbial moon.

     So that was the peak of my training and I entered the last three weeks knowing that I was into what is known as the tapering off period. This involved following similar routines and patterns to the previous weeks, only now in reverse, with the longest runs of the week gradually coming down in distance. Increasingly, as the final week approached, the emphasis was on self-preservation.....good diet, injury avoidance, extra sleep and relaxation. The ‘money’ miles, I am told are now in the bank and there is not much more –in terms of training-  you can do to help your performance in the last three weeks prior to the race. I had done my best to minimize business commitments over this time and I made an effort to get to bed an hour earlier than usual on my free evenings. Sports massages on a Monday proved invaluable and Jo Kingston (East St. Chi.) did a wonderful job on my knotty muscles and aching joints. Dietary adjustments gradually increased my carbohydrate consumption from 80%  to 90% of my calorie intake and whilst the training schedule, though reducing, still placed a fair amount of pressure on my body, I tried to remain confident that I would peak on April 25^th.

     A compulsory visit to Docklands for registration on the Wednesday before the race really bought home to me just how big an event the London Marathon is and the adrenalin really began to kick in. Come Saturday, when I thought it would be a good idea to work, I could think of nothing else and the pre-race ‘ psyche-up’ started. I was not good company for family, friends, staff or clients and was pleased to get finished at 9 and try to calm down. It wasn’t happening. I was both nervous and excited and, subsequently, got little sleep....feelings, I suspect, shared by tens of thousands more around the country.

     The alarm went off at 4, I jumped out of bed, went outside and with coffee and I’m afraid, a cigarette in hand, stared up at the sky. It was over cast, the air was chilly and there seemed to be no evidence that the promised heat wave might show itself later. I had my final ‘oat’ meal and checked my ‘Virgin’ race bag as the family awoke and readied themselves around me an then finally, just before 6, walked down to the theatre car park and met the Chichester Runner’s who had kindly let us join their coach trip. A silent, scary journey followed before, somewhere around 8.30, I was dropped up near my starting line at Blackheath.  There are three coloured starting lines for the marathon, and I made my way to the red one in Greenwich park.

      Thankfully, the last hour or so went in a blink and I even had to run to get to my place on the huge grid. At exactly 9.45 the starter sounded and somewhere in the distance a stagnant river of bodies burst it’s banks and flooded forward. The ripple spread backwards and it wasn’t long before, heart pounding, i started to slowly edge forward......I kept edging for another ten minutes before my foot hit the electronic mat  that triggered the tags on our trainers and  my race began.

     I had three tactical options in mind and knew I would not decide on which one to take until I was at the start. I had hoped that I might be able to sneak my way through the crowd at the start and stand amongst those looking for a 3- 3 ½ hour time. This was above my training pace -which was aiming at 4 hours-, but I hoped the occasion would see me through or, at least get me to around 22 miles in 3 hours and see how long I could hold on after that. No chance! I was buried deep in the masses and there were, at a guess, and after the three starts would converge, fifteen thousand people between me and that pace maker. The plan, for this scenario was either to sit back, go with the flow, enjoy the occasion and forget the time or do my best to fight through the crowds and get into a group that would be around my pace.  As I hit the mat, the adrenalin kicked in and I knew I had to take the second option. I had been warned by many people to not allow the occasion to getter the better of me and go off at a silly pace and I was fully aware that I may well pay later for the energy used up zig-zagging through the mass of people, jumping up kerbs and hopping over verges but, see plan 1....I’d keep it up for as long as I could and then see how I held up. There were times when I got cross with myself because I knew much of this effort was futile. On several occasions I weaved from one side of the road to the other in search of gaps and only ended up further back than I started. And then, as things spread out a bit, we converged with runners from the other two starts and it all began again.

     Eventually, somewhere around the 15km marker, I caught up with the 4 hour pace-maker and I knew that, because he had gone off some time ahead of me,  if I got passed him and he never went passed me again, I’d be comfortably inside my target. At this point I felt more relaxed and with a good half an hour in the bank, settled back into something more like my training pace. It was a relief to get out of the rat race and I knew that I really could only hope to maintain this pace’ till the end, and maybe put in a faster spurt if I felt good in the last few miles. It was only now that I started to appreciate the wonder of this occasion. The hundreds of thousands lining the streets, some giving sweets and fruit to the runners, children giving high fives to anyone that came close, many cheering and shouting my –and others- names to spur us on, which it did. The amazing St. John’s ambulance volunteers who were literally everywhere they were needed, the police, the volunteers at water stations. They were all amazing and they, along with the expectancy of seeing my family at some point along the way, the memory of my sister and those like her, for whom I was raising  money helped me keep going all the way ‘till the end.

     But above all, it was the other entrants that inspired me and will be what I remember most from the day..... running, walking, limping, wearing heavy costumes. Some collapsed along the way and never finished. Others were sick, crippled with cramp or just plain knackered, but kept on going...., hopping, walking, held up by others and even crawling across the line. Many were doing it for a reason, often with the name and picture of a lost loved one on their vest. It really left a mark on me and made me realise that this is what the marathon was all about and the reason it began.  I am sure that those who I have read questioning the spirit of this event and it’s move towards commercialism, have not run amongst these people, because if they had, they could not possibly make those comments.

   For myself, I was, as I suspected, hanging on for dear life at the end, but did make it in just under four hours. I was happy with that and content that I’d given all that I could on the day. But I was sad that I never got to pick out my family in the crowd - which would have been a welcome boost at their position near the 25 mile post – and a little sad that I had been so concerned with my own performance that I did not truly appreciate and respect the others around me and the spirit of the day.

     I had made a mental note at around 23 miles. It said ‘whatever you feel like in a few days time, remember how bad you feel now and make sure that you never run a marathon again.’ Now here, two days later, legs still aching, but after a bit of rest some good food, a few drinks and a lovely massage from Jess at Westgate, I’ve binned that mental note. I would like to run another marathon somewhere for the benefit of my own physical targets and I would like to run the London Marathon again, without any care for my performance whatsoever and just an appreciation of the day.

     It was a long and hard journey, but one I’d thoroughly recommend. I’m fitter, healthier (watch this space!) happier and have left a few personal demons behind me. Here’s to the next one and hope you want to join me!

Thanks’ for support and sponsorship to;

Reynold’s Fine Furniture, Premiere Meats, Wayside Organics, Chichester City Club Committee & Members and all my long suffering friends, family and staff.

     So, the preparation period and first six weeks of diet and training had, all-in-all, gone pretty smoothly, which means –so they tell me- I had now achieved the base level of fitness required for the next stage of training.

     Woopee! The foundation stone had been laid, the hardest bit was behind me and, looking back, it hadn’t actually been all that bad. I now had every reason to feel confident, cocky even, about the completion of my first marathon in April.  I could already see the Queen waving encouragement and shouting ‘go on Sean’, as I sprinted past her house and turned into The Mall....my family cheering proudly as I continued, even increased my pace, the soundtrack from Chariots Of Fire or Rocky or An Officer And A Gentleman or any one of those inspiring films pounding through my headphones as I dip over the finish line in slow motion. I had done it!

     But then....with these pleasant thoughts in my head, with the finish line in sight....along came Christmas, snow and ice to cock it all up. I had, sort of, pre-empted the festive problem by ensuring that –as far as the official Marathon guides go - I had over achieved in my sixth week’s training period. In terms of distance, I was a good few weeks ahead of myself and, whilst I knew that didn’t mean I could slack off altogether, made me feel better about the inevitable slow down that the increased business and family commitment caused. Week seven and week eight were, as far as I was concerned, a write-off. My running was spasmodic and did not have any real structure to it. The diet was no better although, apart from Christmas day itself, I did manage to consume at least one of my ‘Roman’ meals each day. Fags, coffee and beer loomed larger then ever and I entered week eight a broken man, my head now filled with images of the Queen sticking two fingers up, my family turning away in disgust and the soundtrack to the old Hamlet cigar adverts playing in my ears.

     I really did believe that all my previous effort had been undone and that drastic action was called for. I had to prove to myself that the fitness had not gone altogether and decided that week nine had to begin where I had left off at the end of week six. So, on the Monday I ran the ten miles again.....considerably slower this time and with much heavier legs but, none the less, did do it. I then continued, in spite of the snow and hazardous ice, for the next two weeks, with longer than required runs. I knew, from talking to other runners and looking at the website blogs of more, that I had done well to keep going through the terrible weather. The diet was back on track also and, with continued calorie adjustments to match varying levels of training, my weights and measurements were remaining pretty constant.

     So it was with a renewed vigour and resurgent confidence, that I rushed headlong into week eleven and was, once again, at the height of my confidence, brought straight back down to earth with a big bump. It happened during what had now become a very routine and easy six or seven mile run, when after only a couple of miles my legs decided they no longer wanted to move. I stopped and rested, then resumed my run but the legs that had now acquired their own independent brain, decided to stop. And, no matter how I tried, they continued to stay stopped. I had to accept that it was not going to happen and trudged, despondently, home. I continued trudging for another couple of weeks and, once again, began to doubt my ability to complete the marathon.

     I started to read the training books I‘d housed in the toilet last year and, ‘till this point not given the attention that my diet had provided ample opportunity for. It was clear that, in an attempt, to make up for the Christmas lapses, I’d over trained which, it seems, is far more damaging than under training. I took a few days off, got some rest, ate well and had another look at the official marathon training plan. I now conceded that the author knew much more about marathons than I did and, touch wood, the decision to stick to this plan from then on seems to be working. I have followed the plan to the dot from week thirteen and finished week nineteen with a three hour run that was somewhere between eighteen and twenty miles.

     I know that the business end of my training is still ahead and there will be another very untimely test with my extreme business commitments over Easter. But I won’t let it panic me this time and once again, for now at least, I’ll remain quietly confident that I may be seeing the Queen at the end of this month!