We had plans to make an early start, have a leisurely, wholesome breakfast marathon runner's breakfast (of porridge) and fresh fruit juice, before making our way to the start-line a good hour ahead of time, so that Erica could pick up her number. For running - she didn't manage to apply in time to get it sent to her.
She bought me a lovely pot of tea at half eight, and after leisurely taking a sup, I made my way into the house, and had a quick shower. Then I retrieved my garmin, looked at it, and said, casually "Why does my Garmin say 9:40?". The clocks had gone back. Leroy said "I DID try and tell you..." Erica looked at him very frostily, even I was scared. "No you didn't, you said that as if the radio presenter had said the wrong time!" she told him. Well. Panic stations. I ate yesterday's rhubarb crumble, which is a lot like porridge, in many ways, and dragged my shoes on. Fortunately I had got everything ready the night before. Erica was ready to go, and we left. Erica's flat is about a mile, mile and a half, from the start line. We jogged there. Because that's what you want at the start of a race, a little warm-up. People doing full Marathons should do that more. I think we got there for quarter-past. It made a change from last time - I didn't like all that waiting around...
Once again, it was a terrifically clear blue sky and bright sunshine. I was afraid of that. I'd packed Nige's water bottle, and I took it with me - I couldn't bear the thought of getting half, or three quarters way round, and wishing I had it with me. I'd smeared on sun cream, borrowed off Erica, before I left the house too. And I had a pocket full of highfive isogel sachets as well. Somehow, with odds against it, Erica managed to get into the organsing tent and locate her number, attach it, and make her way back to me, in about five minutes. I don't know how she did that. I wasn't entirely sure what she was doing with me, she'd made it pretty clear that she wouldn't be running at the speed I was hoping for. Just before the starter whistle, she pulled out another sachet of sun cream. "It's OK", I reassured her, "I put some on". "Yes, but that was factor 8. This is factor 30" she told me. As this was one of my bigger fears, I didn't argue. So I was properly covered.
The whistle went off, and there was that moment of false start, and then we were off. Once again, people seemed to set off at a fair crack. I decided, what with the hills which were going to pull me back, that I should just go with it, so we did. I found we were going along behind the pacemaker post for 1:58. I knew it wouldn't happen, but I decided to go along with it. Soon enough, we got to a hill. It wasn't one that I was expecting, but I was expecting what happened next, after our Friday practice run. "Right, off you go!" Erica called as she fell back - "Good luck!". We had established already that I could get up the hills faster than she could. I momentarily felt alone, although not exactly lost, with the hundreds of runners around me. I passed a girl in pink, flanked by two pink elephants who were much larger than she was - they seemed ready to put their arms under her and pick her up if necessary. I felt instant pity for them.
I saw a guy with a green top on that read "I'm a London Marathon Virgin", and recalled that the Hastings Half is said to be a good pre-race course for the London Marathon (ironically, that's today... not that I'm late writing this or anything). I briefly countenanced running a full marathon - and decided to get this one out of the way first. I realised we were going down a short downhill, and tried to maximise it. I was (ignoring Sally) keeping an eye on my garmin, but I can't recall any more what it said. I think I was most interested in how many miles I'd achieved - I always seem to miss the mile signs. Or think I have...
Anyhow, I reached the hill that Eri said was the hardest, and if I could do that, I was home and dry (it was at about 2.5 miles, so, not, not really), when it happened. I'd just observed a very tall lady dressed in a bee outfit pass me, and rationalised this because she clearly had very long legs. Moments later a bloke ran passed me, who was pushing a trolley in front of him that seemed to have a nine-year-old girl in it, as well as a radio. I particularly recall him because he was saying to his passenger "Are you cold" - despite the sun, there was a chilly breeze - "Yes" she said miserably. "Well, get out and run then" he said. He then called behind him, "Don't worry love, we'll wait for you... at the finish line!" So quite a wag. I was irritated by him breezing past me so nonchalently. I failed to see how much worse I could really do, hills or not. However, I'd reckoned without what happened next. A man with an ironing board strapped to his back went past me. Quite fast, actually. I was overtaken by a man with an ironing board on his back. It wasn't a model, it was a real one. He went flying past me. My humiliation was complete.
There was other stuff. The hills were OK. They went on a long time, but they didn't actually hurt. I missed the Peterborough half though. There were very few kids high-fiving, although there was a brigade of people about half way round with banners and drums, and making a lot of noise. But I knew I wasn't going to see any mates. I'll tell you something else, I thought the runners on the course were a little inconsiderate in their road positioning. They kept running in lines which didn't allow anyone to overtake them. I resisted barging, because I'm quite well brought-up, but it was a near thing. Anyway, all credit to some blokes in purple shirts from Bexhill Running Club, and sorry about your pal, Alex. The three of them I did follow around for some time, I decided that running club people were bound to have some sort of system. Now I can't remember if it was the bloke who was called Alex, or his pal who had died. Sorry if I've got it wrong. Only one of them had a memorial t-shirt on, the other two had club shirts on.
Actually, a word about people running for charity. As you know, I'm in favour of this if you're not enjoying yourself. This put me in a quandery, because despite earning bags of money for the Great Eastern Run last year, I did quite enjoy it, so I didn't try to raise money for the Hastings Half. I regret this now. It still WAS a challenge, AND I didn't enjoy it as much as Peterborough. Largely through not knowing anyone, which confirms that I am just a big show-off. But I actually also felt really guilty for not trying to raise money. Here were all these worthy causes, printed on t-shirts around me. Let me tell you, there was one point I felt so moved, because basically a lot of people carried photos on their t-shirts, and I thought, either these people are dead, or they're going to die. And I was in tears. Really. Also, can I just point out that putting web addresses on your t-shirt is utterly pointless? I was quite interested at one point, but I can assure you, I can't remember a single charity, web page, or even name, only a month later. Although I still vividly recall the pity and sorrow for all those people, and felt most churlish for not having attempted some charity raising myself.
Somewhere just beyond half-way, they put in a funny little leg which meant we had to go uphill, and then back on ourselves, so the people on the other half of the road, which was coned off, were running down. It looked really good. I'd been running uphill for all my life by then, several years at least. Hastings, and the sea, seemed miles off, and just a distant dream. I turned down, kind of interested in where the course was going to go, because Erica had got a bit lost around that point in the car on Friday. And the downhill bit was good. I thought about gazelles, but I really didn't feel like one. I thought about that program I saw about elephants, which was much closer to the mark, and how clever their feet were at absorbing impact, pretty important when you consider their mass. I felt they had the advantage over me. Still, I decided that pegging it was definitely the way to go. I seemed to be overtaking everyone, although not the Bexhill Runners, who were just behind me. Best of all, I overtook the man with the ironing board on his back, although this was largely because he'd stopped to do some ironing in someone (perhaps his own)'s front garden. He was using a spare ironing board (his was still on his back). My dad said later he thought there was more than one of them, and this turns out to be the case.
I carried on and passed a clock marker that said it was 1:44. I tried to figure out how fast I'd have to run, given that I'd just passed 9 or 10 miles at the time, to get across the finish line in sub 2 hours, and decided it was impossible. The water station gave me some water, and I remember how cold it was over my face, and I couldn't decide if it was super-cold or I was super-hot. Basically, what we're getting here is that I actually couldn't think.
Eventually, after wending through Old Town, we got spat out at the parade. I realised that I hadn't got to 11 miles and basically still had three more miles to go. I was really not feeling like running anymore. However, it did cross my mind that somewhere along the front were going to be MY SUPPORT! Yes, as I alluded to above, my parents decided to come and see me run - I have no idea why, but I can only suppose it was guilt over not coming up to Peterborough (I had never supposed that they would). Actually, I think mum is rather pleased about the running. I suspect she has always wanted to run the London Marathon, and despite the injuries she knows runners regularly suffer from, she'd like me to run it so that she can vicariously live it through me. Or something. Not that she's following the blog. As far as I know.
Anyway, I thought I may as well carry on going until I saw them. I was still feeling OK, if I'm honest, there were a few people I was passing now, but I wasn't striking them off like I was in Peterborough. There was a lot of speed in this race, that's my main thought. I'd just seen a tiny little boy who was really hopefully holding his hand up to high-five the totally exhausted people passing him who only had eyes for the finish-line (still sadly out of sight), so I veered his way and leaned over (he was tiny) to high five him, when I vaguely heard my name. Yes, I passed the parents, while high-fiving a small child. I could almost hear dad saying "she'd have got a better time if she hadn't been shaking children's hands...". Anyway, it gave me a little boost, followed almost instantly by total disinterest in the race. What was the point? I'd seen the parents now... I could stop... was my exact thoughts. I did carry on, but I was going so slowly. I just thought, I haven't beaten 2 hours. I haven't even beaten my Peterborough time. I'm not engaged any more. The smurf wasn't there... At about that point, I saw Erica, who, amazingly, was not in her running clothes. I managed a grin, and carried on. I tried to imagine the Smurf, Sally, Dave and moustachioed Chris, all of whom would have made me run faster. But, as above, my brain wasn't really working. I failed to visualise them sufficiently. Even in the last bit, I didn't become Usain Bolt. Nothing close. Except, then I realised that I'd done it in 2:08, and got really cross. If I had been better at maths, I'd have realised back at 1:44 that I could have beaten my time. I just wasn't putting any welly into it.
On the plus side, they gave me a massive medal, which appears to be a horse brass, leading one friend to ask if I was sure I shouldn't have done the event on horseback. That would have been quite enjoyable...
Anyway, I forgave Erica for dropping out after the first few miles. It was very valiant of her, with a hurt knee, to come and accompany me for my start-out. And as she said, she hadn't signed up for a March race to run it in full Summer sunshine. The parents took us out to lunch, and having Erica there was a blessing because it meant that they didn't nag quite so much about me going home and taking a shower (Dad had over-optimistically ignored both Erica and me in the time he booked the restaurant for) but I felt very strongly that the restaurant and the other clients would thank me, and prefer that I was late, and clean.
And, most oddly, the following day, I was really fine. After the Great Eastern Run, I didn't think it was possible for legs to hurt so much. But after Hastings, which by rights should have been ten times worse, the most I could really describe the pain was "a bit stiff". So maybe I am getting fitter.
And have I been out running again since then...? Er, well, um, no... not yet.
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