I felt really good on Sunday morning. I'd slept through the night, apart from one 5am wake up, where I had to down a liter of water to quash a massive headache, but as I munched my marmalade toast I felt confident.
I knew that 5 weeks of no training would take its toll, and I knew that starting the training in February and not September would result in not beating my personal best, and I was also aware that having a torn calf muscle would be a slight handicap, but I really, honestly, truly felt that previous experience and iron will would get me over the line in a respectable time.
I got to the starting line with 3 men who'd never run a marathon before and their nerves and heightened concern made me feel sedate,
"You've done this before, you can do it again" rattled through my mind over and over like a buddhist chant. I felt like mind was winning over body, and that my body would have to bow to me and do my bidding.
I got to my corral and joined the rest of the runners. The mix of pensive and focused runner was obvious, their faces told different stories and it was clear that I should be standing with the pensive crew, but I had other ideas, I KNEW what I was going to do, so I positioned myself behind some running club runners and waited for the start horn.
And I was off, the calf felt good and strong, the numbing pain felt normal and I was heartened by the fact that it didn't just snap in the first 30m,
"Right, the calf's working at this pace, get into a groove and get going" the old trick of talking to myself and having a conversation with my body was working well,
"How we feeling?" I asked,
"Good" was the reply from the legs.
I locked into a pace of 7.20 minutes per mile and stayed there. I started passing all the posher houses on the top of Greenwich park, with the posher people clapping warmly as we past. About 3 miles in and we joined the other running lanes and a cheer spread across the duel carriage way
From then we got into pikey territory. Fat women and men sat on sun lounges drinking pints and smoking fags. They looked like they couldn't really understand what they were seeing, as if the notion of exercise and effort had been lost to them in the mid eighties. Moody pubs and even moodier customers lined the streets, the numbers swelled because of the hot weather, dragging them away from the TV. Everyone who lined the streets looked ugly and grotesque, and I didn't like the look of them.
Now last year all these people and places were amazing, peoples smiles and cheers of encouragement were music to my ears. It was as if my experience this time was less fun and jovial, and I couldn't put my finger on why I was in such a dark mood. I know now though, it's because my body wasn't happy,
"Fellas, we're going to have problems if 'brains of Britain' upstairs thinks that we can carry one like this for 20 more miles, we're tiring now and we haven't even hit 8 miles yet!" my legs were worried.
I got to 7 miles and took on a energy gel to counter act the pain that was starting to build around my quads. The gel worked for about a mile, then the pain returned with a vengeance and this time it had spread to my calfs. This was going badly wrong but I still thought that blind will would get me through,
"You've done this before, you can do it again"
Mile 10 came up and I thought that maybe hitting double figures would settle me into another groove, I slowed my pace, and when I say 'I' I mean my legs stopped moving as fast, and I started thinking about getting half way. I was drinking lucazade drinks and sucking down gels like a young kid banging down pills at a hideous mega rave, but they weren't touching the sides, by now the pain was unrelenting,
"Yeah, Gareth? WE. ARE. FUCKED. cheers" the legs had spoken. but still I pushed on.
Tower Bridge was the highlight of my race last year, the people and noise are amazing, and you don't realize it's coming until you turn the corner, and you're smacked in the face by the noise of people. This year I was annoyed that so many people were there, watching me as I bundled my body forward. I get over the bridge and hit the halfway point, the physiological point where I thought that having less miles to run than what I'd already done would tip the balance in my favour.
How wrong I was.
At mile 14 my legs just stopped working. I can't really explain it. It was like every single moment of pain that I'd ever suffered in my life was being replayed into my legs all at once. Both legs would spasm and cramp, the spasms got so bad that my big toes would curl into a tight ball, and I couldn't open them up again.
And then I stopped. the cardinal sin. My body reacted to me stopping very oddly. At first I felt a wave of relief, and the pain ebbed away. Then a spilt second after that pain hit me with so much force that I fell to the ground. I didn't know what to do or say, I looked skywards and pulled myself to my feet. members of the crowd asked if I was ok, I just walked away, trying to will my body to run again. But it was no use. This wasn't me hitting the wall, this was my body taking the wall and building an attractive conservatory onto the back of it, with a decking feature for the new garden.
I was done but I was still 800m from the 17 mile mark. 9 more miles to go. I wanted to give up more than I've ever wanted anything in my entire life. And that includes getting the AT AT Star Wars toy, or shagging Natalie Portman. I nearly walked through the barrier and onto the DLR station, with the idea that I wold just go home and wait for my housemate to come back and let me in. And with every step I tried to make the pain would engulf me from the neck down. I've always said that I couldn't stand the pain of child birth, but last Sunday I felt like I'd given birth to the Jackson 5, and I mean given birth to them as fully grown adults. As well as Michael's jagged, boney corpse.
The rest of the race was like a Dali painting, it felt like I was tripping. I felt moments of pure love and happiness, intertwined with searing pain. I got overly emotional when I saw blind people running, or squaddies in full uniform and weighted backpacks. I started reading the messages on the backs of peoples shirts, and I realized that people were running for their own children who'd died. And it was at that moment that I started running a little harder, as I understood that what I was doing was a privilege, and that some children had never even been alive long enough to achieve anything in their short lives. It made me want to get to the finish line.
That, and getting overtaken by a guy who was running it backwards. That was the final indignity that pushed me over the edge.
After what seemed like hours (turns out it actually was hours) I turned a corner and faced Buckingham Palace. My nano had died long before so I cold hear the cheering and the voice of the TV host. Then I saw the finish line and I spasm'd my way over the line, crying out as I came to a stop.
I found my friends and family and headed to the pub. People were elated and proud, but I felt dejected and pitiful. I was a whole hour slower than last year. The only thing that cheered me up was seeing my friend Tayo, and understanding his happiness at finishing his first ever marathon. An emotion that I am still chasing, like the last, sad, over 30s raver, still chasing the high of that first E. And while I don't chase the E high anymore, the thrill of pushing my body to its complete limit is going to be with me for a very long time.
What happens now? I re-group and start training again, this time with patience and stability, and with the added knowledge that I will never be in that much pain ever again. 5 months from now I'll be in Chicago running the marathon there and I will run the race of my life, knowing that I am thankful for my life every day that passes.
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