At mile 14, I found myself beginning to lose a bit of ground from those around me. Not a lot but enough to put a halt to any communication between us. Matt was travelling nicely but working typically hard. My pace began to drop marginally – from running 6:40-6:45 pace average, I had slipped to fractionally over 7. More concerning was the amount of energy I was now having to exert just to maintain this effort. My hope of getting to 20 miles with plenty in the tank was fading faster than an equatorial sunset and I was having to dig very deep to keep going. This was not supposed to happen this early on. I expected to tire but this was far too early. By mile 16 I was working my nuts off and while I am not a vastly experienced marathon runner, (this being my eighth), I knew from previous good experiences how I wanted to be feeling at this stage and this was unquestionably not it.
I continued working hard and various thoughts cross your mind. While I was counting down the miles, I still had double figures left. On a good day and fresh that was at least another 70 minutes. The reality was that unless I miraculously got a second wind, it was going to be an awful lot longer. I broke the race down in my mind into smaller segments. Get to 20 I kept telling myself, then it’s 10K to go. That divides into 2 x 5K, in other words back to back parkruns – with support a-plenty. The downside to all the support is that there is no hiding place and your suffering is on full public view. More people were overtaking me than the other way round. In fact, I wasn’t overtaking that many people full stop!
My pace for mile 19 was still a very respectable 7:09 but inside I was gone. All the spare energy I needed for the last 10K had been used up in trying to hold on to my pace between 14 and 20 miles. I dropped to 7:52 on mile 20 and progressively slower hereon in. This is not where the race was lost. It was the six miles prior.
At the start of the race, I had fall-back goals in case the sub three marathon didn’t materialise. Matt had already bettered Dave’s club record so my next goal was a PB (3:12:26). After that it was sub 3:15 for qualification via the good for age ticket in 2017. I worked out what pace I would need to hold but I was moving increasingly more slowly and shuffling along like a man with his bum-hairs tied together trying to hold in a particularly viscous stool. The race was now about limiting my losses. I was going backwards, totally spent and there was nothing I could do about it. I was hoping my support team didn’t see me as I am sure I looked exactly like I felt – terrible! I was determined not to stop. I’ve done this before and found it very hard to get going again afterwards. At 21 miles I nearly stopped. I put the brakes on my right foot on one step with a view to halting. I dug deep and told myself not to give in and keep going. Just get to the next mile point. The countdown from 21 mentally is quite do-able. “At 22 it won’t seem as bad and you’re nearly there” I’d say to myself.
Swathes of people were streaming past me now. I saw Richard and Tricia Bunn from Peel Road Runners, both seasoned marathoners in support at some point, I couldn’t say exactly where because I didn’t need to know and everything was becoming a blur and I was starting to feel delirious. They gave me a cheer but they could see and feel my hurt and there was intense pity in their eyes. They had probably been there themselves at some point but what can you say? I also saw John Savin-Baden from Badgers. Whether this was before or after, again I couldn’t say. All I know is he was mega-enthusiastic in his support and that boosted me (for about five seconds!). I reached 23 miles and I knew I was nearly home. I was still shuffling along and trying to pick my feet up but struggling to find power in my glutes and hip-flexors in order to run stylistically and economically. To my right I saw a man being tended to by particularly anxious paramedics. He was lying flat on his back on a stretcher, unusually for a fatigued runner and was as white as a sheet. It is highly probable that this was the soldier, David Seath, who tragically lost his life at this point in the race. By now, I was hot and tired, I told myself to be sensible in getting home. I was starting to wobble – I took a bottle of water and failed repeatedly to shove the teat in my mouth properly in order to drink. I continued to an underpass where I could seek both shade and refuge from the crowds.
Alone, I took a tactical decision to stop for thirty seconds. Enough time for me to drink my water and pull myself together for the final stint. It was almost like a mini treat for myself being able to stop temporarily as I was desperate to do so and was getting no enjoyment out of my afternoon whatsoever – I couldn’t wait for it to be over. When I reached mile 24 I just had one more mile to go before the last bit so I was nearly there. The stop invigorated me and while my pace was still poor (9 minute miles), at least I had halted the slide and splits were consistent after the break. I was still calculating what split-times I needed to achieve in order to reach my remaining goals. I couldn’t afford another stop and resolved to keep going. With a mile to go, the PB was still a possibility, yet it was almost impossible to impact upon my pace. At 26 miles, you are almost home but that 385 yards is a lot longer than you think. It’s another minute and a half’s worth of running.
I got to the fountain outside Buckingham Palace and had thirty seconds to get to the line. It looked miles away, the PB was gone! Close but gone. I was also gone! Matt told me London always measures long. Following the racing (blue) line is impossible due to the volume of traffic so you will usually cover a fair bit of extra distance. Last year, according to my watch, it was nearly half a mile. This year it was down to a quarter. I clocked 26.44 miles at the end which ultimately cost me a personal best but my finish time of 3:13:01 was enough to get me into next year’s race where hopefully I could right wrongs and do it properly, if I hadn’t successfully chased my sub three hour dream down beforehand. I felt no euphoria crossing the finish line. Relief that I could stop? Yes. Disappointment in failing to achieve a long held goal? Yes. Pride in what I had done? No.
I needed to analyse what went wrong and more importantly how to go about rectifying it next time around. There must be an explanation to what happened. But equally, making important decisions about the future is not best done while emotions are running high. I trudged forlornly towards bag collection, surrounded by other runners all sharing similar but differing experiences but totally oblivious to them. They were all seemed joyful, proud, happy and accomplished. The total opposite to how I felt. I thought I had nothing in common with these people yet I had everything in common with them. I was trapped in my own little bubble of gloom and I felt totally alone. Yet there was nowhere to go to actually be alone. I just wanted my own hiding place where nobody could see me. I didn’t want my photo taken, I had no interest in checking out my goody bag. I just wanted to cry.
At the end of the last lorry dishing bags back out, I found some space to sit for a moment, a few feet away from the flow of athletes pouring through. For about ten minutes, I lay on the tarmac and tried to pull myself together before facing my support crew and team mates. I had some more water and a snack before picking my belongings up and making the final short, stiff-legged journey to meet the others. It wasn’t meant to end like this.