I beat Thatcher.
There was no need for a recount and she graciously bowed to
me being first past the post.
I also defeated Superman and then pipped a pair of six foot
carrots at the finish line. A late surge by Rocky Balboa (who else?) meant I
was chasing the boxer’s shadow and by the time I caught up with the Italian
Stallion he was already blubbering into his phone to someone called Adrian.
This is not how I usually spend my Sunday mornings. Come to
think of it I’ve never ousted a former prime minister or annihilated a journalist-come-superhero.
And mutant vegetables? Surely they can’t be healthy.
But while you rub your eyes in astonishment, there is a
minor caveat. All of these people, and the veg, were taking part amongst 9,000
competitors in Sunday's Brighton Marathon.
The event marked my first foray into the world of marathon
running and though this was my debut I backed myself to post a good time,
setting three and a half hours as my target.
The crowds had already gathered at the start line and it was
perhaps here, standing in the middle of Preston Park, in front of England
cricketer Matt Prior, that my fate was sealed.
I’ve never been one for warming up or stretching but if
there was one time I maybe should have flushed the capillaries in my legs with
red blood cells it was at 8.50am on Sunday, t-minus ten minutes before
embarking on 26.2 miles or road, pavement and promenade.
A couple of lunges later, I was off, twinkle-toeing beside
the 3.30 hour pace setter, who, conveniently, was wearing a luminous orange
vest.
Winding around Preston Park and then down London Road, vast
swathes of runners, most, myself included, clad in ill-fitting Lycra bearing
the name of a charity they were running on behalf of, were bunched closely
together.
This would not do. So, breaking marathon running rule number
one (Thou Should Not Start Like A Man Possessed), I started weaving through
groups of runners to pick up a bit of speed. Like one of Xavi’s passes for
Barcelona or Kevin Pietersen’s drives towards the boundary, I was finding the
gaps and exploiting them.
Cheering roadside crowds were willing our every step but
after about five miles, as I headed towards the far east of the route, row of
spectators thinned to the point where the only discernible sound was that of
trainers hitting the wet tarmac and Eminem plying on the man next me’s iPod.
Rhythm. If there was one word I would have used to describe
my progress after 10 miles, when I was running seven and a half minute miles,
it would be that word. If I had my phone I would have tweeted it: #rhythm.
But like my dancing on a Saturday night, this rhythm also
came to a sudden end.
It happened at about the 14 mark just after I heard a voice
in the crowd shout “enjoy it!” and up until that point I had.
But then something in my right quadriceps screamed “ping” and I hunkered slightly as the roaring spectators urged people on. Instantly
my three and half hour target all but evaporated into the blissful blue sky.
Determined to keep going, to do Cancer Research proud, I
focused on completing each mile and in my head set 12 goals to finishing the
race.
My technique had now morphed into something unfamiliar and by the 18th
mile my left hip and ankle had stiffened like glass, the nerves inside
shredding like shards.
Before the race I was told that you run the final six miles
on adrenaline but no amount of adrenaline, not even a dosage like that which
brought back Uma Thurman to life in Pulp Fiction, could have seen me through.
It was time to dip deep and persevere and after gulping an
entire bottle of energy drink (another no-no) I progressed to the final two
mile straight.
Buoyed on by family and friends I was swept to the final 200
hundred metres by a sense of achievement and by what was an inhuman gait. I
crossed the line at 3:47:00 but the chip on my race number confirmed my
finishing time at 3:42:38.
With my mental and physical strength depleted, I sat down in
the sun and reflected on the preceding 26.2 miles. There were no tears, no
breakdown, just a proud sense of achievement that my pain had done something
good for this affected by the most terrible of diseases.
Mission complete: would the last person to leave the
Brighton Marathon please turn out the lights.
