Review of 2008 London Marathon

Impossible is Nothing

by Mark Coyle

From the large French windows that opened onto our tiny balcony I watched the early morning sunshine sparkle on the windscreens of the Sunday morning traffic as it rumbled along the Belgrave Rd. Propped up in my second floor hotel bed, nursing a Flora London Marathon mug of piping hot tea – purchased from Saturday’s expo, the mug that is, not the tea - I was attempting to have a quiet, deep, solitary moment to myself, but Tracey’s snoring was taking the edge off it somewhat. Glancing up I could just make out the piercingly blue sky peeping between the gleaming white, sash windowed facades of the neat five storey Georgian houses which lined the tidy, prosperous streets of the City of Westminster in Central London.  The surroundings and weather were in stark contrast to all the wet, windy moonless evenings and frosty Sunday mornings spent pounding out those training miles around Tile Hill. All that stretching and coaxing of tired limbs, blisters and black toe nails, gels, sports drinks, porridge for breakfast, pasta for dinner, the training schedules, the preparation had been as meticulous as it was monotonous.

The Expo had been visited the day before, number and chip secured, pasta party attended, merchandise purchased, more freebies than a shop-a-holic could carry had been snaffled – mainly by Tracey and Lorraine – and all of it, all of it, lead down to this; this was it, 6:30a.m. Sunday 13th April 2008 Marathon Day had dawned.

My running vest – complete with blue start number 14162 – and shorts, hung from a hanger on the small wardrobe in front of me. My shoes – complete with lurid red charity laces and timing chip – sat beside my bed. Everything else was laid neatly out the night before just as I’d left it, socks to safety pins, gels to sunglasses. We’d gone for a “recce” along The Mall, Horse guards and Birdcage Walk, the planning had taken on almost military precision; nothing had been left to chance. Even the DVD we’d watched that afternoon had a running theme “Run, Fat Boy Run.”

Breakfast of porridge, toast and orange juice was forced down unwilling throats into stomachs churning like the North Sea in a gale. Thankfully the dining room was empty of the babbling Europeans that we ate with the morning before which was just about the only “continental” element of the continental breakfast mentioned on the hotel website.  Since when was a bowl of porridge, two slices of toast and a pot of tea deemed continental? Paris the birth place of porridge? Madrid synonymous with tea and toast? The hotel frankly turned out to be the only disappointing part of the weekend. The rooms were so cramped that I couldn’t even get the cat in to swing it around, while breakfast was eaten on plastic patio furniture in a dark cellar, and carpet on the walls? What’s all that about? It was cheap but not very cheerful. Still the beds were comfy and the location was spot on and that’s all that really mattered. A final check, another quick visit to the loo and we waved Lorraine goodbye as we took the short walk to Victoria Station.

The mind started to play tricks as we observed that not one other single runner was visible on the station platform and this - combined with the fact that the train was running eight minutes late – killed the nervous conversation and false bonhomie as the tension increased. Running the marathon was daunting enough, missing it entirely because you were lost on the underground is the stuff of bed sweating nightmares. To a collective sigh of relief the train - preceded by a rush of air – barrelled into the station, its carriages liberally sprinkled with other kitbag carrying, Lucozade sport swigging, ipod wearing types. Stepping on board we all relaxed slightly as the train rattled through the dark tunnels before stopping at London Bridge Station where our “platoon” mingled and merged with a whole “army” of track suit wearing, kit bag carrying runners.

With hugs and hearty handshakes we parted at London Bridge and “tall” Paul and Tracey headed for the green and red starts via Maze Hill Station while I and a running stray we’d found at Green Park Station –Simon from Coventry, as we later found out - made for the Blue start at Blackheath. Meanwhile back at the hotel – still intact despite my best efforts to burn it down while making toast for breakfast – Lorraine had suddenly realised that Paul was heading for the wrong start.  Frantic phone-calls followed before Paul rushed across Blackheath Common. Stripped and as ready as I’d ever be I made my way to the gents and stumbled into Andy Norton of all people. Glad of a friendly face among the throng we chatted for a few minutes before wishing each other well.

The clock was ticking now and I managed to sneak into pen two as the crowd was marshalled forward.  I rubbed shoulders with greatness as I spied the elite runners; the Italian, Stefano Baldini – the current Olympic Champion at this distance; Martin Lel – defending his title from 2007; Kifle the Eritrean; Limo, Kibet and Mutai from Kenya; Ryan Hall from America, Steve Colbourne, running Gods among mere running mortals.

All eyes clock watched as the large yellow numbers on the digital timer ticked inexorably toward 9 45. A hush descended a distant blast from a hooter was heard, a large cheer and we were off.  I watched in amazement as the elite men just floated away. Lithe, long limbed, languid the cleanest of clean heels flicking behind them as the striped shirted pace makers lead them and the following masses away. But, and for the briefest of brief moments, as we raced down Shooter’s Hill Road in the warm spring sunshine, I was less than 50 feet behind Olympic and World champions in a Marathon Race. How many people can ever claim that?

The elite men were soon replaced by a sea of bobbing heads which seemed to float on shoulders of every possible colour. Club runners mixed with others in fancy dress, here and there a Superman, a Spiderman, a Womble, a whole bunch of Bananas, a Frog, a platoon of Welsh Guards in full kit complete with boots and backpacks, firemen, a man on ski’s pulling a sled, convicts chained together, a woman on fifteen foot high stilts. Thousands and thousands of runners from three different start points merging into one fat, rolling multi-coloured snake, the width of a dual carriage way, that twisted and turned through those early miles out of Greenwich. Locals and nationals mixed with runners from all over the world it seemed, South Africa, USA, Chile, Mexico, France, Australia, Germany, and in amongst all of this a Sphinx vest. Unbelievably, there in amongst this riot of noise and colour Steve Court suddenly appeared and for a fleeting moment he was barely fifteen feet from me before, as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone, swallowed up by the snake, I shouted of course but he was never going to hear me.  I’d never felt so alive, so part of something. I’ve never taken drugs but I imagine the adrenaline rush coursing through my veins must be akin to Paul Bergin buying you a beer! A few minutes later I spied Ian Gower in his orange spinal injuries association vest darting from gap to gap as he made his way through the throng. Both Ian and Steve were well on their way to running PB’s.

Things were settling down now as the red and green starts merged to the sound of friendly boo’s and good-natured banter from the blue start runners.  Finding myself along side one of the Runner’s World 8 minute per mile pacers I kept time with him through miles two and three and the four mile marker was in view when my phone buzzed with a text from Tracey to say she was at mile two. At mile four I spotted among the crowd fellow Sphinx man Kevin Brock and his good lady Rachel –as we’d planned – standing outside The White Horse public house. Well, the sun was well over the yard arm! We posed outside the pub for a couple of photos and about twenty minutes or so later Tracey materialised. A quick Tia Maria and coke, a fag, a squirt of CK One and a dash of “slap” and “lippy” and we handed over our phones and re-joined the run as Kevin and Rachel headed for mile 17 but not before Kev informed me that my wife – Clare and friend Rog – had made it to mile 9.

We were behind schedule and this was further hampered by Tracey – bladder the size of a thimble - doing a “Paula” behind a van in a car park on Trafalgar Rd. Impromptu open air discos blaring out from the pavement combined with musical bands of all types; Bhangra, steel, brass, blues, jazz, gospel, rock to keep us pounding along.  We squeezed through the bottle neck at Cutty Sark at 6 miles then headed for Tower Bridge through the crowd lined streets of Deptford, Rotherhithe and Bermondsey.

Somewhere along the eight mile point the black clouds that had been threatening to dampen the day suddenly poured forth. This wasn’t just rain, this was Marks and Spencer’s rain. Large puddles suddenly materialised, shoes and socks quickly filled with water, vests and t-shirts sagged, umbrellas sprang up and for a time we thought the party atmosphere might be dampened. Wrong. If anything it got noisier and busier.  Kids perched on Dads’ shoulder’s waving flags, pockets of enthusiastic charity supporters complete with matching balloons and t-shirts all screaming encouragement. Barking dogs, banners, bar-B-Q’s, bemused Police officers, an army of St John’s Ambulance staff arms out-stretched proffering huge dollops of Vaseline in their fingers. People handed out sweets or orange quarters to revive flagging fortunes. It was a riot on the senses that had you floating along on a wave of adrenaline for mile after mile.

Then out of the pouring rain my wife Clare and friend Roger suddenly appeared at the side of the Surrey Quay’s Rd. Hugs were exchanged and photos captured then they moved on to mile 19 while we carried on to Tower Bridge, the 12 mile marker and a welcome gel. A quick time check confirmed that although we’d pulled back some lost time, our target finish time of sub 4 30 was looking more like 4 40. So we pushed ourselves on toward Canary Wharf on lap three; miles 12 -18.

Tower Bridge was crossed and 13.1 miles reached as we headed along the Highway toward the Isle of Dogs. A liberal sprinkling of the sub three hour whippets were racing for Victoria Embankment on the opposite carriage way. We looked for familiar faces. Sure enough at the 22 mile marker - leading from the front - came Captain Steve Colbourne his face green from the hair dye which had run in the rain came racing toward us. The good news was nothing appeared to have bitten him or scratched him, no gaping wounds were apparent at that point, so we waved and cheered him as he sailed past. We were still high on adrenaline and the miles just sailed easily by.

At 16 miles we caught the Masai Warriors complete with their shields’, spears, knee length traditional robes and jewellery. We were intrigued to see if the stories were true that they ran in shoes made from car tyres.  Glancing down we were amazed to find it was, although a couple looked like re-moulds and one was definitely bald. We heard later that one of the Masai didn’t finish, presumably the bald one had been pulled over by the Police and been given a producer. The crowds - ten deep in places - were going ballistic as the warriors ran by and in the narrow built up streets of Mudchute the noise was deafening. I tapped one of the Masai on the shoulder and asked him if he wanted to join Sphinx.

“AT7” I shouted “Every Thursday night.”

No response, not a flicker.

Maybe the Northbrook runner we’d spotted earlier on the Highway had signed them up first. God only knows what they made of it all. Moving on we searched the crowds but were disappointed that we couldn’t pick out Kev and Rachel at mile 17.

Mile 18, lap three completed, time for another gel. We’d made great time and still had an outside chance of a 4 30 finish if we could keep up the pace through lap four, the six miles from 18 to 24. Heads down and cooled by the latest downpour we ploughed on through the stinging hail stones that peppered us through the rest of Canary Wharf. We scanned the crowd as we went through 19 miles but there were so many people it was impossible to spot my wife again. Perhaps - we thought - they had changed their minds and headed back toward the Mall or Birdcage Walk to be nearer the finish. Back on The Highway runners were still coming through the half way point at Tower Bridge as we headed down toward Tower Hill believing that we wouldn’t see anyone else we knew in the crowd until the finish when Tracey suddenly spotted Dave McLean, I’m not sure who was more delighted. The poor bloke hadn’t seen a single Sphinx runner and as we were the last two from the club to come through his relief was evident. It was Dave who spotted that my nipples were bleeding. This was a first for me but it wasn’t painful in fact if he hadn’t have pointed it out I wouldn’t have known. It was a different story in the shower later though when the hot water and soap hit them!

Mile 21 was reached and this was virgin territory now, the unknown. Our longest training run had been just over 21 miles so every step now was new ground. Skirting the edge of the Thames we ran under a succession of bridges, London Bridge, Southwark, Blackfriars, Waterloo and Hungerford plunging us into shadow where the beaten and broken hobbled or walked in the gloom while others leaned against walls trying to stretch or massage life into cramped and exhausted muscles. It reminded me of a zombie movie. Re-emerging into the driving rain the London Eye came into view through the deluge as we travelled along Victoria Embankment.

Mile 24. Four laps of six completed. With no gels left we ploughed on into the final two “cigar” miles as we called them. It was time to get the cigars out, figuratively speaking of course, we knew now that we would finish. Big Ben towered over us as we climbed and turned right past Westminster tube station where the tree lined view of Birdcage Walk greeted us accompanied by a wall of noise. Complete strangers urged us on shouting our names as if they were life long friends. The adrenaline rush that we’d had at the start suddenly returned and tired limbs found a new lease of life. The all out, eyes-bulging, lung-bursting, sprint finish was saved for another day however; this was a time to look controlled, a time to look poised. This was a never to be repeated once in a life time seminal moment in our lives, we were about to cross the finish line in a marathon for the first time. This was a moment to be sipped like fine wine, not gulped down like a pint of Stella. Rushing by head down, limbs flailing in a desperate attempt to shave off a few measly seconds was not the order of the day here.

The sub 4 30 had narrowly eluded us by a couple of minutes – if only Tracey had a bladder - but that didn’t matter. The plan had been nigh on perfect and as we rounded that final bend, passed under the temporary bridge displaying the sign that read “385 yards to go!” and spotted the finish line with its “Impossible is Nothing” logo plastered on it, we knew that this was very “possible” and most definitely “something.”  Caps off, hand in hand, arms aloft we filled….

“…That unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run.”

Then ours was the earth and everything that is in it.

And – which is more – we became marathon runners my son.”