A Virgin No More

So I did it. Popped my cherry, as it were. Broke my proverbial duck. Went the whole way, opened my account, got on the scoresheet, chalked up my first notch on the bedpost... yeah, yeah, calm down Rob. You ran a race, that's all. Big deal.
But hey. What a race. What an amazing experience the London Marathon is. If you're only ever going to run just the one, then London's got to be that one. I have never known anything like it.
The day began early - earlier than I'd originally planned, actually, as before heading to the start, I had to take a suitcase to the central London hotel I had booked to collapse into post-marathon. It felt weird waking up and thinking that my legs were somehow going to carry me 26.2 miles. It just didn't seem feasible at all.
Suitcase dumped at the hotel, I took the train to Blackheath and it was here I learnt my first important lesson about what to do on Marathon Day. That lesson? Whatever time you think is early enough to head off for the start, isn't. Head off earlier. 42,000 runners all trying to catch the same train to the same place makes for some very, very packed carriages. I managed to squeeze into one at London Bridge, but it was touch and go for a bit. People trying to get on at stations further down the line didn't stand a chance. I hope they all made it eventually.

Here we go, then

Lesson 2 - the moment you get into your holding area, put your race bag on to the truck that ferries them all to the finish and without delay, get in line for the toilets. I've been to big races before. I've seen insane queues for the loos before, but nothing like this. I stood in line for 45 minutes watching people get progressively more panicky as the PA announced that the race-bag trucks were leaving and the starting pens were opening.
As it turned out, there wasn't much call for panic. The walk from the starting pens to the actual start takes you past a whole set of (largely empty) toilets, and there's plenty of time to nip in and do the business before you set off. No-one ever mentions stuff like this in the guides you read about pre-race planning. You're welcome.
Lesson 3 - don't discard your outer layers until the very last minute. Blackheath itself is an open hilltop with a tendency to being cold and windswept, and the length of time between when you think you're nearly at the start and when you actually are is considerable. I threw away my cheap and cheerful waterproof jacket (£3, local charity shop) thinking my race was about to begin, only to have to grab someone else's previously discarded top a few hundred yards further on. Whatever you're wearing on top of your running vest, keep it on until you see the whites of the starter's eyes.
And then - finally, 47 minutes after Mo and his elite chums had started scampering down Shooters Hill Road - we were off, under the red arch and taking the first few faltering paces on our 26-mile odyssey. I'll try not to bore you with a step-by-step commentary on my progress (though, to be frank, I've been doing little else to my nearest and dearest for the last two weeks) and instead just bore you with a little vignette from each mile, as it were. Here we go:

"High-five, anyone?"

Mile 1 - did NOT expect to get all teary in the first 100 metres, yet here we are. Overcome by the emotion of the occasion, the shouts of encouragement and all the little kids high-fiving me as I run past.
Mile 2 - bloke running says to his mate "2 miles gone, 24 to go". Thanks for the reminder, fella
Mile 3 - ooh, brakes off, speeding down the hill to Woolwich.... this marathon lark is easier than I thought!
Mile 4 - grab my first water bottle, and then carefully dodge my way through everyone's discarded ones. Not a skill you get to hone on the training runs
Mile 5 - ahead of me I see a pub, The Rose of Denmark. Thanks to my assiduous study of the route via Google Maps, I know I'm nearly at the end of this mile. Hurrah! The pubs along the route were probably my most useful landmarks.
Mile 6 - Greenwich, my old hood. Felt like a returning hero with everyone cheering me on (well, cheering everyone on, but it's easy to individualise it when all you can hear is "COME ON ROB" bellowed in your ear. The closest I'll ever get to feeling like Mo Farah) 
Mile 7 - in which I learn that trying to hold a water bottle and simultaneously open an energy gel packet is, frankly, impossible.
Mile 8 - this is where I thought it might start to get hard, a long boring run through some unprepossessing council blocks and tatty shops. But no. The crowds are still thronging the route, the course is still reasonably flat, the pace is easy, my body's relaxed and to be honest I'm having a ball. 
Mile 9 - explosion of joy as I see my family and friends for the first time. My wife runs out of the crowd, gives me a huge hug and almost cries "Rob, you're running so well!!" Never have I heard her so upbeat about my running ability. She thrusts three energy gel packets at me and shoos me off, shouting at me to keep going. 
(Little aside here - the night before she'd told me to look out for the bright yellow sign they'd made for me, saying "I know what you're like, Rob, you won't be concentrating and you'll miss us". So I conscientiously kept an eye out for the bright yellow sign, which my wife conscientiously left at home by mistake).

Selfie time

Mile 10 - bit of a boring (though rather pleasant) meander around Surrey Quays, if I'm honest, with the crowds finally starting to thin out a bit.
Mile 11 - second meet-up near Rotherhithe tube with friends and family, more hugs etc AND bonus cheers on the other side of the road from Parkrun pal Roger.
Mile 12 - HUGE crowds, huge noise on Jamaica Road. I see an enormous Chelsea football flag (my team) and with a surge of emotion I shout "CHELSEA BOYS!" and run towards it. It's actually a bunch of female Chelsea supporters and I get a lovely bunch of hugs before moving on. Tempted to ask them if they know the score in the early kick-off but decide to press on.
Mile 13 - Tower Bridge. Oh my God. I've made it here and I'm hardly worse for wear. What is happening? It's like I'm not actually running, but being carried forward on a wave of euphoria. I stop for a selfie. Well, how often am I going to get a chance for a picture like this?
Mile 14 - it suddenly gets sticky underfoot, I'm practically having to peel my trainers off the tarmac with each step. What's going on? Ah. It's the Lucozade station. People are taking one sip, then binning the bottles. The roads are literally coated in the stuff
Mile 15 - time for a much-needed pee. I don't tend to go much on long runs - usually clear the system completely beforehand - but I've been drinking much more water than normal on the "mustn't get dehydrated" principle. Result is, I'm busting. I've been avoiding the portaloos en route because of the queues, but here the race goes briefly underground and people (well, men) are taking the chance for a quick slash against the tunnel wall out of sight of the crowds. I open up, start.... and can't stop. A minute passes by. Two minutes. This is the pee without end. Nothing I can do, I'm helpless as my timing for this mile flies out of the window. Finally it dries up. Adjust my shorts, tidy myself up, and on we go.

Waving for the camera

Mile 16 - I'm running behind a woman who is taking a handful from literally every bowl of sweets that's held out in front of her. What on earth is she doing with them all? She can't be scoffing them all surely. She'd have eaten herself into a sugar-induced coma. That or thrown up.
Mile 17 - I'm now in uncharted territory - in that I've gone more than 16 miles without taking a single walk-break (unscheduled loo and selfie stops notwithstanding). Still feeling, well, if not exactly frisky, alive at least.
Mile 18 - the buildings are looming noticeably larger as Canarty Wharf comes closer. Starting to run out of steam a little
Mile 19 - finally have to give up and walk for about 100 yards as the race goes up a steepish ramp. Then around the corner I see my family for the third time, hollering my name and waving my last batch of energy gel packets at me. Heart is duly renewed.
Mile 20 - a sudden shooting pain in my left hamstring. I'm immediately terrified I won't be able to finish, or that I'll spend the next six miles suffering increasingly painful muscle spasms. I hobble to the side of the road, give the back of my thigh a quick squeeze, and decide to risk it with a little run. Mercifully, nothing happens and I pick up the pace once more. 
Mile 21 - ah, Limehouse. I know this bit. I'd said to myself that if I could get to here unscathed, I'd definitely finish. Well, here I am, scathed a little it's true, but still running. I'm going to make it. Massive cheers and encouragement from the MNDA supporters at the Craft Beer pub at the milepost - thanks, guys, you don't know how needed that was. 

Still smiling. Sort of

Mile 22 - a woman falls in front of me (I'm unsure if she tripped or just collapsed) and a group of us stop to help. I say "help", in my case it was more "stand around looking hopelessly for a first aider or someone who knows what to do". Happy ending - she gets up, she's OK, and off we all set
Mile 23 - past Tower Bridge, and now it's just the home stretch. I can do this. Except, of course, this is exactly the time my legs start to say to me, no you can't mate. I thought the last 3 miles down the Embankment, past all the tourist sights, would be a buzz. Instead, I'm beginning to struggle.
Mile 24 - at Blackfriars underpass, I have to take a walk-break for the second time. I may not be looking my best, as I'm offered a bottle of water by a rather worried-looking steward.
Mile 25 - my Garmin watch, which has been manfully struggling on since claiming to be on low battery since Mile 20, finally gives up completely and dies. The wimp. I will do the last mile literally time-blind.
Mile 26 - as I run up to Westminster Bridge, something literally kicks in and lights the fuse of my enthusiasm once again. Probably just the thought that I'm nearly done. I get to see my family one last time near Parliament Square and their undiminished excitement makes me smile and gives me the lift for those last few yards down Birdcage Walk.

"Sprint" finish

Last 385 yards - that's a glorious sight to see, as you turn into the Mall. The sign that effectively says "You bloody hero, you've run 26 miles, and now you're nearly done". Although I suppose it could also effectively say "Thought you were finished? Nah mate, there's still about a quarter of a mile to go", if you were in that frame of mind. I start sprinting for the end, desperate to finish ahead of (and out of camera shot with) a bloke dressed as what appears to be a jukebox. No fancy-dress fun-runner's going to spoil my moment of glory, no sir. 
And then I'm across the line, arms aloft, and it's over, and suddenly the tears are back, as what I've just done impresses itself on me, and my legs start to ache and creak as I make the long trek back to pick up my race-bag and find the meeting point, and my wife calls to tell me to meet her somewhere else and I literally can't take anything in. She's saying things and it's like I know they're words, but I can't really make them make sense. So she has to say it all over again VERRRY SLOOOOWLY AND CLEAAAAARLY until I've actually understood, and hey, there she is, and there's my stepdaughters, and our friends, and even my dog, who's been taken on possibly the longest walk of her entire life, and who licks my face and lies down next to me as I collapse on to the grass in St James's Park as if she has an intuitive understanding of my suffering state.

26.2 miles later

And that's that really. I ran my marathon. Like I said I would. In 4 hours, 21 minutes and 39 seconds, since you ask (so well under the 4.5 hour target I'd set myself). £1560 raised for MNDA, too, which I'm immensely proud of - and so should you be if you helped me reach that sum.
Was running a marathon as hard as I thought? Actually no. (Except the training. The training was, at times, torture). I have nothing but happy memories of the race itself. I spent most of it with a huge smile across my face, bemused by the selfless, generous enthusiasm and support of the London crowds. I know it's a cliche to say how wonderful they are - but that's because it's true. To the people who came out to support their friends and relatives and shouted their name and hugged them as they went past - the emotion you poured into it made it feel you were doing it for all of us. As for every single person who went and stood around for hours just to cheer on strangers and give them the odd jelly baby or high five, you are all simply brilliant. And the best thing is you don't even know how brilliant you are.

Will I run another though? That's the question I keep getting asked. And the answer is, no of course not, are you mad??? It's a daft distance to run. And there's the training - that long, hard four-month slog in the cold and wet and darkness of an English winter. 

Maybe though - maybe if I can get my family to stand at the 9-mile mark and cheer me on in each of my long training runs, and then dart back to the town park gates to be there when I finish; or if I could get the good people of London to line the streets of the borough of Enfield week after week to support me as I stagger through a strength-sapping sixteen-miler. Then, maybe, just maybe, I might be persuaded to put myself through it all over again.