It’s a marathon

This weekend I was at the London marathon. No, I haven’t miraculously progressed from a run / walk around the block to 26.2 miles. I was at this marathon as a supporter and not a runner. It was my first time as a race spectator and it was, please forgive the cliche, an emotional rollercoaster.

The eerily quiet London, as we walked from Euston station, through Holborn and past St Paul’s Cathedral, and our first sight of the race itself, was misleading. There was a smattering of supporters but I was pleased to see that my worries about it being crazy busy were unfounded.

Quiet though it was, the emotion of the event was palpable. My eyes were immediately wet, my voice thick as I witnessed the apparent torture on every runner’s face as they passed by. The support staff handing out drinks and shouts of encouragement looked to have the better part of the deal, even stood, as they were, in the pouring rain.

Frantic

Now I realise that only the fastest of runners were at mile 23 so early on in the race and that ALL of the other spectators were already at our first destination, Tower Bridge. And they’d had the good sense to get there early so that they could bag a spot at the barrier. This saw us frantically navigating a sea of people, trying to find a spot that we could squeeze into, whilst watching the little circle – which indicated OUR runner – inch towards us on the TCS tracker app.

The fear of missing her, of being so close and her not knowing, means you make it happen. And seeing your person, shouting your support and witnessing the boost that it gives them is beautiful. Your surroundings are blurred, you yell indiscriminately over people’s heads and you jump up and down as the excitement takes over. On the other side of the barrier, the moment they spot you, they do the same.

Torture

Back at the 23 mile mark, sheltered from the rain and securing a coveted spot at the barrier, we waited for a second sighting. The combined sound of church bells, the race music and the encouraging crowd were amplified by the natural acoustics of the underpass. It was both overwhelming and inspiring.

Where earlier we’d seen the sub-3 hour runners coming to the end of their race, now we were seeing the masses, the fun runners. This might be the furthest that they have ever run: they are now in unchartered territory. Their pain was visible. Feet that refused to lift more than an inch off the ground, bodies contorted to accommodate seizing muscles or crumbling knees; legs mottled from the cold, faces grimaced in determination.

Those running in costume no doubt questioned their pre-race sanity. Those wearing their names, visibly irritated every time they heard it called: no doubt this had started to grate15 miles earlier. I remembered my own marathon experience. Whilst well meaning, direct encouragement just confirmed my fear that people could see that I was struggling, and in the case of Paris, crying.

Beauty

You can see the relief, the gratitude though, when runners see their own people in the crowd. A sneaked hug, an involuntary cry, a whoop, a new spring in their step. But that relief is momentary. Then runners are locked in a battle with their minds to keep pushing forward. Bargaining with their higher power to allow them to finish, to not die. It is torture. You wonder why people put themselves through such extremes. Isn’t life hard enough?

And yet, the end tells a different story. Medals displayed proudly on puffed out chests, foil blankets worn like super-hero capes, grimaces replaced by smiles. Still, the gravity of what these runners have just endured is evident. Trainers discarded to allow battered feet to breathe, hobbled walks to cars and buses and trains, kids looking up at warrior parents in awe and wonder.

That’s why we do it, for that feeling at the end. To prove to ourselves that we can do hard things.

Later, it’s like child-birth: the pain is forgotten. The long training runs in the cold and the rain a distant memory.

Then, only the joy remains. That sense of achievement, the recollection of the pride on our loved ones faces.

It’s a marathon

Did it inspire me to run another? Being a spectator, a supporter, felt like a marathon in itself. By the end of the day, we’d put in the miles and alI of that emotion was draining.

I may have applied for London 2024.