Day -162: The London Marathon
It’s about 1pm on Sunday 27 April, there are about 4km left to go of the 2025 London Marathon. And I am in the pain cave.
It’s amazing the speed at which I have entered the cave. Somewhere between miles 23 and 24 “next to the Tower of London beside the bronze statue of a worker with a helmet and a spirit level on his shoulder” (the specific location which my Dad told me to look out for him), I was flying. Clocking up the 4.55/km target pace with ease. Big strides and a big smile.
Just a couple of kilometres later and I am walking that wobbly psychological line of pushing myself with very little confidence in my ability to make it.
It doesn’t help that with the heat of the day, there are a lot of fellow runners who actually aren’t going to make it. As is often the case with hot marathons completed by decent by not professional runners, there are quite a few casualties in the final few miles.
It also probably doesn’t help that the two goals (the A Goal and B Goal) Amber and I set ourselves yesterday are, in this moment, completely contradictory. The A Goal is to complete this marathon in less than 3.5hrs. The B Goal is to enjoy it. Goal A will be achieved if we can cover the final four and a bit kilometres in the next 22 minutes. But to do so will certainly not be enjoyable.
It’s a mental challenge that I only ever encounter in marathon racing and it’s especially true in London which is the most magical event. Pushing myself through the physical pain is the target, but my body is screaming at me and my brain is cautioning me to be careful about how hard I push. I want to stay on the side of the pain line which will carry me to the end. And not leave me slumped on the side of the road with a paramedic.
But an A Goal is an A Goal and so it’s time to embrace the pain and dig in. That’s part of the fun of marathons anyway isn’t it?
Amber is in good enough shape to take this picture of Big Ben, which, bearing in mind we set off at 9.45, shows just how close we are. Her husband Max ran a 3:00:07 marathon a couple of years ago and at this stage, that’s all I can think about. Just don’t do a Max.
Just another 3 minutes of delirium and it’s over. 3:29:05. Almost a whole minute to spare.
And then comes the jubilation.
Because just like the pain of the closing stages of a marathon being unique, so is the feeling at the end.
Amber and I exist in a golden bubble of happiness and pride. As we parade our medals through London and towards home, strangers will congratulate us. We’ll feel so grateful for the memories to treasure forever. And we’ll spend the next 24hrs analysing our splits. Telling the story of the race to anyone who will listen. Reminiscing about the highs (the wall of noise which surrounds you at The Cutty Sark and seeing my family in the lead up to Tower Bridge) and laughing at the lows (those final few kilometres where apparently I looked just as terrible as I felt).
The London marathon is pain. But it is magic. If that feeling could be bottled, it would be a wonderful remedy for other types of the pain.
