Tim Boswell's London Marathon Blog by tnmboswell

It took a minute and 40 seconds to cross the line.  People shouted “good luck” and we were away.  And straight away there were supporters.  Plenty within the first few hundred metres, then only a few at a time, but still there were people out on the streets to cheer on this tiny proportion of the 37 thousand people running.  The first idea I got of the scale of the event was when we crossed the A102, which is one of the main roads out of south London.  At this point, the runners from the green start crossed using one bridge, while those from the blue start used a bridge less than fifty yards away.  Looking both across and ahead, there were runners streaming over the two bridges and it wasn’t too long before the green and blue starts merged.  Before this, though, there was time for me to pass my first (and only) celeb of the day – Lorraine Kelly.

There was a bit of a squeeze as the two starts came together, and it wasn’t too much further before we reached the first mile marker.  “I’ve only got to do that 25 more times”, I thought.  Everything seemed ok in the early miles – a bit of an early knee twinge – but certainly no pain and I was running at a comfortable pace, trying hard not to get too caught up in the occasion.  There was certainly plenty to see though and plenty of encouragement amongst the runners.  I gave a pat on the back to a fire officer dressed in full firefighting gear (including breathing apparatus), and received a pat on the back from Iwan Thomas as he ran past.  Silverstone really did seem a long time ago !  There was a moment worthy of few smiles as the blue / green and red starts merged shortly before mile 3, with some good natured booing between the two groups of runners. 

In the third mile, I got my first cheer, and the shock made me look back in amazement at the supporter in question.  I’d heard that, if you put your name on your running  vest, people will cheer you but I’d sort of forgotten about it !  So, when a very kind lady shouted “come on Tim”, for a split second I couldn’t work out how she knew me !  Martin had warned me that the third mile was downhill, and that was certainly the case.  I found myself running  slightly faster than my target pace, but still felt fine so just went with it. 

Looking back, I think the most entertaining section of the race was between mile 3 and Cutty Sark (about mile 6).  There were pubs with bands playing outside, speakers blasting music out from the windows of houses, flags, balloons, loads of people and such a lot of colour.  This being fairly early on in the race, it was easy to just forget about pace and about running, and just sap up the atmosphere and enjoy the sights.  Occasionally the road would drop slightly and you’d find yourself looking ahead, and down slightly, on the incredible sight of thousands upon thousands of runners and supporters ahead of you.  And all that colour.  So colourful, in fact, that even a colourblind person (me !), could appreciate it. 

Cutty Sark seemed to come from nowhere – most probably because I’d forgotten about it.  I’d wondered what was happening when we seemed to leave the main road rather abruptly and saw boards and scaffolding to our left, but I only realised where we were when I saw a sign that said “Cutty Sark”.  Pace-wise, I’d covered the first 6.2 miles (10k) in 56 minutes and 10 seconds, so was happy with that.

The next 10km went well, too, and I was at the half-way point at 1 hour 59 minutes and 53 seconds ... within 30 seconds of the pace I’d practiced at the Joe Cox half marathon in Stowmarket.  Excellent.  The second 10k had one or two quieter points, and it was within one of these quieter stretches that I saw Emma, Dean and the kids shortly before mile 10.  I stopped for a ‘pit stop’ shortly before Tower Bridge, ready to enjoy the spectacle of crossing the Thames.  I certainly lived up to its billing – the sun was shining, the supporters were really noisy, and I kept my promise to myself to take a mental snapshot of certain key points on the route.  I did this just as we approached the first tower.  Look up – click – run on.  And so onto the Embankment where I saw my Mum and Dad after not all that much distance.  Everything was going well.  Pace good, hydration on track, had eaten Jelly Babies and had spotted both support groups.  And so eastwards !

I found the going starting to get tough at around mile 14.  I know this because I took an energy gel, having previously pledged never to touch one again.  I originally grabbed it “just in case”, but soon used up half of it.  Then a mile later, I wasn’t concentrating on what was happening by the side of the road and missed the Lucozade sport stop.  I was annoyed by this as I’d based my entire nutrition plan (ie.my plan to prevent myself hitting the dreaded wall) on drinking energy drink at each stop – roughly every 5 miles – and the odd sip of water in between.  I wasn’t banking on water, but the temperature did seem to warrant drinking a bit more than usual, and I used what I didn’t drink to wash the sweat from my face or swill my mouth out.   I knew I’d not be able to get by without drinking energy drink, though, so had to grab someone’s cast-off bottle in the tunnel at Limehouse ... the bottle was full bar about one mouthful. 

By mile 16 I was hanging on to say the least.  Still, I thought, only 10 miles left.  That’s Hatton Station and back from home.  So I started ticking off the miles as if I was starting that run from fresh.  That strategy didn’t last long.  The second setback had come by mile 18.  Through the Runner’s World website forums, I’d arranged to meet a group of supporters at Mudchute .  A whole load of so-called ‘forum-ites’ get together to arrange these cheering points, and ask runners if they’d like anything passed on.  I’d arranged to pick up some Jelly Babies as I’d knew I’d have exhausted the supply I could keep in my shorts pocket by mile 18.  I was feeling really tired by this point, and was looking forward to seeing the kind people who’d given up their time to help others out.  However, when the 18 mile point came and went, it was obvious I’d missed them somehow.  This felt like a real kick in the teeth.

I can’t remember exactly how much longer I managed to run from this point, but it wasn’t too much longer before IT happened.  Now I don’t know what IT was and I’ve never had IT happen before.  But IT made me stop and walk.  IT made my pace drop from 9 mins  48 seconds (mile 18) to 11 mins 36 seconds (mile 19).  I couldn’t carry on.  Legs were fine.  Feet were fine (apart from a blister playing up ,but I could cope with that).  Achilles were fine.  Knees were fine.  But I had nothing left to give.  But how ?  I’d drunk all the energy drink I needed.  I’d eaten jelly babies.  I’d even taken half a gel.  But I just couldn’t run anymore. There were another 8 miles still to go and that felt like a very, very long way. 

This would be a good point to mention the crowd.  It’s reckoned about half a million people turned up to watch the marathon on the streets of London.  And they were incredible.  There were supporters everywhere.  Sometimes four deep against the barriers.  All of them supportive, some of them funny, many of them generous with sweets and cut-up oranges, and everyone seeming to be having a good time.  Many with kids who were high-fiving the runners going past.  I’m not sure if anyone will ever read this who lives in London and took time out to enjoy the day, but if you’re one of those people – thank you.  There’s at least one runner who, without you, would probably have walked all the way from mile 18 until The Mall, and that’s me.  But thanks to your generous support, at least every 10 yards from the Isle of Dogs to the centre of London, I managed to at least jog some of those agonising last 8 miles.  I say agonising not because of the physical pain, but because of seeing the time slipping away on my stopwatch and knowing I was doing all I possibly could to stop it doing so.  I think I heard “come on Tim” at least a hundred times while out of the course.  Probably more.  There were variations too, including “you can do it”, “not long to go” (that was a blatant lie from someone, but they meant well), “come on Timbo”, and “come on big Tim”.  Probably my favourite came in the early part of the course “come on Tim .... smile !”.  I obliged.  Though I’m afraid smiles became grimaces later on.  I did try to smile or wave at as many people as I could but so many people were so generous in their support that it was impossible to thank everyone.

I’d hoped that a brief walk would give me time to get enough energy back to run the rest of the race.  But after having to stop for a second, or possibly third, time I let my frustration out and shouted out loud with anger.  It didn’t serve any real purpose, of course, but it briefly made me feel better !  By now, I’d reached the stage where it was a case of ‘put one foot in front of the other and see how far it takes you’.  I nearly missed another landmark, but looking to my right I saw a sign that said “One Canada Square”.  Realising what was towering over me, I quickly looked up and took another mental snapshot. 

It was good to get out of the Isle of Dogs, or the “demons  of the Docklands” as I’ve since heard them described on TV.  Heading back along the Highway felt good, but any amount of energy drink simply couldn’t get the engines properly re-started.  It was like driving a car that couldn’t get out of first gear, and when it did – it simply stalled again.  And again. And again.  It actually felt like running used to feel when I was much younger.  Start – run out of breath (or energy in this case) – start again.  Repeat.  I was going through such personal purgatory that I managed to miss my Mum and Dad who hadn’t moved from their original vantage point.  I’d love to say I was ‘in the zone’, but I think, more accurately, I was just trying to keep moving forward. 

If getting back on to the Highway felt good, then reaching the tunnel at Upper Thames Street was even better.  Because even though the tunnel felt long, I wasn’t long after daylight came back when the river appeared alongside the Embankment.  And after that, the London Eye.  And after that, Big Ben (yes, I know that’s the bell rather than the tower, but you know what I mean !).  This was also the point that I encountered the loudest of the Macmillan cheering points to date.  There’d been four or five up until that point and it was so good seeing them because you just knew they’d be cheering as loud as they could for as long as they could.  But the group on the Highway seemed the loudest of the lot.  I was so glad to see them, in fact, that I think I blew kisses at them all the way past !

 Rounding the corner onto Parliament Square, I knew that a finish line appearance on the TV had just gone by as the London Marathon programme finished at 2, and Big Ben was just striking that exact time.  I was listening so hard to those chimes that I missed my third set of supporters – my sister Jo, brother-in-law Sean and their daughters Lauren and Caitlin.  So on to Birdcage Walk, which felt like an eternity !  Possibly because you can see Buckingham Palace temptingly showing a bit of grey brick at the end of the tree-lined corridor, but it never seems to be closer.  Possibly because the signs count down from 800 metres, which is longer than it sounds at the end of a 26 mile race.  Or probably because you can’t quite see the finish line but you know it’s just around the corner. 

The mental snapshots so far had been the start, Cutty Sark, Tower Bridge, Canary Wharf and Big Ben.  Rounding the corner at the top of Birdcage Walk, passing under the big ‘385 yards to go’ sign, and onto the Mall gave me the change to take a picture in my head of the final two.  Buckingham Palace, looking majestic – as it should, of course - and the finish line.  Just  a white line in the road ... but a white line in the road that I just needed to cross to make me a marathon runner.  I’d got a tiny bit of energy left, so I decided to use that energy to drum up a bit of extra support for everyone on The Mall.  Everyone in the grandstands seemed a bit quiet, so I ran along the side of the road shouting “come on” like some sort of Delia Smith in wicking fabric.  I got a few extra cheers for my effort, though probably more in sympathy than anything else !