London is a spectacular marathon to run. The sights, the crowds and an incredibly upbeat atmosphere. This year, I was lucky enough to be only 20-25 seconds behind the Elite men crossing the start line, meaning I saw them sprint off at the gun and was left in awe, knowing that they'd keep that blistering pace up for the duration.
As for my start, well, it's worth noting that the first half of London is where all the downhill bits are, and having looked across several people's times, very few of the elites appear to have managed a negative split, which says something. You drop about 150 feet in the first 4-5 miles and that, combined with the usual setting off too fast, meant the first several miles were quick. 7:05-7:15 per mile quick!
About 3 miles in, clocking a 22 minute 5km, I knew the pace was too quick to sustain so I eased off the hammer a bit, but not too much. I also felt that there was no way I'd sustain it, but I then thought how will I ever know and, isn't it all just psychological anyway?
Another factor was the additional 1% drift mileage (that's my term, it's not official), caused by straying from the blue racing line. It meant that my minute mile-ing needed to be about 5 seconds quicker than planned, so my 7:25 goal suddenly needed to become 7:20 on my Garmin, which scared the bejeebas out of me.
I'd planned heading out at just under 7:30 (on the Garmin), having notched 20 miles in training without too much hassle at that pace, and then ramping up from about 10 miles. That plan went to pot due to downhills, 1% and general lack of ability to rein it in at the start.
So, there I was at 13.1 miles and 1:36 into the race, having just done a little sprint while running past one of my supporters, now knowing I had to average 7:20 (Garmin) for the second, hillier, half of the race. Also knowing that I was about 3/4s spent.
The slowest miles, mentally, not actually, were from around 15 to 19. You're still heading away from the finish and you've not long run past the leaders heading in the homeward direction at mile 22! Seeing them float past on the other side of the road is at once inspiring and depressing, as the realisation of how long it will take you to reach that point hits.
Part of the route around the Isle of Dogs and Canary Wharf feels narrow, wiggly and has road humps, making it difficult to settle into a rhythm. The miles were a struggle, well, let's be fair, everything after 13 miles starts to feel like that.
I saw my wife at 19, which is when you turn and start heading for home. Her, and the crowds joining in to cheer me on around her, gave me the lift I needed to keep up my pace for another couple of quick miles. Overall, I could sense my pace was only going to get slower and had mentally readjusted my target to "just get a PB".
At 21 miles, I could really feel it, of course I was ready for it, but even still, there she was and it was all I could do to ignore her and focus on the 20 feet of road ahead of me.
I then heard my friend's distinctive yell from the crowd and gave it another little burst, at least I thought I sped up, but I was soon just putting one foot in front of the other in a trance-like state. Dark miles.
I spotted a runner a 100 yards or so in front of me flapping his arms to raise the crowd and decided to give it a go myself. It worked and the field was strung out enough that, when they did, I knew they were cheering for me, which gave me a 20 second boost every time, using energy I didn't really have, so I had to be careful.
Let it be said that the supporters along the London Marathon route are superb, any moment you're feeling it's hopeless, a glance into the crowd will usually find someone, despite the numbers around you, looking at you and willing you on.
23-24 was a good mile, through the tunnel, with nicely lit up cats eyes. It gave me another distraction, pretty lights, and no noise or crowd, me time allowing me to re-focus. I ratcheted up the pace through the tunnel and overtook a couple of folk along the way.
Out the other side, we were faced with an underpass. You don't need those at 24 miles, it felt quite steep and intimidating with 1000s of people gawping over the railings from 100 feet above. I felt weak and small.
At 25 I caught someone's eye cheering for me, "Come on Children with Cancer", and it helped a little, but I was down to 9 minutes a mile by then and had calculated that even if I walked I'd still PB. That is not a good mindset to have. Weirdly I felt far tougher running Kielder. As bad as I felt at 23, 24 around that lake, I managed to keep sub-8 minute miles going, despite all the extra pain it was causing me.
The crowd and the "does it really matter if I'm 3,196th or 3,253rd out of about 37,500?" factor, compared with the smaller races, where places start to mean something, made it harder for me to convince myself to drive myself into the ground.
I managed a few surges, with the help of arm-flapping induced cheers, in the final mile, but the classic was the last 200 metres.
So, there it is, 3:20:02. A happy man, especially happy as it means I've got another target to beat!
