Keep on Running (28 page)

My next marathon after La Rochelle 2006 was London in April 2007, my first return to a competitive attack on the capital since 2003. La Rochelle had been my 'Recovery Marathon'; London 2007 was my 'Got The Training Right Marathon'.

  For all my marathons, I had worked on the basis of four months of serious training, but in reality I was running all the year round. It was just that, four months before a marathon, I generally stepped up a gear. My two mid-length runs would be replaced by three very different runs a week: a faster, shorter one; a mid-length one of maybe 8 to 10 miles; and a long one, mostly hitting 15 or 16 miles and quite often 18. Occasionally I also threw in the odd session of intervals. But for London 2007, I gained a crucial new piece in that strange jigsaw puzzle which just occasionally gives you a glimpse of what a marathon should look like.

  This time I did my long runs in training with a couple of running mates, Rob and Nick. Fiona had become friendly with Nick's wife, and Rob was a friend of Nick's. Nick's love of running emerged in conversation, and it was agreed that we should motivate each other and hammer out the long run together once a week.

  Nick had done a 3:11 marathon on his first London outing a year or two before and was a terrific runner. We'd be running along and then off he'd go towards the end, effortlessly stepping on the gas. Suddenly hundreds of yards would open up between us. He was a real gentleman and would do this only once we were heading home, which double-underlined the gulf between us. He was a very natural runner, and a very pacy natural runner, running within himself when he ran with us, but definitely lifting our pace just by being there.

  Rob, on the other hand, was a runner very much in my mould; same build, same hopes. We ran at the same pace and ran well together, lapsing into a conversation which ate up the miles, unaware of the extent to which we were pushing each other and ourselves as we trained that winter. All in all, the preparation was as close to ideal as I have ever managed.

  Nick probably gained little from running with the two of us, but we gained a huge amount from running with him, just as we gained a great deal from running with each other. It was another example of getting it right. This was exactly how training should be, not that endless self-centred slog, but a communion of feet and minds as you build up your fitness and, with it, your determination for the big day ahead. Training and friendship went hand in hand; something crucial had slipped into the mix. I knew it, I loved it and I hoped I could translate it into results.

  Rob's running days ended later that year with an injury which led to keyhole surgery, after which running was strongly discouraged. But in the first few months of 2007 he was everything I needed – far better in every respect than the Garmin tracking device I use now. My GPS wristwatch is conversationally challenged, to say the least. Rob, who I continued to train with after London, was great company and a spur to my every running ambition.

  Fresh from my experiences in La Rochelle the November before, I went into London 2007 feeling as confident as I have ever done at the start of a marathon. Nick and Rob were both running it. We had our very own little race within a race – all part of the games you play to get yourself round the course.

  Fiona and I stayed with her brother, Alistair, in Clapham the night before, and it was the usual bad night. I got up at about a quarter to six and left his flat at about 6.30 a.m. to catch a train, which turned out to have been cancelled. A complicated taxi ride, shared with other runners, followed. If it hadn't been my day, that would have been my first step towards a poor time. But it wasn't a factor. I had a good feeling. This was the day it was going to all come together. On another day, the cancelled train would have been a disaster; today, it barely warranted a shrug.

  I was at Blackheath for the start in good time. It was still relatively quiet, with the loos readily available in the first half an hour. Later, once the queues built up, that's where – needlessly, but it was something to do – I stayed until about three minutes before the off.

  As soon as the gun went, the runners surged forward, and it took me only about 45 seconds to get over the line for a nice smooth start which moved off easily, with no sudden stops. It was crowded and difficult to get going, but at least it was steady. The first mile came up at about eight minutes, a fraction too slow for my liking. I was pleased when mile 2 came up at 15 minutes and mile 3 at 22 minutes. I was picking up the pace.

  By now, things were getting distinctly warm, and I was annoyed to miss the first Lucozade station at about 5 miles. Later, when I got my first Lucozade pouch, I was perhaps too eager. I glugged it too quickly and coughed for a while, which was uncomfortable. When you are running, you just can't glug, as I knew only too well, but so often when you're out there, you forget the things you know you know. Fortunately the discomfort didn't last long. Maybe even it helped in the long run – a little reminder to be careful.

  I started out with six gels, one in my hand, three wrapped around my arm with a headband and two down my shorts, none of which wanted to stay in place. I dropped two of them at various points and ended up carrying the rest, which wasn't particularly comfortable and meant plenty of fumbling, but at least I kept hold of them. I had the first at about 6 miles. I expect it helped. I had another gel at about the halfway mark and then another at about 20 miles and then most of the fourth at about 24 or 25 miles. Along with the gels, I was sipping water regularly, conscious that it was getting increasingly warm, but only in the sense that the warmth on my skin – after so many big-city soakings – was pleasurable and encouraging. It got hotter and hotter, but my reaction was simply relief that it wasn't cold.

  I was pleased to be inside the hour at the 8-mile mark, which is when I first started looking for Alistair, always a great supporter and always so adept at being in the right place at the right time. Eventually I saw him at about 10 miles, and then just after 11 miles I saw Fiona and Stella, which was great. The Cutty Sark earlier on had been a non-event, nothing visible of the ship behind the hoardings, not even the masts. It was undergoing some heavy restoration. Not long afterwards, it was almost destroyed by fire. So, given that the Cutty Sark had been no lift at all that day, it was great to have some support in the crowd.

  I continued to go well, still not tiring particularly. Mile 12 came in at about 1:27, soon after which we were on Tower Bridge. You turn a corner and there it is – a genuine highlight followed by a slight trough. I had forgotten that mile 13 is still a long way once you leave Tower Bridge. But it was around about here that Rob touched me on the shoulder and said 'Hi!' I replied, but I felt the need to push on. I didn't want to be third out of our little running trio if I could help it, so I gave in to the urge to keep going.

  Looking back, it's clear that just having Rob and Nick there sharpened my competitive edge, but running is like that. If you sense any kind of incentive, you can't resist trying to turn it to your advantage – and Rob's friendly 'Hi!' was effectively a spur at a time of need. I passed the halfway mark at 1:36.

  I had been steeling myself, from past experience, for the fact that the first section after the halfway mark is really boring, but it wasn't too bad at all this time. The uninspiring little alley that they used to take you through is no longer on the course. Instead it is much more major roads all the way through, and soon we were in Docklands. I had put my MP3 player on just after the half, and around mile 14 or 15 I discovered the delights of running to Dire Straits' 'Walk of Life', a terrific song to run to which I played twice, tried to play again and then lost. Instead, I had three-quarters of an hour of Oasis, again terrific running music.

  Docklands is a place where you seem to be weaving in and out and just making up distance, but the support here was strong, almost oppressively so. We were doing it a different way round this time, apparently, all part of the changes brought about by no longer going over the cobbles at the Tower of London, or so a chap had explained to me on the train on the way to the start.

  But still, I was feeling good. I choked a little and coughed painfully on the Lucozade at 15 miles in a little lapse of concentration, but at least the miles were still going up steadily. I was rapidly chipping into the second half, and I was pleased when I crossed 16 miles with something like two or three minutes to go to the two-hour mark – seriously good progress. I was running at more than 8 miles an hour at this point. Ten miles to go and I had about 1 hour 18 minutes to do it in if I was going to do 3:15, 1 hour 23 if I was going to do 3:20. Again, I make no apologies about citing the times. It was the way I motivated myself – however anorak-ish it might seem in the cold light of day.

  For me, all that mattered was that the times were stacking up nicely, and I was becoming increasingly hopeful of achieving a PB. All was going according to plan – so much so that I wasn't actually bothering to look at the 3:20 pace band I was wearing. The novelty of pace bands had worn off by now. In fact, I was starting to dislike using them. If you are going well, you can get by without them. If you're not, the gutter is the only place for them. I don't think they can lift you, but I know they can bring you down.

  I don't remember much about miles 16 to 20. They were uneventfully steady, but I was certainly glad to see mile 20. From about 16, I was imagining running to Wickham and back, a 10-mile route from home. At 20 miles, my mind was on the hill just past McCarthy's, a roadside fruit and veg shop I could picture so well from countless training runs. I was feeling fine, especially when I reached 22, effectively the start of the long home straight. Here the support was amazing. By now it has always built to the deafening crescendo which it stays at until the end of the race. My own personal soundscape at that moment was George Harrison singing 'My Sweet Lord', an inspirational song which it was easy to tap into.

  I was in control, and I was going strong with 3 miles to go. I was looking forward to seeing the Thames, and soon we were running alongside it. It seemed to me that we joined it a little later than in previous years, which probably wasn't the case. I suspect I'd just got it into my head that I mustn't be deceived by my first sight of Big Ben and so started to misjudge distance. In the event, the confusion worked to my advantage. I was further along than I thought – and that in itself helped me to run strongly.

  With the crowds roaring, with the music helping (The Stones, Paul Weller, plus an extended stretch of Bad Company), I kept on keeping on and was staggered at about 24 miles when Nick tapped me on the shoulder and said 'hello'. He looked like he was struggling. It was a big surprise, and just as with Rob at the halfway mark, it was the trigger to a competitiveness I probably hadn't completely unleashed in previous marathons. I had just assumed that Nick would be well ahead by now. And, even after seeing him, I assumed he'd soon pick up pace and pass me by, gliding Nick-like to the finish. He didn't.

  In the event, Nick came in a couple of minutes behind me. But just seeing him was crucial to my finish, opening up the prospect of something I had never dreamt of. Never for a moment had I imagined I could beat Nick. Once he was behind me, it was one hell of a spur to keep going at a point when you need every spur you can get. Nick's struggle helped me surge.

   Twenty-four miles came up in about 3:02, so sadly the big target had slipped. It was clear that 3:15 wasn't on. But – and here's a sign that the marathon was going well – I was sufficiently
compos mentis
to do some rapid recalculations. I needed to be within nine minutes a mile to come in sub-3:20 – an easy enough calculation to make, of course, but not the kind of number-juggling which is generally within my reach at this stage of a marathon. But this time, the number crunching urged me on. Going along Birdcage Walk, I was still thinking that sub-3:20 was on.

  Sadly, any time in hand I had just wasn't enough in the end. It evaporated. You turn and then you turn again before you reach the home straight, and I guess that's where the time went. I expect I was still just about sub-3:20 when I saw Buckingham Palace, but those precious seconds trickled away from me. I came in at 3:20:25.

  As so often, I wobbled and was supported by a marshal for a while before leaning against some railings. My recovery was rapid. It was the emotion of the moment that caused the wobble, and when it passed, it was clear that I wasn't in bad shape at all. I was wandering around imagining I was worse than I was before I realised that I was actually fine – the point at which I could start beating myself up about the time I had just done.

  My best marathon. But probably the one I was quickest to criticise. Annoyingly, I was just over something rather than just under something, just over 3:20 rather than 3:19 something. Was it good enough? I look back on it now and I am impressed. Seriously impressed. But at the time, the doubts soon set in. Which was probably a good thing. I guess if they hadn't, I wouldn't still be doing marathons now.

  My aim had been to complete the course in under 3:20; the outside hope had been to do under 3:15 and so be 'good for my age'. In the event, I did neither, but there were plenty of pluses. 3:20:25 was – and remains – my fastest-ever marathon, beating Paris 2006 by nearly a minute and a half. My placing of 2,528th out of more than 36,000 runners was very respectable indeed. By 6.45 p.m., 35,674 runners had crossed the finish in the Mall, a London Marathon record at the time by more than 400 people. And that's a figure that puts me in the top seven per cent on the day – a position reflected in the fact that I really didn't suffer at all, despite having run in very high temperatures at the end of a very hot week.