Marathon Man(ia)

by Nick Palmer

Marathon Man(ia)
My Quest For The Abbott ‘Six Star’ Medal by Nick Palmer

Chapter 1 New York, 06/11/11; 3:56:26.

Much of the race is a blur, but certain details are crystallised and preserved.

The scale of a World Marathon Major hits me as I wait amongst thousands of fellow runners in Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island. Eventually it’s time for our wave, and they lead us out onto the vast concrete toll plaza of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. (Tony knew all about the bridge.) Sinatra plays over the speakers; the MC announces that the streets of New York City await us, and we’re off. An impossibly blue sky painted overhead; far to the left as we crest onto the bridge proper, the Manhattan skyline - shorn of its iconic towers some decade previously, yet instantly familiar - floats on the Upper Bay. It’s a seemingly unattainable distance; but I’ll see you soon, old friend.

Brooklyn is endless, wide boulevards, packed with noise and colour. Bands of every description beat out a rhythm to the first half of the race. Queens is short, potholed, vaguely uninspiring. At 15 miles in, the Queensboro Bridge on-ramp rises like a solid concrete wall before us; the crowds are not allowed on the roadway, so all of a sudden, for the first time, we are alone with our thoughts and the ringing sounds of our own footfalls. It’s a sobering moment; still 11 miles to go. Exiting round the curve of the off-ramp a mile later, we enter Manhattan for the first time. The lift imparted by this milestone is short-lived, as we are confronted with another behemoth to slay: before us stretches 4 miles of the arrow-straight First Avenue, a human exodus tailing away to the distant Bronx. The geography of the avenue appears as if designed like some Total Perspective Vortex-esque form of mental torture, allowing you to see its entire length in one go. It hurts to look at, so I look at the road surface directly in front of my feet for a while.

Eventually, somehow, The Bronx arrives. Rounding one of its squares - so to speak - a nifty trick of technology allows people to send photos that display on a giant screen as a runner’s RFID chip signals their approach. I see an image of Jane and I together - taken recently in Camden - and it gets me through the next couple of miles, until we’re back in Manhattan and rising slowly uphill as we head South down Fifth Avenue. 22 miles… 23… More people walking here than I’ve seen anywhere else on the course; it’s not a huge slope, but it’s a cruel little sting in the tail at this late stage. Into Central Park; the 24 mile marker comes and goes. Glance at the watch, quick calculation in the head - I have time in hand to hit my sub-4hr first marathon target. A few vague doubts linger up to 25 miles, which seems to take an age to appear - but then Central Park South is there and gone almost before I realise it, and we’re swinging right at Columbus Circle, through the final mile marker and falling gratefully into the arms of the finish line.

I trudge - broken but elated - back to my hotel on the Upper West Side; it takes forever. A local Italian restaurant on the way offers cups of authentically thick hot chocolate free to weary runners; it just about saves my life. Back, shower, inhale a family sized Domino’s pizza and a bottle of ludicrously strong Stone Imperial Black IPA as a celebration. I’m dead to the world by 8PM.

* * *

I came to marathon running - indeed to running in general - somewhat late in the day, and a bit by accident. In my mid-late 30s, my sport of choice was cycling - primarily mountain biking, a mixture of recreational and social riding, long sportives across swathes of rolling countryside, and XC enduro racing. One issue with cycling, however, is that in winter it tends to be mostly a weekend affair. Dark, wet evenings lend themselves perfectly amiably to the actual riding; it’s the hours afterwards, freezing in the garden under a lamp as you try to remove half a cow field from your chain-rings that tend to put you off. Thus, the idea of ‘just sticking on a pair of shoes and going for a little run’ as a way to maintain winter fitness, seemed an appealing one.

Gradually, though, I ‘got the bug’, and it began to take over. Running seemed in some ways more akin to road cycling, insofar as a lot of it did not necessarily feel like huge amounts of fun at the time - there wasn’t the immediacy and adrenaline hit of throwing a mountain bike into a series of technical terrain challenges, or down the side of a Welsh valley; rather, there was the post-event satisfaction of achievement, and of distance covered. (Needless to say, I’ve since come to appreciate other aspects of the actual run itself; the time alone to think, and clear your head, or to chat with a running partner; getting out into the outdoors and seeing the wildlife as you clock off miles along canals and bridleways; the anticipation of an impending bacon and egg sandwich for breakfast that you will be able to eat with irritatingly smug impunity, because you’ve already put in 8 miles before most people were awake - to name but a few)

One of the natural progressions once you’ve been running for a while is, of course, is to start entering races. You feel more or less ready, so you sign up for your first 10km; mine was the BUPA London 10,000. This gives you some form of structure and shape to your solo-running time; it goes from being ‘running about a bit’, to being ‘training’. Not only does this afford you many fringe benefits, such as the totally legitimate acquisition of much more expensive trainers (except now, they’re ‘running shoes’) - but, all being well, you also start accruing medals, certificates and the like. These add a nice extra sugar-coating to the previously mentioned ‘completion satisfaction’ of a run. Once you’ve run a few races, you start looking at ways to improve your PB over the distances you’re covering, which adds a further dimension still. Thus begins the slippery slope into running drug culture.

You see - a 10km (whilst actually being one of the hardest challenges to crack in terms of pacing yourself to consistently faster times) is sort of ‘no big deal’. Lots of people do 10kms, and you probably don’t even realise it. You can fit them in around your life quite happily with mostly minimal impact, provided you don’t overdo things - they’re basically the recreational joint of runs.

For some, however, the 10K is merely a gateway run. After doing them for a while, the hit becomes diminished to the point that you start needing something stronger, and find yourself eying up your first half-marathon. These are a little more serious; still ‘socially acceptable’ (to some - it depends who you ask); but others start to cast sideways glances at you when you say you do a few lines - I mean - half marathons - now and again. Halves tend to start taking up your weekends, and training for them eats a little more into your social time. You start hanging out more with other people who do halves, and less with people who don’t.

Eventually, for those of a certain personality (disorder?) - even the half is no longer enough; you descend into the murky sub-culture of full-blown, intravenous marathon running. All of your money goes on your habit and its associated paraphernalia - GPS watches, gels, endless sets of shoes and drawers full of clothing. You’re always either running, or thinking about your next run. Your friends stop inviting you to parties because you never go anyway - you’ve “got to train in the morning”. Welcome to addiction...

Nick and his wife Jane

My first half-marathon was Reading in 2009, and - as many do, I confidently proclaimed on crossing the finish line, “Marathon? Turn round and do the same distance again? You’re out of your bleedin’ mind - I’m sticking with halves!” It took me roughly a year and a half to go from there to having entered the 2011 New York City Marathon. At the time, I had no idea if I’d ever want to run more than one - so I wanted it to be “a big one”. I should have known, of course, that it wouldn’t end there.

Chapter 2 Chicago, 13/10/13; 3:41:33.

I’ve had a wretched night; not to go into too much graphic detail, but something I ate yesterday evening has gone right through me, and all the carbs and fluids I’d carefully taken on board for race day are now residing somewhere below the city in its sewer system.

I’ve hardly slept. I walk the short distance from the hotel to Grant Park in a state bordering despondency. I’m not sure how I’m going to run 26.2 miles in this condition; I’m not sure if I should - I’m drained and have barely spent more than half an hour in the last 8 or so away from the bathroom. But then my resolve kicks in: I’ve not trained this long and flown all this distance to fail without even crossing the start line. I dash back a block or two find a pharmacy that opens early on a Sunday, and acquire a bottle of… Something. It’s pink, and the label says it’s supposed to do what I need it to do. There’s a little plastic cup on the top - 20ml or so, into which you’re supposed to measure your dose, but it’s encased in some kind of ungodly solid plastic wrapping and I can’t break into it with my bare fingers to dispense my tiny, chalky drink of salvation. In a virtual frenzy I rip the cup and the plastic away, down half the bottle by the side of the road, bin the rest and then return to Grant Park to throw myself at the streets of The Windy City. I have no idea if I’m going to crash and burn at some point on the course, but I’m going to give it my best shot.

I don’t really take in much around me in this race; I’m inside my own head for a lot of it. There are snippets - crossing bridges, Lincoln Park, reaching 10K and thinking “well there’s the first milestone out of the way”. Jane flits about on the city’s public transport and manages to see me twice on the course, once at around 7 miles in Franklin and Tom’s neighbourhood - they’re out cheering me on too - and then again somewhere around 21 miles when I’m flagging badly and welcome the lift of a familiar face. Chinatown is chaotic and lively. A lot of the time I’ve no idea whereabouts in the city I am, but will occasionally spy a familiar landmark such as Ed DeBevic’s and re-orientate myself. A spectator’s sign - “Run Faster, The Kenyans Are Drinking All The Beer!” makes me giggle for a good 30 seconds; whatever gets you through it.

There’s an awfully long stretch of bland road and freeway underpass somewhere out to the west of the city, during what I’ve come to know in marathon terms as ‘The Wilderness Miles’ - those nondescript ones between about 17 and 24 where you’re well past half way, but still nowhere near close enough to the end to hit your finishing stride and be carried over the line by the wave of euphoria. But, as before in New York, the miles eventually tick down and I’m looking… looking… round each corner, wondering if this next one is going to be the turn onto Michigan Avenue and the run to home. In the end it takes me slightly by surprise - I imagine I’ve got a little further to go - but no, there’s the finish arch above the road ahead. I offer it my thanks and cross the line. The Goose Island 312 Ale we’re handed whilst walking through the finish area is one of the best beers I’ve ever tasted, due to how hard I had to work for it. I was not at my best today - but despite this I’ve managed to knock the thick end of 15 minutes off my New York time.

No collapsing in a heap in the hotel this time; shower, change, and off out to celebrate. World Major No. 2 is in the bag.

* * *

There are times and circumstances in life, where you review your situation and feel like you’ve been the proverbial ‘frog in boiling water’; you’re not quite sure how you ended up here without noticing. It got dark whilst your gaze was elsewhere; seasons can shift on you imperceptibly. In some ways, suddenly finding myself to be ‘a marathon runner’ was one of these.

Equally, there are other times when you can pinpoint the exact moment that a defining change occurred. One such example for me, is the turning of ‘completing all six World Marathon Majors’ from idle daydream to bona-fide obsession; this moment occurred in the Goose Island Brew Pub in Wrigleyville, Chicago, a few hours after finishing the race.

We’d gone there to meet up with a friend of mine, Matt - an ex-pat Wulfrunian now married to an American and residing in Michigan, and - like myself - a late convert to marathon running. Over burgers and beers, the conversation meandered around running and all things marathon, and - as it often does - eventually centered specifically on one subject: Boston Qualification. The hallowed ‘BQ’.

The Abbott World Marathon Majors is a series of six races: London, Berlin, Tokyo, New York, Chicago and Boston. With luck and a following wind, you can enter the first five of these and get in through ballots or charity places, or buy race-inclusive travel packages from sports tour companies. Boston, however, is somewhat unique in being the only one that more or less demands that you go through a qualification process in order to run. (There are a few charity places that support local Massachusetts charities to be had - usually by local runners; and there are a tiny number of places for sports tour operators - but these are rabidly fought over, and priced accordingly. Thus, for the majority of people who want to run Boston, meeting the qualifying standard is the only way to get there. It’s also part of its cachet, and many runners like the purity in the challenge of ‘earning’ their Boston place.)

Qualification works on age/gender segmentation; e.g. if you are male, aged between x and y, you need to have a proven marathon time of z or better to apply to run. This system is designed to even out any disparity amongst age and gender groups, and make the level of attainment roughly the same across the board. It gets further complicated by the application each year of the dreaded ‘margin’ - but more of that later.

Even before running New York, I’d idly speculated about the possibility of running all six Majors; however, Boston always loomed like an immovable keeper, guarding the gates to that dream. As someone who’d been thrilled just to finish my first marathon in under four hours, the qualifying time felt impossibly far out of reach; as distant as the shores of Manhattan, viewed from Staten Island. I used to joke that my best shot was probably to outlive everyone, and maybe qualify for Boston when I was 90, and the pool of applicants had dwindled to being just me and some guy from Peru. I repeated that thought during the post-Chicago celebrations.

“Well”, said Matt, pausing with effect, before delivering The Haymaker; the words that would condemn me. “We are both about to tick over into the next age bracket; so actually, you’d only need to knock about another twenty minutes off your time.”

The proper, comedic response to such a statement would, of course, have been to spit out a mouthful of beer and burger, and splutter, “ONLY??!” in an incredulous shriek. Instead, I gave a thoughtful nod, and had a metaphorical chin-scratch. Possibly an actual one, as well.

Hmmm… Twenty minutes, you say? Interesting...

Thus was the seed planted

***

Berlin, 27/09/15; 3:22:20; BQ*

. “Well, here we are; this is what it all comes down to. This is what all that training was for; in three and a bit hours, we’ll know if it was all worth it.” These are the thoughts swirling through my head, as we stroll through Tiergarten to the start pens on Strasse des 17. Juni. Jane is with me, till we split off to our respective starting areas - she’s running also; but to be honest I’m probably poor company at best. Nearly all my focus is on one thing, and one thing only: executing the plan.

For the third straight time in my Marathon Majors career, a flawless azure sky sits overhead and the temperature is a good deal higher than I’d like; I really don’t enjoy running in the warm. I wish just once, it could be grey and mizzly. But this is out of my hands. Concentrate on the things you can control.

I’ve put myself under a lot of pressure, and hung a lot of my own hopes and dreams on this next few hours; but I’m actually calm enough. I couldn’t have done any more up until the point of crossing the start line, so let’s see how it unfolds on the day. Nonetheless, it’s a relief when the starting guns go off and we can turn pent-up anticipation into forward motion.

There’s an initial scare when my GPS watch decides to malfunction right near the start, and gets stuck on the heart rate readout rather than pace/distance. If I can’t measure my time, then my goal could be out of the window inside the first mile. Fortunately, a bit of frantic scrabbling with the buttons persuades it back onto the correct screen; I exhale mentally, and decide not to touch it again.

The rapidly developing cliché of not remembering much of the course is never more true than today; I literally cannot remember more than one or two hastily snatched images, like scenes frozen by lightning on a dark night, from the first 13 miles. Jane and others will talk afterwards of landmarks on the course - notable buildings, the old Communist blocks of East Berlin, and so on; I either saw or retained none of them. My attention cycles endlessly between three things: what’s the distance, how am I feeling, how’s my pace. We hit half-way, and I’m on track - but now the real work begins.

Into ‘The Wilderness Miles™’, the pace is getting harder to sustain; it’s still OK, but to my tired brain the distance markers seem to be arriving more and more slowly, no matter how hard I will them towards me. The relentlessly cheerful sunshine overhead is taking its toll, and my hydration/fuel strategy - such as it ever was - has more or less disintegrated. Dried salt is accumulating on my face. I grab whatever I can from the roadside volunteers and throw it at myself in a desperate attempt to keep the engine running. The trouble is, by the time you’re feeling dehydrated, you’re already in a spot more bother than ideally you’d like to be.

Somewhere around 22 miles - I’ve no idea whereabouts exactly but I think we’ve just passed the big movie theatre near Potsdamer Platz - I feel like I’m running through glue. My GPS plot will later show that I slowed by around 20-30s/mile only, but it feels at the time like I’m plodding. I’m slightly light-headed - actually, I can feel a sort of ‘pins and needles’ sensation crawling up the left hand side of my head. This isn’t good; low blood sugar and/or dehydration is my spot-assessment. I’m running on fumes here. I should probably stop and walk for a bit, shouldn’t I?

Half a mile or so goes by in a fugue of indecision and low-grade panic, before I focus and regroup. You’re the captain here; you can either rally the men and keep steaming for port, or give the order to abandon ship. Taking the first choice, you may fail and fall short; taking the second, you definitely will. It’s so tempting to say it’s not my day, and that I can always jog to the finish and try again some other time; but I give myself the familiar pep-talk: you’ve worked too hard and come too damn close just to give up on it all now. I resolve that I’ll either finish this race with a BQ or with the paramedics, and dig in for the last few miles. After some more fluids and some energy gel, the worst of the symptoms dissipate and my focus turns back to the finish line, and the clock.

24… 25… I’m feeling better than a few miles ago, but now just the effort of running at more or less the maximum pace I can sustain over this kind of distance is taking its toll. I see some people covered in foil blankets being attended to at the roadside; could have been me. I’m hanging on, searching round each corner in a manner reminiscent of the Chicago finish, for that last turn towards the Brandenburg Gate. This time, however, it seems never to come; it’s like a cruel trick where the harder you run towards something, the further away it gets. For something like a half-dozen turns I think “surely this must be it?” but each turn yields another few hundred metres of road and runners disappearing up to yet another corner.

However, marathons are long - but not endless, and just when I’m wondering if I can keep going, we turn left and the long straight run to the tape opens up before us. I see the Brandenburg Gate from the approach - but have no recollection of passing through it. I acquire missile-lock on the finish line beyond it, and empty the tank of everything I have left, trying to eke out every second I can, before releasing a primal scream of triumph and relief as I cross the line. And then collapsing to my haunches and dry-heaving for a bit.

I wander through the finish area, gratefully down 2 pints of alcohol-free Erdinger beer, then lie in the sun near the Reichstag a while, before shuffling slowly back to our hotel. I’m utterly exhausted. I don’t know if I’ve done enough to book my passage to Boston - it’s close enough that only ‘The Margin’ will decide that; but I’m more than happy with my day’s work. I’m inside the Boston Qualifying Standard on my first proper attempt, and on the day I can honestly say I’ve given it absolutely everything I had, so will be leaving Berlin with no regrets.

We order club sandwiches and chips back in the hotel room, then a few hours later go out for sausages and beer. Marathon running makes you ravenous

***

2014 was a bit of a roller coaster year, when running mostly had to take a back seat. We did do the Rome Marathon in March - Jane had decided she’d like to get in on this marathon thing as well, so I figured I may as well run it as watch; but I didn’t target it with any particular precision, and - having managed to destroy my toes 2 weeks earlier during a half marathon in Milton Keynes, I was mostly content just to get round it in a little over my time from Chicago the previous autumn.

Thereafter, I suffered dreadful food poisoning in June, from which it took me months to recover full fitness; we lost my Dad in July to cancer; and, finally - we had our wedding in August.

As a result, the seed that had been planted in Wrigleyville lay dormant for over a year, and it wasn’t until early 2015 that I set my sights properly on the next and biggest challenge: achieving a BQ.

I chose Berlin for my attempt for obvious reasons: another World Major would be hitting two birds with one stone, and its course is renowned for being fast and flat, having seen the marathon world record tumble there on several occasions. Unlike year after year with London, fortune smiled on me in the entry ballot, so I set to devising the best strategies I could think of for success in the race.

Prior to Berlin, my training plans had always been more or less lifted from the ‘marathon plans’ section of the Runner’s World website, which give a vaguely one-size-fits-most approach to preparing for the 26.2. They’re much as you’d expect - some runs during the week, a recommendation for some hill work or pace intervals, maybe a bit of Fartlek here and there, then long runs at the weekends, capping out at around 20 or 22 miles. They’re decent, and they certainly get the job done; however, I never really felt much accountability to them, as it was just a magazine saying, “here you are, give this a go”. I stuck to them as best I could, but didn’t have any great qualms about tinkering - moving workouts around to suit my calendar, or ditching the odd one here and there when time felt squeezed.

In order to scythe the necessary 20 or so minutes off my PB, it didn’t seem like this approach would fly any more, and that something a little more scientific was required. Encouraged by success that Matt had achieved in the meantime, I followed his lead and signed up with ‘Hanson Running’ - German race-engineering based in the USA, and developers of ‘The Hanson Marathon Method’. For a fee - somewhere around $90 - one of their coaches engaged with me to discuss my running to date, my goals, any constraints around my training and so on, and then devised me a personalised training plan, which was delivered a few weeks later in an e-Calendar.

Hanson’s method is slightly different to most; they eschew the creed of ‘the 20 mile training run’ being a necessity, arguing that there’s nothing mythical or significant about that figure. Rather, they contend, a lot of the time you are dragging yourself through the last few miles of those 20s just to get them done, whilst they are not providing you much in the way of structure or benefit. ‘Junk miles’, they call them; and I could definitely see their point, having been through a traditional training plan on three occasions. The only real benefit I can see to doing 20 miles in training is for your first marathon, where it’s psychologically important to have that distance in the bag ahead of race day. Instead, Hanson base their training on the idea of ‘cumulative fatigue’: work yourself hard during the week, so that your long run at the weekend - never longer than 16 miles - is done on tired legs, and emulates the last 16 miles of the marathon rather than the first.

Opening the plan was slightly daunting at first: 80 training runs in a relentless 16 week, 5 runs a week schedule; but this was never supposed to be easy. Part of my reason for signing up and paying for someone to design my training plan for me was to overcome this lack of accountability I’d felt in the past. This was designed by a professional coach, and I had clear evidence from Matt that the method worked; therefore, I needed to stick to it religiously.

I determined to develop a ‘Goodfellas’ mentality towards training. Weather outside atrocious? Don’t care, you’re running. Overdid it a little last night? Don’t care, you’re running. Got to go somewhere this evening and don’t really fancy the prospect of having to get up at 5:30 to fit it in? Don’t care. You’re running…

In reality, it wasn’t that hard a discipline to adopt; I’m usually my own harshest judge and jury, and - if I fell short in Berlin, I wanted to be able to face the question, “did you do everything you could in training to prepare for this race?” and answer with an unequivocal yes. If even one time I’d decided to skip a run because I just wasn’t feeling like it on the day, I knew that could be brought up by the prosecution. Furthermore - there’s a danger that it’s like failing a New Year’s resolution; once you’ve had one chocolate bar, you may as well have another and ‘start being good again next week’.

For good measure, I like to feel that I’m accountable to a wider audience as well; in other words, I’ll put my ambitions ‘out there’ on social media, or tell running friends, colleagues etc. - and give myself nowhere to hide. If enough people know what I’m aiming for, the thought will regularly cross my mind during training of ‘how good it will feel to tell them I succeeded’, vs. ‘how bummed I’ll feel to tell them I didn’t’. Mostly, they would not really mind either way, I’m sure, and would be congratulatory in success or consoling in its absence; but for me it works a little like Douglas Adams’ ‘Crisis Inducer’; it’s an artificially generated imperative that helps to spur me on.

I also like to (and I hesitate a little to use these words, as I hate how new-agey and self-helpy they sound, but nonetheless) ‘visualise success’ more literally. From the first training run, I’ll imagine crossing the finish line with my arms aloft. I’ll decide what I’ll post on Facebook. I decide how I might celebrate. I never imagine the alternative. I don’t know if this makes any material difference - I have no real control experiment to compare against; but it ‘feels right’. I’ve certainly found that a few training miles can pass whilst lost in these pleasant contemplations, if nothing else.

So, beginning in late May, and spanning 4 months until race day, I followed the plan to the letter. Much of a training schedule of this duration can become a bit of a blur; but certain details are crystallised and retained.

Tuesdays were interval days, and I’d mostly do them round Regent’s Park, winding up and down its paths to hit the distance without any interruption. When my luck was in, I would swing right off The Broad Walk at the fountain and one or other of the Siberian Tigers would be pacing alongside the fence. I’m sure they always gave me a little speed boost; if you’ve put in a solid interval set and seen a tiger all before your morning coffee, how can it fail to be a good day?

Wednesdays I would often run up and over Primrose Hill, rising to its summit and being presented with an impressive view of London as it awoke, that only I and one or two others were there to see.

Thursdays were longer runs - 8 miles or so, when I would often head through a sleepy Camden and up to Hampstead Heath, putting in some hilly miles on varied off-road terrain, and sometimes getting hopelessly lost in the woods in the dark. It all felt vaguely mad and clandestine; but the security guards patrolling the not-yet-open-for-the-day Kenwood House never seemed to mind. We’d nod to each other as I ran along in front of its impressive facade, and was rewarded by the sunrise over the lake and landscaped gardens.

The weekend long run would usually be along the Regent’s Canal, the Snowdon Aviary humming in the heat, before picking up the Paddington Branch at Little Venice and tracking out through the gasworks of Kensal, past Harlesden, and - for the longest distances - over the North Circular to Alperton before hitting the halfway turnaround point. A few times I’d come across some kind of barely-legal rave going on beneath an overpass, and I and a bunch of stumbling drunk Eastern Europeans emerging from the bushes would have to find our way past each other on the tow path. Near Alperton there was some kind of Indian food factory, and a good mile or so of the canal would smell like curry pasties, depending on which way the wind was headed. Sometimes there would be rubbish strewn about and the ubiquitous shopping trolleys and bike frames; at other points, I’d get to see ducks, geese, herons, and other wildlife. It was a curious clash of the bucolic with the inexorable push of urban life; I enjoyed it all, in its way.

Looking back, it seems like I basically did about 4 or 5 runs in Berlin training; which I did - I just did each of them many, many times, all of which have since merged into one in my memory.

* * *

I mentioned previously about ‘the margin’; so here is the deal with that. The ‘qualifying standard’ is set by the Boston Athletic Association; as previously described, it aims to flatten out any discrepancies between age and gender. The standard - largely - does not change year on year, so anyone setting out on a BQ attempt will know what time they are aiming at initially.

Boston registration takes place in early September for the following year’s race; if you run a time inside the qualifying standard in the 18 months prior to registration opening, you are eligible to submit your entry. However, many more eligible registrants will apply than there are places available - so each year after registration closes, the B.A.A. go through a process of analysing the submitted times and coming up with ‘the margin’ for that year - i.e. a fixed time inside the qualifying standard that will allow them to fill the race with the best spread of entries within each age/gender group. Unfortunately, this means that some people each year will run a ‘qualifying time’ - but will miss out due to being less than a margin’s-width inside the qualifying standard.

‘Sweating the margin’ is a torture that is fairly unique to Boston. For those runners capable of placing well inside the qualifying standard, they know their entry is all but guaranteed; however, for those that sneak just inside it, the anxiety of the wait between the closing of registration and the announcement of the margin can be intense. Social media is awash with the metaphorical biting of nails, and the wondering whether or not flights should be booked, hotels reserved, and so on.

For my own attempt, I was aiming at a time - the standard for males between 45 and 49 - of 3:25:00. Since 2012 when this system of registration was introduced, the margin (also referred to as the cut-off time) had been between 1:02 and 1:38; my time from Berlin put me at 2:40 inside - not a guarantee, but surely enough? However, Berlin always falls in late September - just after closing of registration for Boston the following year, so I was looking at an entire year’s wait to find out. It was only a few days after returning home from Germany, that the margin for Boston 2016 was announced: it had gone out to 2:28.

Having suddenly gone from a comfortable minute and bit, to a cushion of just 12 seconds, I had a bit of a decision to make: should I stick or twist? On the one hand, this was the largest margin there had so far been, and might be an anomaly; on the other hand, if this was indicative of a growing year-on-year intensity of the battle for Boston places, then 12 seconds could easily be swallowed up by the hopefuls of the class of ‘17.

I decided fairly quickly that sitting and fretting for a year was not going to be fun, and that taking positive action - running again, and if I could, lowering my time further - would at least keep me feeling that I was in control of the outcome. I’d really wanted to take a rest after Berlin, but instead I girded myself for another round of training, and entered the Manchester Marathon for the following April.

As it turned out, 2016 was to be a year of frustration and unfulfilment on the running front; I trained towards Manchester, but was struck down with a chest infection weeks before the race, and abandoned it - cheering Jane on instead. There was simply no point running it for the sake of finishing, but being nowhere near the time I needed. Better to save the legs, regroup, and try for another race in the autumn. I chose Tallinn for this next attempt, but - again - was denied by the running gods, this time with an Achilles tendon tear. Yet again weeks of training, with no pay-off at the end of them.

The one thing that consoled me during this time, was that I did already have a BQ in the bank; and, in some ways, I felt it would actually be quite gratifying if it turned out that my time from Berlin - when I’d pushed myself to the brink of collapse - turned out to be the one that booked my place after all and that I’d qualified at the first time of asking.

I remember vividly, one of those crystallised moments, standing on Platform 2 at Vauxhall Station waiting for a train back to Waterloo for the journey home, when my phone buzzed with an incoming email, which I opened just as I was getting onto a train.

2017 Boston Marathon Confirmation Of Entry Acceptance

I wanted to yell and wave it in the air, and hug everyone in the carriage; but I doubt they’d have been quite as excited about it all as I was.

As for the margin? 2:09; I was inside it by 31 seconds. I was too swept up in the moment to think about it at the time, but looking back to my qualifying run in Berlin, I would have easily lost more than half a minute if I hadn’t kept going during those awful Wilderness Mile moments. Sometimes, every second really does count.

* * *

Boston, 17/4/17; 3:46:34.

I have to mentally pinch myself many times during this trip, just to make sure I’m really here. Boston: venerable and revered, now in its 121st year. The Granddaddy of them all. I’m not sure how other people feel about it; maybe some who run it every year find it just routine. But for me, it’s probably the pinnacle of what I’ll ever achieve as an everyday amateur runner. All Majors are special, but this one feels just a little more so. You feel just a little bit more like ‘a real athlete’ as you check in, receive your race number, and so on. It may be all in my head, overawed by the B.A.A. blue and yellow and the history, but there’s an aura about everything that seems to say to all the runners, “yeah, this is the big one and you made it here - you did good”.

The lady who registers me - an absolute epitome of apple pie and East Coast welcome - asks me, “First Boston?... Oh, you’ll be back!” I laugh inwardly; it took me such an effort to get here, that I’m pretty sure it’s a one shot deal. Nonetheless I smile enthusiastically and reply that I sure hope so. (But I omit the ‘Ma’am’.)

The day before the race, we crowd with hundreds of others into ‘The Church Of The Finish Line’ - Old South Church on Boylston Street - and receive ‘the blessing of the runners’. All runners in the congregation stand, and we are wished good speed and luck for the race ahead. It’s unexpectedly moving, and I well up a little.

Race day arrives, and - as warned by the weather forecasters. I’m now batting 0-for-4. Yesterday was a nice sensible temperature; tomorrow, the weather will drop to an almost chilly - and perfect - 7 degrees. But as we assemble on Boston Common for the ranks of school buses that will take us out to Hopkinton, there’s that familiar unblemished sky, and a merciless sun is already well on the way to baking every inch of the 26 miles of mostly unshaded concrete and asphalt we will cover. The temperatures are expected to hit 18-20 degrees. Come on, are you kidding me?

I’ve been rolling the decision over and over in my head for what feels like days, but I can’t see any option. Reluctantly, I abandon any pace and time hopes I had with regard to pitting myself against the legendary Boston course, and instead decide to err on the side of caution. I’ll ease the pace right back, make sure I stay hydrated and won’t over-exert. It would be personal despair beyond consolation were I to make it to Boston, but fail to cross the finish line; Berlin was a partial warning of how realistic a possibility that could be.

I’m barely 5’7”, and my knees are wedged against the seat in front; no idea how people built like ‘proper runners’ fare in these school buses. As we trek further and further out of Boston, into increasingly more rural Massachusetts towns, I’m struck again by just what a long way 26 and bit miles feels. Boston give you this sense perhaps more than any other major - its course is a straight (figuratively) West-to-East run from small-town Hopkinton to downtown Boston, and your sense of this grows the further the bus journey progresses.

We are decanted at Hopkinton High School, and I spend the next few hours trying to find a corner of marquee on the football field in which to rest my legs and stay out of the sun. Just to add to the challenge, Boston starts later than other Majors - around 11AM, possibly to allow for the logistics of getting everyone out to the start - so we’ll be running through the hottest part of the day.

When it’s time to go, we make our way out along Grove Street towards Main Street and the start; it’s a walk of half a mile or so, and the locals are out in force, wishing us well and providing picnic tables laden with sun cream, Vaseline, lip balm and any other medicaments and aids they think we might need. I avail myself of most, especially the chance for some more sun cream.

On the corner of Hopkinton Common we assemble in our pens, suffer a bit more of a wait in the sunshine - it’s a beautiful day, for most things besides running - and then we’re off along the cracked and bleached asphalt and headed for Boston.

I dabble briefly in the early part with some different paces, but it quickly becomes apparent that my original idea will be the only one that works, today. It’s just too warm. I decide that regardless of how I feel, I’m going to stop at every single one of the twenty or so water stations along the route and make sure that one cup goes down my throat, and another goes over my head. All that slowing and cup-grabbing will add large chunks to my time, but the clock is not my main adversary, today.

Despite my slower pace, I feel pretty ropey at around the 10km mark, and have some trepidation about how this bodes for the rest of the race, given what’s to come. However, by about 10 miles I’ve settled, and it’s hard work, but steady, in the growing heat.

Because I’m running a slower pace, and taking mini breaks regularly, I don’t actually wander off into my head that often, such that - for the first time - I am properly engaged with the course. I couldn’t tell you every detail - a lot of the rural towns look vaguely similar for one thing - churches, squares, archetypal low-rise public buildings and picture-book white houses. But I get a growing sense of an increase in scale of township as we progress; the inverse of the bus journey. I chat with / shout encouragement to other runners, and thank roadside spectators for their cheers and support. The notable landmarks that I do pick out - Ashland Town Clock, Natick Church - I greet with an inward nod.

Just around halfway - and well before you get to see it - you become aware of the approach of one of the more famous sections of the course: the Wellesley College ‘Scream Tunnel’. Google it. Done? OK, good. I can’t describe it any better than you’ve just read; it’s bedlam, in a fun kind of way. Some of the signs are a riot: “I’m not running - but I’d do a runner”. I struggle inwardly to try and laugh, rather than think, “your mother must be so proud” - because the latter makes me feel old enough to be their father. I am of course - comfortably so; it’s just that the middle of a marathon is not where you want to start feeling your age. I decide to observe from a polite distance over the other side of the road; must be an English thing. Or maybe it’s that I’m just so revoltingly hot and sweaty. Soon enough, Wellesley is behind us and we’re through half-way, and gearing up to face the biggest of Boston’s challenges: Newton.

The next few miles are a bit more rolling; a net uphill. They pass without much to distinguish them, besides me working my way from one water stop to the next. It helps to break things down - the mile markers arrive first, then there’s a little way before the associated water stop. After I’ve slowed, drank, splashed, and got back up to pace, that’s already point-something of that mile dispensed with, and not quite as far to go to the next marker. Whatever little mental strategies help get you through.

I think I’ve got the course topography more or less set in my head - I’ve prepared for this race more fastidiously than any other, albeit that my race plan went out of the window with the weather. But I’m not really sure where the Newton Hills officially begin, other than at around 16 miles there starts to be a lot more uphill going on.The pace naturally drops, but I keep chugging along. I think I zone out a bit, and just try to ignore the course for a while; the traditional Wilderness Miles don’t seem to be in effect here, partly because I’m running conservatively, and partly because the rigours of this part of Boston render that fairly moot. It’s punishing in its own right, regardless of how you are feeling at that point in the race.

I don’t know whereabouts we are in Newton’s hills specifically, therefore, until swinging round a slight corner and being confronted with the largest hill we’ve yet seen. I’m not sure if it’s… But yes, we’re at 21 miles, so it must be - and there are some hand-made signs being waved at us just to dispel any doubt: we’ve reached the infamous ‘Heartbreak Hill’.

Heartbreak. I’ve read so much about you. Legendary ogre of the Boston course, laying in wait for the unprepared who may have set off too quickly in the first few downhill miles and bashed their quads to bits. Devourer of those who have not saved enough in their legs over the considerable distance already covered. Destroyer of any remaining spring in the step, sending the unwary broken and bowed onto the last 5 miles of the race…

It’s an effort, but I run up it with a smile on my face, determined not to let on how much it hurts. Also, I’m keeping my eyes open for Jane, who should be stationed somewhere on the hill. Just as I think I’m about to reach the crest and be away without seeing her, there she is on the left. She doesn’t mind kissing me when I’m all hot and sweaty, either. I hastily ditch my water belt with her, and enjoy the feeling of running unhindered. It’s not exactly all ‘plain sailing’ from here - there are still 5 miles to go; but it is mostly downhill, in the literal sense. The worst is surely over, and I’m still ticking along.

The remainder of the course becomes steadily more urban, the roadways bigger and wider, until we’re on the outskirts of Boston itself. I’m trying to keep myself a little in-check; there have been some issues and injuries during training, and not more than a few weeks ago I was nursing a knee that I wasn’t sure could make the distance. It’s all added another frisson to what was already a tough challenge; but it’s held up.

A little further - urban streets, train lines nearby - and we pass Fenway Park, The Green Monster. 25 miles, and at last I know that it’s going to be OK. Even then - I see someone being taken off the side of the course by a paramedic, so close to home.

Now, it’s all about that finish - possibly the most iconic in world marathon running. “Right on Hereford, left on Boylston”, as the saying goes. I’ve read about it a hundred times, dreamt of making those famous two turns over and over - silently prayed to the running gods that I’d see them for myself today.

Underpass; pick up the blue line in the road. Everyone swinging right - Hereford Street. It’s a short uphill, and then we flow left onto Boylston Street and the roar of the crowd is deafening. The emotion of the moment hits me like a wall. The finish line is quite a long way off, but the shackles are off and I’m sprinting at it for all I’m worth, waving my arms in that familiar ‘come on!’ gesture to exhort just a little more noise from those spectating. Many oblige. Just for a moment, this finish makes you feel like a star.

I can hardly breathe when I cross the line, a mixture of emotion and exertion; but I recover after some seconds and gratefully accept my medal. An Abbott World Marathon Majors representative is stood nearby for those achieving their ‘Six-Star’ finish. “Soon”, I tell her. “Two more to go!”

Boston. What a ride.

***

Boston training did not go entirely to plan; as with the abandoned Tallinn schedule before it, it was beset by injury - the same Achilles tendon, and also a knee issue, both of which I’d been ‘managing’ throughout the first twelve weeks, but which finally started to become worryingly acute with about four weeks to go until the race. I took a little break - missed a few runs, and nursed it as best I could towards race week, managing to get in a psychologically important 16-miler with a couple of weeks to go, which allowed me to relax slightly and feel I’d probably get through the race - albeit with another reason why a faster time probably wasn’t on the cards.

All told, Berlin is probably the only training spell I’ve had where no injuries stopped me or slowed me down, and I completed every single workout on the plan. It’s an unfortunate fact that injuries are pretty much a given, especially for those of us who aren’t exactly youngsters and can take longer to recover from a setback. I’ve tried to get used to them, and become philosophical about taking time out from running to let myself recover when necessary - but in truth I’ve never managed it very successfully. I still get slightly frustrated and anxious about it, and do a fair degree of moping about feeling sorry for myself.

Back when I first began running, another of its appeals was the seemingly far lower cost when compared to cycling, with all its carbon fibre technology and endless Formula 1 style component development. Looking back this is of course somewhat laughable; if I added up the cost of two to three pairs of running shoes a year (both ‘trail’ and ‘road’), flights and hotels, race entries, clothing, sports gels - not to mention a plethora of pricey chiropractor visits to attend to the multitude of ills and ailments - then I can’t exactly claim that it’s been a cheap hobby. It still can be - you really can just strap on a pair of shoes and go out of your door; but I feel very fortunate to be in a situation where I am able to pursue my marathon ambitions to the degree that I do, and to have supportive and encouraging family and friends nearby as I do so. You need all of those things - support, some luck, a bit of stubborn bloody-mindedness (which fortunately, I believe I must have inherited from a certain branch of my family...) and more - in order to put in the many miles and hours necessary to reach your goals.

* * *

Tokyo, 25/02/2018; 3:40:03.

We huddle together in our start corral amongst the tall government buildings in an administrative district of East Tokyo; it’s cool - around 6 degrees before start, with a bit of a breeze. In other words - a lot closer to my ‘ideal’ running conditions than any other of the Majors have been - but I’m not going to be aiming for any particular time, today.

We watch the big screens as we wait for the start time to tick round; ranks of uniformed Japanese school children sing some song or other about pride and unity and ethic. Or possibly about Hello Kitty - I have absolutely no clue. The official race starter greets everyone; it’s a little bit like a subtitled movie - we get 3 or 4 minutes of Japanese dialogue translated into a couple of sentences of English - but this is entirely fair given that we are in Japan. The utterly different culture and language, the bewildering unfamiliarity, is something that’s making this trip more fun.

I’m not really nervous - I have London also coming up in 8 weeks’ time, hence the decision not to push too hard; rather I’m just aiming to enjoy the occasion and get round to pick up my medal. Another factor adding to this is that I cannot afford - literally - to DNF this race; there’s very little chance of me finding the time and money to fly back out to Japan to run any time soon. So all in all, I’m relatively calm - just the usual edge of “I hope the niggles and injuries and so on all hold up and nothing breaks down during the race”.

That’s not to say I don’t still have the pre-big-race butterflies, though; it’s still exciting and ever so slightly outside of the normal comfort zone. I’ve never wanted marathons to become something I feel blasé about - hence I’ve never felt the urge to go and run small provincial races over 26.2 just to say I’ve done another marathon. I always want them to remain a bit of a ‘big deal’.

The race gets underway, and I take up a reasonably moderate pace; have to initially, as it’s really quite congested. That’s fine; if I were aiming for a time I’d be slightly keyed up and trying to weave and pass slower people ahead of me, which always takes more out of you for the time you gain. It’s quite a hard discipline to just sit back and wait for the road to open up - which is what conventional race wisdom recommends - particularly because distance running is a lot about rhythm, and I find that if I settle into a particular speed it can be hard to break that and accelerate up to something faster.

As with Boston, I’m reasonably well engaged with the course - such of it as there is to see. A lot of road, a lot of nondescript commercial and administrative buildings, some bridges - the course is not flat, but not really too challenging in topography, either. It’s probably bang in the middle of the five so far, in terms of course undulation; Chicago and Berlin are flatter, New York and Boston hillier.

The crowd is dense in places, sparse in others; they’re quite enthusiastic - but in that polite, Japanese kind of way. They wave a lot of flags and things, but don’t really make much noise except for when someone runs past dressed as Mario or Pikachu. The volunteers at the aid stations are all smiles too, handing out water, various food items, and the race’s sponsoring energy drink of choice, ‘Pocari Sweat’. Yum. (It is actually quite nice - I have a cup or two in the latter stages of the race.)

The course has a lot of sections where it doubles back on itself, and the right hand side of the road has runners coming towards you who are either a fair way ahead of - or behind - you, depending on which side of a double-back you are. This can be quite dispiriting at times, especially near the end when you go through around 32Km and see to your right other, faster runners coming through around 39Km, and you know you’ve still got the intervening distance to cover. Your turn to be on the ‘happy’ side of the road comes round soon enough, though. (Tokyo, like Berlin, is measured in Kilometers - 42, whereas I’m used to working in miles. They’re a double-edged sword, to a degree - each marker comes round more quickly, but there are more of them.)

The most notable parts of the route for me are an area somewhere in the middle, where for a few turns we get a cracking view of the ‘Tokyo Skytree’ that I’d been up the previous day, and towards the end when we run past one of the big temples. I don’t really have a Wilderness Miles section today, as such; just a few ‘Rural Kilometers’ in approximately that 32-39 Km last long section of double-back, when my legs start feeling tired and the pace drops off a little. Besides that, it’s a fairly steady day, and as I hit the last Kilometer I change up a gear or two and finish with more of a charge; it’s good to have that empirical confirmation that I’ve managed to stick to the plan and have been running within myself.

The time is not quite as quick as I’d intended; it’s about 10 minutes down. However, ‘GPS wander’ - they’re never 100% accurate - and the fact that the course has involved so many turns where you can’t find the racing line, especially when there are lots of people to avoid, means my watch is showing 27.3 miles when I finish. (Road race routes are measured on a specific line through the course; deviate from that and you’re travelling further.) So all in all I’m perfectly content with the result.

After collecting my medal, I am aiming to walk back to the hotel rather than queue for the official buses; it’s not hugely far, and I felt that it’d be better than waiting around and hence had not left anything at the bag drop. I am stymied in my attempt to take the shortest route out of the park, however; the officials really want me to follow the route to where green number bags are collected. A little later, near the entrance to the bag collection, I spy a side path down away from the park to a main road, so I take that. Some slight hilarity ensues when about four uniformed officials come to ask me if I’m lost, and I explain in my best sorry ‘I only speak English and hand signals’ that I have no bag and want to simply walk to my hotel. The hilarity is because they are desperately eager to assist, and make me wait whilst they get someone who can speak some English - and then the four of them proceed to open maps and Google things on their phones, and ask me where my hotel is. I reply that it’s the New Otani - and it’s over there (points) - I can see the top of it in the distance, I just need to go up here and turn left. After about five minutes of “wait please”, and map checking (and - kidding not - turning the map up various ways to try and see which way is where) - they tell me to go down the road and turn left. I smile enthusiastically and ‘arigato’ them and am on my way. It would have been somewhat mean-spirited of me to have walked off, or not been grateful for their attention and assistance - required or otherwise.

Back at the hotel, some of the others in the tour group are up for a bit of celebrating out - but most want to leave it till 5PM or so. I have a quick shower and head out to Roppongi on my own for some beers and a burger, then go back to meet them later. The following morning I’m already on a plane home to London, with my legs jammed into an economy class seat in front of me.

***

One of the things that is most often said to me (of training, and marathons) is, “I don’t know how you do it”. My response is usually something along the lines that “I don’t really know how people raise several children and get them all up for school and dressed in the right things with the right P.E. kit and their lunch packed and the right bits of paper that they’re supposed to be handing in that day and so on whilst said kids are charging around yelling and buttering the cat and putting toast in the Bluray player, despite having had only two hours sleep in the last week, without going utterly insane”. Running is just where I choose to spend a lot of my effort and energy, and as I’ve said, am fortunate enough to be able to do so.

Earlier joking aside, it does become something of a drug, and you can’t go too long between fixes without it starting to affect you in various ways - mood, ability to deal with life’s myriad trials, and so on.As for why I do it - there’s no great mystery there, either. I do it because I want to do it; it motivates me, and I get a lot out of it as well as putting a lot in. I’d probably go so far these days, as to say that I need to do it, in fact.

As evidence of this, in the wake of Boston - far from my imagined resting on my laurels for a summer, basking in the contentment of having achieved one of my most long-held ambitions - I found myself feeling somewhat bereft and at a loss for what to do with myself. I’ve found that my running has become very goal-focused, and without a specific challenge or target to aim for, I become a bit listless and bored. This culminated with me announcing within a matter of weeks after Boston had finished, “I’m sorry, I think I want to do that all over again”. (The apology being to Jane, for the fact that I was going to be wanting to throw myself back into training and qualifying and all that of the time, physical and emotional challenges that this process holds.) Partly I wanted the target, and the buzz - the drug hit - again; partly I felt I had just a little bit of unfinished business with the Boston course, and wanted a chance to go back and run it again but this time really give it a go.

In lieu of being able to hit either of the remaining Majors in 2018 - the ballots for both Tokyo and London having come and gone, both with no success - I started looking at which race I might want to use as my second Boston qualifying attempt.

In the end, this all got upended incredibly suddenly when an email arrived late one Friday in October from one of the travel events companies, saying that they’d suddenly been given some extra spaces for Tokyo in February, and asking if I’d like one. I had the weekend to think about it, and replied on the Monday. No sooner had I taken a deep breath (and said a prayer for my bank account) and started to write my reply that absolutely yes, I wanted to go to Tokyo - than another email arrived from Girlguiding UK, to whom I’d sent in a charity place request for London, but more in hope than expectation. As it turned out, they’d loved my application and wanted me to run for them in April.

All of a sudden, I went from no races planned in 2018 yet - to having both of the last two Majors squarely in my sights before the end of Spring, and in what I’d always considered to be the ‘dream scenario’ - the chance to pick up my ‘Six Star’ medal in my home city race. (I can’t remember exactly when it was, I think around 2015 or 2016, that Abbott brought out an actual medal for those who complete all six races; it’s a six-disc affair containing an image of each city, and has proven to be like crack to runners - it’s now a highly sought after item.)

It was a lot to take on - financially and also physically, I’d never run two marathons so close together before; but it was too good a chance to pass up. Though I like to think I’ll be running well into my latter years, we all know that we can never guarantee or predict how many of those latter years we’ll each be granted. Likewise, I can’t ever guarantee that I won’t hit some point when I can no longer run, or at least not to the extent that I am now. Matt, who we met earlier, has sadly had to retire; he’d been suffering from some knee pain after a training camp away, and scans revealed that hitherto unannounced damage within the knee joint had now become too acute for him to run on it any longer. I know all too easily that this could be me some time, and thus I’m always of the mindset to grab every chance that’s offered, when it’s offered.

Training for Tokyo began in late October ‘17, and included some of the hardest moments of ‘dragging myself up and out’ that I’ve yet endured. Boxing Day, barely above freezing, getting up at 6am to fit in several miles of intervals whilst still stuffed full of turkey and mince pie because we needed to leave at 9am for football, was something of a new low. Or a new high for bloody-minded persistence, if you want to slice it that way. Plan-wise, I stuck to the basic Hanson plan for 16 weeks up to Tokyo, took a week or so off to recover, then eased back in to full training again, to give a 6 week run-in to London.

And so, as I write this, that final World Major - the homecoming I’ve dreamt of and trained for for countless hours and miles, is just under four weeks away. I must confess, I have some mixed emotions about this. Excitement, pride, yes; but also a little sadness that it’s almost over. It’s a quest that has consumed me for a long period of time, and I don’t quite know what I’ll replace it with once it’s done. I’m sure I’ll find something; but I’m also reasonably sure that - all going well on the day - as I hit those last few miles along The Embankment, the slight welling up I often feel at the end of a marathon won’t just be relief and happiness this time. It will also be for a farewell to something that has been a defining part of my life for many years.

It’s been an amazing journey, and despite it not always going smoothly, there’s not much I’d change. Looking back, much of life can seem to have passed in a blur, but if we’re lucky we have many wonderful moments that we crystallise and preserve. Marathon running has given me plenty of those, and crossing the finish in London will be one of those memories that I take with me for as long as my memory persists.