London Marathon 2011
Well I've done it. I've finished the London Marathon 2011 in a time of 4.30.44. My legs are wrecked; I'm finding it very hard to walk down stairs; I cannot bend my legs more than 10 degrees; I am on an incredibly high and would love to bore anyone I meet with each mile of the race.
I started training in December after Tori mentioned that she thought I had a club place. A minor sense of panic soon turned into a sense of challenge and I started to see how people get the marathon bug. When so many people talk about it around you, it's difficult for the excitement not to rub off on you. Most of the runners I run with have done one (or more) marathons and for someone like me who's new to running, it kind of seemed like the ultimate running goal.
So I checked some schedules online and settled on one that fitted in with having two young kids and an understanding partner. Four runs a week sounded like do-able. Only double the amount of runs I was doing previously. So it began....
And somehow four months of training speed by. I run a total distance from here to Newcastle, raise almost my whole £2600 target from kind and generous friends donations, hold a quiz night raising £800 and only sustain a few injuries, mainly from new trainer use.
Come the Wednesday before the marathon, me and the boys head off the Marathon Expo at Excel in the Docklands. A long day made easy by the Carley family childcare (thanks Ian and Wendy) and the fact that any forms of transport are so exciting when you are 3 and 4 years old. Three types of trains in one day is almost a world record in the Sweetwater boys eyes. Mama got to indulge her idea of being part of the 'experience' which mainly consisted of being offered expensive stuff to buy emblazoned with the marathon logo.
But the deed was done: in my hand I had an electronic chip and my race number. 42887.
The week passes slowly as I try to avoid thinking about the fact I have to run 26.2 miles on the weekend. I try to do little, but it's not in my nature, especially with two small boys, so I try to conserve my energy in whatever way I can. And I eat. Lots and lots of carbs. Jacket potato every lunchtime, pasta or rice every dinner time and the obligatory bowl of porridge each morning. I look longingly at the packet of Cheerios I bought as a reward for the Monday after the race. The boys ask me every day if they can have Cheerios for breakfast and I feel cruel denying them the sugary rush they so desire. But not cruel enough to give in obviously. Everyone is very bored with eating the same things.
I have no trouble not running. This seemed to be a major worry for a lot of serious runners, but a doddle for me!!
Saturday rolls around and I take the boys swimming and then feel very lazy when Nonna and Big G disappear with the boys to Losely so I can put my feet up and read the papers - when is the last time I did that?! - until we need to go the Jules and Andy's party in Lower Farringdon. Which although I don't want to be tempted by having one or several glasses of wine, the party is, in fact, exactly what I need - I spend time with the most fantastic people who keep me occupied and not thinking of the task ahead. We finally drag ourselves away to drop the boys off with Nonna and Big G at Zizzis. I am obviously look very stressed and unable to make a decision about dinner so they force me to have my last carb load of spag bol there before heading home to bed early. After checking my bag about a hundred times.
I sleep well Saturday night and dreams were of the very literal variety. Missing finish, getting lost, hurting legs etc. However, I was wide awake when alarm(s) went off at 5.45am. I bounced out of bed, checked bag one last time and then walked down the leisure centre with friend and fellow runner, Tori, to catch the Farnham Runners bus. Much nattering about nerves, one loo stop later and we arrive at the massive start area. I had no idea of the scale of the three starts. Red, green and blue starts cover pretty much the entirely of Greenwich park and because I had a charity place and wasn't running with the elites (hahaha) or the club places, I was consigned to the Red Start with the 'masses' in pen 8. And yes, they do call us that.
So after a very sociable trip up I was left very much alone. I had time to soak up the atmosphere, have yet another toilet stop, drop off my bag and then look for my pen. Waiting in pen 8 nobody really talked. I think most people were a bundle of nerves and conversations weren't flowing. I had initially been worried about the pen I had been assigned (8 seemed like a long way back) but figured I shouldn't worry so much and actually when the pens (in reality areas cordoned off by plastic rope) started moving forward as the gun went, all semblance of order went out the window and people were jumping over the barriers to start running. To be honest your time only starts when you past the start and it was so congested it didn't really matter were you were. I briefly talked to a guy dressed as a Thunderbird character aiming for a world record as fastest marathon dressed as a TV character. I wished him luck and told him my boys would be very impressed I was running with International Rescue.
We set off from Greenwich park. The start doesn't take too long to get through and I reach the start line only 8 minutes after the gun went. As you turn a corner to see the start line, the heart rate spikes, only to be flattened by the sight of a what can only be described as a torrent of piss made by a wall of men weeing before the start line. Really, get organised guys, the toilets queues aren't that long.
And off we go. I am trying not to go fast as without exception everyone who has run a marathon (or even hasn't) said don't overcook the first few miles and get excited. Keep to the plan (mine was a hopeful 4.15 but realistically 4.30 time) and you'll see the results of an overzealous start about 3 miles in as people are already walking. I overtook the Bra Girls who looked distressed already and to be honest if I had the lack of boob support I'd be looking as worried as they did. They had at some point decided that running the marathon in a (badly) fitting bra and little else was a good idea.
Settling into my stride I noticed the sun getting stronger after a fabulously cool start. We passed through Charlton Village after passing close by to where Nanny Terry grew up and went to school and Nonna got christened. For the first three miles the red start runners run by themselves until we converge with what seems like everyone else in the world as you arrive in Woolwich. I hadn't really considered the congestion along the run, but I soon realised that you are running with an enormous amount of people all going at completely different rates. There were folks walking at three miles that you had to dodge and the water stations caused huge problems as runners veered from the middle of the road to the side in order to get themselves some water.
As the sun ever more present and the clouds faded away I kept to my 9.45 minute miling but began to feel tired and noticing when the water stops were. Come mile 6 we ran past the beautiful Greenwich Maritime Museum, blissfully unaware I had started just the other side of the museum some 60 minutes ago. About mile 8 I think I realised the enormity of what I was doing and I just started to smile. And carried on smiling for about a mile. It all seemed very surreal and hugely amusing. What the hell was I trying to achieve here? Had anyone told me that I would have been running the London marathon two years previously I would have fallen about laughing. Yet here I was about a quarter of the way through.
I moved on through Deptford, Canada Water, Rotherhide and all the time counting the miles as they unbelievably passed quickly until Tower Bridge. I knew then that the crowds would be amazing and I would be only a mile from seeing my dedicated crowd of supporters. Jeff and the boys had taken the train up with Nonna and Big G to Wapping to meet with my school friend Alison and her boys. I knew exactly where they would be and I could feel my spirits lifting as I turned the corner to see Tower Bridge with the hordes of people lining either side.
Turning left on the highway I reached the 13 mile mark and began to look in earnest for the gang. And there they were. I had almost gone by when I spotted them, made a last minute decision to stop and kiss the very surprised boys and sped off again. I even had a dance at one the stupidly loud bounds that were playing The Killers. What was I thinking?!
The high from seeing the kids was soon dashed by seeing the 3 hour marathon runners going past me in the other direction at mile 22 as I was struggling with mile 13. And knowing that I had to get all round the Docklands for another 9 miles before returning to that point was quite hard. I think by then the heat had stepped up, the showers round the course were becoming all the more important and when I reached water stations I was taking two bottles - one to pour over my head and down my back and one to drink. I was still dry in a matter of minutes though.
The race started to become a battle of the mind. Annoying, since I knew I was utterly capable of doing a 20 mile in much colder weather with only a degree of fuss. All of a sudden things began to hurt and my legs started to feel heavy and harder to push round. I got fussy with my stance and tried to adjust things that would momentarily relieve the pain and frustration but became difficult to hold before reverting back to running 'normally'. The crowds thinned out as we pushed through the Docklands and the landscape became uglier and less familiar. All the time I could see Canary Wharf tantalizingly close by yet knew that I had to dart up and down roads to get to it.
And then it happened. Round about mile 18 I gave up the ghost. All of a sudden I felt an overwhelming urge to stop. My body was dying in the arse, I couldn't get any momentum as my legs felt like lead and thinking about running any particular time had gone out the window and even finishing the race was in doubt. I think I hit the wall! Interestingly it wasn't a physical thing, it was a mental breakdown. I stopped and bent down to try to sort myself out. I happened to stop right by a marshall who after a couple of seconds, just put his hand on my back and said "are you okay?". Unfairly, I took this as someone else questioning that I could do this. That was what I needed. I jerked right back up, gave myself a short, sharp talking to and finally began to run again. The crowd cheered as I started slowly running forward, my legs uncertain and jelly-like after stopping for even a short time. I could hear people shout my name as I gradually gained some speed...
I think I stopped twice more in the next few miles. Each time at a mile marker, taking a few seconds to stretch my calves and give myself a pep talk (mainly obscenities and mostly aimed at telling myself to not be such a f***ing whimp). And I had something to look forward to - seeing my beautiful boys at mile 23. Except I didn't. The overcrowded London transport system thwarted us. I'd like to think I ran too fast but I can't really seriously use that as an excuse! But actually, although I would have dearly loved to have seen them, in a perverse way, looking out for them until I appeared from the tunnel at Blackfriars when I finally figured out I'd probably missed them, kept me occupied for at least a mile!
And that's when I saw the most inspiring sign of the race. It simply said "2.5 miles to go. Make personal history." I was so close. It's quite incredible how, as soon as the landscape becomes familiar and you know roughly that the end is in sight, you legs become lighter. The many miles that you've run seem to fade into the distance. And then I hear a scream from my left, more urgent that the ones before. It's Cathy and Matt from our street! Just how bizarre is that? The screams spurs me on with a big smile on my face, and also I can see Big Ben right in front of me.
We turn sharp left into Westminster Square and I have no time to think of my time I spent commuting across that bridge. I see a runner passed out being tended to by St Johns Ambulance who seem to be doing a sterling job with the increasing numbers of injured runners felled by the heat.
The crowd is becoming more urgent and louder in their cries. You can hear a lot of "it's not far now", "you're so close". And it's exactly what you want to hear as you head onto Birdcage Walk, which quite frankly was the longest road in London.
By this time my legs were on automatic. Nothing I was telling them was actually getting through. I think had I told them to stop, they wouldn't have. All I could think of was the finish. I was trying to ignore the cramping starting in my thighs and I don't think I heard the crowd from this point onwards, I was so desperate to reach Buckingham Palace. The signs telling you it was 800 metres, 600 metres, 400 metres to the finish slowly, slowly passed, until there it was....
...The Finish Line. I turned a corner at Buck House to see the vision in red. I let out a yelp (I was apparently the only one to be this excited, but I suspect we were all too knackered to respond) and tried desperately for a sprint (please realise this a very, very loose term at this point) finish. My little legs were going at ten to the dozen, although in reality I suspect I was going painfully slowly.
Lungs blazing, legs screaming, I pass under the finish line. Arms aloft, so excited to have done it. To have run 26.2 miles.
Surrounded by so many emotional people I found myself unable to comprehend my own emotion. I had spent so long envisioning crossing the finish line that I almost didn't believe I actually done it. I don't see the people I ran with for most of the miles. Where were the womble, the clown and the dancing man?
I've done a bit of thinking since Sunday and the easiest analogy to describe the whole experience is likening it to childbirth. It's hell when you're in the middle of it, bliss when it's over and the rose tinted glasses kick in soon after.
Pip's verdict?
"Mama, did you win?"
"No sweetheart I didn't."
"Mama, why do you always lose?'
You have to see the funny side.
To be precise, I came 16,574th overall, 4,069th for my gender, and 2,499th for my age category (18-39).
I started training in December after Tori mentioned that she thought I had a club place. A minor sense of panic soon turned into a sense of challenge and I started to see how people get the marathon bug. When so many people talk about it around you, it's difficult for the excitement not to rub off on you. Most of the runners I run with have done one (or more) marathons and for someone like me who's new to running, it kind of seemed like the ultimate running goal.
So I checked some schedules online and settled on one that fitted in with having two young kids and an understanding partner. Four runs a week sounded like do-able. Only double the amount of runs I was doing previously. So it began....
And somehow four months of training speed by. I run a total distance from here to Newcastle, raise almost my whole £2600 target from kind and generous friends donations, hold a quiz night raising £800 and only sustain a few injuries, mainly from new trainer use.
Come the Wednesday before the marathon, me and the boys head off the Marathon Expo at Excel in the Docklands. A long day made easy by the Carley family childcare (thanks Ian and Wendy) and the fact that any forms of transport are so exciting when you are 3 and 4 years old. Three types of trains in one day is almost a world record in the Sweetwater boys eyes. Mama got to indulge her idea of being part of the 'experience' which mainly consisted of being offered expensive stuff to buy emblazoned with the marathon logo.
But the deed was done: in my hand I had an electronic chip and my race number. 42887.
The week passes slowly as I try to avoid thinking about the fact I have to run 26.2 miles on the weekend. I try to do little, but it's not in my nature, especially with two small boys, so I try to conserve my energy in whatever way I can. And I eat. Lots and lots of carbs. Jacket potato every lunchtime, pasta or rice every dinner time and the obligatory bowl of porridge each morning. I look longingly at the packet of Cheerios I bought as a reward for the Monday after the race. The boys ask me every day if they can have Cheerios for breakfast and I feel cruel denying them the sugary rush they so desire. But not cruel enough to give in obviously. Everyone is very bored with eating the same things.
I have no trouble not running. This seemed to be a major worry for a lot of serious runners, but a doddle for me!!
Saturday rolls around and I take the boys swimming and then feel very lazy when Nonna and Big G disappear with the boys to Losely so I can put my feet up and read the papers - when is the last time I did that?! - until we need to go the Jules and Andy's party in Lower Farringdon. Which although I don't want to be tempted by having one or several glasses of wine, the party is, in fact, exactly what I need - I spend time with the most fantastic people who keep me occupied and not thinking of the task ahead. We finally drag ourselves away to drop the boys off with Nonna and Big G at Zizzis. I am obviously look very stressed and unable to make a decision about dinner so they force me to have my last carb load of spag bol there before heading home to bed early. After checking my bag about a hundred times.
I sleep well Saturday night and dreams were of the very literal variety. Missing finish, getting lost, hurting legs etc. However, I was wide awake when alarm(s) went off at 5.45am. I bounced out of bed, checked bag one last time and then walked down the leisure centre with friend and fellow runner, Tori, to catch the Farnham Runners bus. Much nattering about nerves, one loo stop later and we arrive at the massive start area. I had no idea of the scale of the three starts. Red, green and blue starts cover pretty much the entirely of Greenwich park and because I had a charity place and wasn't running with the elites (hahaha) or the club places, I was consigned to the Red Start with the 'masses' in pen 8. And yes, they do call us that.
So after a very sociable trip up I was left very much alone. I had time to soak up the atmosphere, have yet another toilet stop, drop off my bag and then look for my pen. Waiting in pen 8 nobody really talked. I think most people were a bundle of nerves and conversations weren't flowing. I had initially been worried about the pen I had been assigned (8 seemed like a long way back) but figured I shouldn't worry so much and actually when the pens (in reality areas cordoned off by plastic rope) started moving forward as the gun went, all semblance of order went out the window and people were jumping over the barriers to start running. To be honest your time only starts when you past the start and it was so congested it didn't really matter were you were. I briefly talked to a guy dressed as a Thunderbird character aiming for a world record as fastest marathon dressed as a TV character. I wished him luck and told him my boys would be very impressed I was running with International Rescue.
We set off from Greenwich park. The start doesn't take too long to get through and I reach the start line only 8 minutes after the gun went. As you turn a corner to see the start line, the heart rate spikes, only to be flattened by the sight of a what can only be described as a torrent of piss made by a wall of men weeing before the start line. Really, get organised guys, the toilets queues aren't that long.
And off we go. I am trying not to go fast as without exception everyone who has run a marathon (or even hasn't) said don't overcook the first few miles and get excited. Keep to the plan (mine was a hopeful 4.15 but realistically 4.30 time) and you'll see the results of an overzealous start about 3 miles in as people are already walking. I overtook the Bra Girls who looked distressed already and to be honest if I had the lack of boob support I'd be looking as worried as they did. They had at some point decided that running the marathon in a (badly) fitting bra and little else was a good idea.
Settling into my stride I noticed the sun getting stronger after a fabulously cool start. We passed through Charlton Village after passing close by to where Nanny Terry grew up and went to school and Nonna got christened. For the first three miles the red start runners run by themselves until we converge with what seems like everyone else in the world as you arrive in Woolwich. I hadn't really considered the congestion along the run, but I soon realised that you are running with an enormous amount of people all going at completely different rates. There were folks walking at three miles that you had to dodge and the water stations caused huge problems as runners veered from the middle of the road to the side in order to get themselves some water.
As the sun ever more present and the clouds faded away I kept to my 9.45 minute miling but began to feel tired and noticing when the water stops were. Come mile 6 we ran past the beautiful Greenwich Maritime Museum, blissfully unaware I had started just the other side of the museum some 60 minutes ago. About mile 8 I think I realised the enormity of what I was doing and I just started to smile. And carried on smiling for about a mile. It all seemed very surreal and hugely amusing. What the hell was I trying to achieve here? Had anyone told me that I would have been running the London marathon two years previously I would have fallen about laughing. Yet here I was about a quarter of the way through.
I moved on through Deptford, Canada Water, Rotherhide and all the time counting the miles as they unbelievably passed quickly until Tower Bridge. I knew then that the crowds would be amazing and I would be only a mile from seeing my dedicated crowd of supporters. Jeff and the boys had taken the train up with Nonna and Big G to Wapping to meet with my school friend Alison and her boys. I knew exactly where they would be and I could feel my spirits lifting as I turned the corner to see Tower Bridge with the hordes of people lining either side.
Turning left on the highway I reached the 13 mile mark and began to look in earnest for the gang. And there they were. I had almost gone by when I spotted them, made a last minute decision to stop and kiss the very surprised boys and sped off again. I even had a dance at one the stupidly loud bounds that were playing The Killers. What was I thinking?!
The high from seeing the kids was soon dashed by seeing the 3 hour marathon runners going past me in the other direction at mile 22 as I was struggling with mile 13. And knowing that I had to get all round the Docklands for another 9 miles before returning to that point was quite hard. I think by then the heat had stepped up, the showers round the course were becoming all the more important and when I reached water stations I was taking two bottles - one to pour over my head and down my back and one to drink. I was still dry in a matter of minutes though.
The race started to become a battle of the mind. Annoying, since I knew I was utterly capable of doing a 20 mile in much colder weather with only a degree of fuss. All of a sudden things began to hurt and my legs started to feel heavy and harder to push round. I got fussy with my stance and tried to adjust things that would momentarily relieve the pain and frustration but became difficult to hold before reverting back to running 'normally'. The crowds thinned out as we pushed through the Docklands and the landscape became uglier and less familiar. All the time I could see Canary Wharf tantalizingly close by yet knew that I had to dart up and down roads to get to it.
And then it happened. Round about mile 18 I gave up the ghost. All of a sudden I felt an overwhelming urge to stop. My body was dying in the arse, I couldn't get any momentum as my legs felt like lead and thinking about running any particular time had gone out the window and even finishing the race was in doubt. I think I hit the wall! Interestingly it wasn't a physical thing, it was a mental breakdown. I stopped and bent down to try to sort myself out. I happened to stop right by a marshall who after a couple of seconds, just put his hand on my back and said "are you okay?". Unfairly, I took this as someone else questioning that I could do this. That was what I needed. I jerked right back up, gave myself a short, sharp talking to and finally began to run again. The crowd cheered as I started slowly running forward, my legs uncertain and jelly-like after stopping for even a short time. I could hear people shout my name as I gradually gained some speed...
I think I stopped twice more in the next few miles. Each time at a mile marker, taking a few seconds to stretch my calves and give myself a pep talk (mainly obscenities and mostly aimed at telling myself to not be such a f***ing whimp). And I had something to look forward to - seeing my beautiful boys at mile 23. Except I didn't. The overcrowded London transport system thwarted us. I'd like to think I ran too fast but I can't really seriously use that as an excuse! But actually, although I would have dearly loved to have seen them, in a perverse way, looking out for them until I appeared from the tunnel at Blackfriars when I finally figured out I'd probably missed them, kept me occupied for at least a mile!
And that's when I saw the most inspiring sign of the race. It simply said "2.5 miles to go. Make personal history." I was so close. It's quite incredible how, as soon as the landscape becomes familiar and you know roughly that the end is in sight, you legs become lighter. The many miles that you've run seem to fade into the distance. And then I hear a scream from my left, more urgent that the ones before. It's Cathy and Matt from our street! Just how bizarre is that? The screams spurs me on with a big smile on my face, and also I can see Big Ben right in front of me.
We turn sharp left into Westminster Square and I have no time to think of my time I spent commuting across that bridge. I see a runner passed out being tended to by St Johns Ambulance who seem to be doing a sterling job with the increasing numbers of injured runners felled by the heat.
The crowd is becoming more urgent and louder in their cries. You can hear a lot of "it's not far now", "you're so close". And it's exactly what you want to hear as you head onto Birdcage Walk, which quite frankly was the longest road in London.
By this time my legs were on automatic. Nothing I was telling them was actually getting through. I think had I told them to stop, they wouldn't have. All I could think of was the finish. I was trying to ignore the cramping starting in my thighs and I don't think I heard the crowd from this point onwards, I was so desperate to reach Buckingham Palace. The signs telling you it was 800 metres, 600 metres, 400 metres to the finish slowly, slowly passed, until there it was....
...The Finish Line. I turned a corner at Buck House to see the vision in red. I let out a yelp (I was apparently the only one to be this excited, but I suspect we were all too knackered to respond) and tried desperately for a sprint (please realise this a very, very loose term at this point) finish. My little legs were going at ten to the dozen, although in reality I suspect I was going painfully slowly.
Lungs blazing, legs screaming, I pass under the finish line. Arms aloft, so excited to have done it. To have run 26.2 miles.
Surrounded by so many emotional people I found myself unable to comprehend my own emotion. I had spent so long envisioning crossing the finish line that I almost didn't believe I actually done it. I don't see the people I ran with for most of the miles. Where were the womble, the clown and the dancing man?
I've done a bit of thinking since Sunday and the easiest analogy to describe the whole experience is likening it to childbirth. It's hell when you're in the middle of it, bliss when it's over and the rose tinted glasses kick in soon after.
Pip's verdict?
"Mama, did you win?"
"No sweetheart I didn't."
"Mama, why do you always lose?'
You have to see the funny side.
To be precise, I came 16,574th overall, 4,069th for my gender, and 2,499th for my age category (18-39).
| And that's just fine by me. |
posted by Emma Sweetwater at
April 19, 2011
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