London Marathon. Sunday April 21st 2013. This is my account of the day from morning to night. Some parts are touching, some parts grim, some parts you may find boring, some parts full of vim. However you can guarantee one thing. It is a brutally honest account of my 6th London Marathon. It wouldn't be my style unless there were parts of it you wish I hadn't written. Here goes. Strapped in? Comfortable? To paraphrase the great Dylan Thomas, To begin at the beginning...
The Alarm went off at 6am. I woke to the most beautiful bright sunshine. Not a cloud in the sky. Everything was set for a truly iconic day. It was here. It was now. It was sunny. It was London Marathon day, Hooorayyyyy!!!
I had registered on Friday at the huge Expo at the rather annoying located Custom House. You get the buzz when you register. Lots of messages on the vast Adidas wall to do with Boston and personal messages of why people are running in memory of loved ones. That is when the sheer scale of the day really hits you and you get a special sense of emotion, excitement and adrenaline. This is what it's all about.
There are also stands and stalls selling everything from running products to massages. It's like a huge airport departure lounge except with fit women in Lycra. For me it's awful as i am the worlds most gullible impulsive spender. I'm not happy unless I've done £200 on something I may only use once. It gives me a proper thrill (I am an addict after all)
I came away from the Expo with a new bag, running compression socks, shorts, hat, rock tape and sweatbands. I had to pull myself away from the compression shorts with in built ice pack for £85. God that was hard to do, however I left in good spirits & £200 lighter. I was An officially registered starter. Number 33,480.
I was excited for the big day. I prepared properly. Cut out the diet coke, reduced my smoking from ultra heavy to heavy, ate clean, did yoga, stretched, slept and rested like never before. I felt good.
I was excited for the big day. I prepared properly. Cut out the diet coke, reduced my smoking from ultra heavy to heavy, ate clean, did yoga, stretched, slept and rested like never before. I felt good.
On Saturday night I feasted on salmon, veg and sweet potato.
Now having done loads of them you would have thought I knew exactly what to do. Except I'm insane and I behaved like a total rooky. Mistake number 1. I ate lots of things I hadn't eaten before and wasn't used to digesting. Flapjacks. Those little fuckers are like crack cocaine and boy did i tuck in. Before I knew it, this little over eater had done 6 of the sodding bastards and felt stuffed. No matter, i consoled myself with the fact they would give me lots of energy on the big day and slept like a log.
And so to Sunday. I woke early to bright blue skies & immediately tucked into some porridge. Then mistake number 2. I finished off the flapjacks. Oh god those bastards were so good. I couldn't leave home for 90 minutes though. 3 goes on the khazi until i was satisfied i had completed the traditional marathon runners morning Constitution. I won't go further but it is a much under rated part of preparations. A full carb loading stomach means the propensity for stomach problems is rife. Little did I know this was to prove my undoing hours later.
Mistake number 3. I wrote a clever dick ironic funny post on Facebook . "Please God let everyone who is running & watching have a safe day, to enjoy it and feel at one with each other. Oh and please god don't let me shit myself and ruin my self obsessed carefully crafted image". Oh how I invited trouble. Will I ever learn?
Then it was off to Greenwich Park for the start. I hopped on the tube and was immediately impressed with the London code of not saying anything to anyone on public transport. Even though there were other runners, we all ignored each other like it was a commute to work. Not a lot of Marathon spirit on my tube. I tried to strike up a conversation, but that was met with short shrift so i settled into listening to hardcore drum and bass to get myself hyped up. Mistake number 4. Never listen to pumped up music for a marathon. That should be for an explosive event. Instead i now realise i should have gone long and slow in my music. Something like REO Speedwagon. Instead the hardcore got me dancing around the train like I was on E and i couldn't wait to run. Needless energy expended.
Mistake number 5. I popped a couple of Ibuprofen and Lemsip Max to iron out my annoying cold and painful back. I'd taken some on my long run a couple of weeks ago and it was fine, but you should never mix medication.
I refrained from my usual routine of cramming in several cigarettes on the 10 min walk from station to start line. Once in the park it is a sea of mass hysteria and excitement. People rubbing, prodding, changing, warming up. It is a great sight. I changed and was ready to go. I changed next to a guy called Steve. He took a little longer than me but it pretty much summed up what the day was all about. Although I'd be gutted if he beat me.
Then you throw your bag into the truck, have several pees, jump over the barrier towards the front of the mass group (35,000 people) and wait for the countdown. This is when it hits home how big the race is. It's huge. An Incredible amount of people. We all put on our black ribbons in honour of those who were killed or injured in Boston and had a 30 second silence in their honour followed by 30 seconds applause. It was poignant and emotional. A moment I was proud to be part of. Solidarity to you Boston.
It was now 10am and the Virgina London Marathon 2013 officially started. Well the elite did. Mo and the boys went off first and my group took about 5 minutes to get over the start line.. We were off!! Let the fun (and pain) begin!
The start is always a nervy occasion. There are so many runners it's hard to get any kind of pace. I had left my watch at home so I decided to run 'on feel'. I had my previous best of 3 hours 37 in the back of mind. Someone had bet me £400 for my Charity if I could do it. I'd been injured for most of the winter, was under cooked in training but I felt good. I felt strong. I felt euphoric and I really enjoyed the first few miles. Taking in the scenes, the crowds, the sound systems. It really was a celebration of life. The crowds turned out in force, almost in defiance of what happened in Boston and it was the busiest I'd seen in my 9 years of doing it.
I kept a steady pace. Not too quick. Saw some friends on mile 2, fed off the crowd. Keeping my head down, doing the occasional High Five with a little kid on the side. Really the marathon doesn't start until Mile 13. The first half is all about pacing yourself and enjoying it whilst you can. Keeping energy in reserve.
I got through Greenwich on mile 6, Cutty Sark and the crowds were just enormous. Even through Rotherithe and Surrey Quays. The noise was so intense. Then you get to Tower Bridge on Mile 12 and you float across. I saw my family and had a quick hug and then it was eyes down to half way in 1 hr 54. I decided to slightly quicken my pace a little just to see if I could get ahead of the game. This is where it started to go wrong and so the story turns.
I had been getting a stomach ache from mile 10. Thinking it was a bit of wind, I carried on but it kept getting worse. Worried I may 'do a Radcliffe' I refrained from trying to shift it - the consequences were dire and I couldn't trust myself. I'd just have to live with it.
On mile 15 I found my energy draining, getting the sweats and stomach worsening. 'Oh god I'm in trouble now'. Here's where I made Mistake Number 6. I took an energy gel and ibuprofen to get through it. In hindsight, not a great move.
**WARNING. THIS FOLLOWING BIT IS GRIM. YOU MAY WANT TO LOOK AWAY **
By mile 18 at Canary Wharf I was in big trouble. I needed a toilet. I was definately going to shit myself. Gurgling, cramping and pain shooting through me. I felt sick. I was ill.
"Oh fuck me no. Not here. Not in front of 30,000 people. Not with 8 miles to go." I thought about my Facebook update - Please God don't let me shit myself. Well here it was Nick. You were about to. Who's laughing now. With your self serving supercilious updates. Fuck you Facebook!
I looked around, people were lining the course. No toilets, no quiet places, no pubs or restaurants as the crowds were 20 deep. Oh god no, I'm going to be Googled as 'the bloke who shit himself at Canary Wharf'. I could see it now. I'd be trending on social media by midnight. #shitboy.
The carefully crafted self obsessed image. All the hopes of being taken seriously as a writer, comedian, compere, comedy club host, businessman, actor, David Beckham look-a-like. All dashed, I'd be forever pointed at wherever i went as that bloke that squatted in front of crowds, families and kids and shit a river.
Oh god, please no. "I can't do it in front of people" I thought. They've come to watch their families running, not my arse with torrents of brown laser".
I was in a world of pain, just about carrying on through Canary Wharf until Mile 19 then A miracle, A mirage. 10 portaloos!!!. Oh my God. It was like a mirage of green in a desert - I staggered up to them mouthing gratitude under my sickly breath.
Opening the first door I was confronted by a scene from turd hell. It was like a shit grenade had gone off. I immediately recoiled in horror, slammed the door shut and tried trap 2. Exactly the same. "Oh fuck what if they're all like that?" Trap 3, 4 and 5 were rendered 'impassable', I was running out of options here and panic was rising. Then I saw a girl come out of Trap 6, "nice one, i thought, A girl is bound to only use a clean one". My theory was proved correct and in I went, Thank God. AHHHHHHH.
To give you an idea, I was averaging 8 minutes 40 a mile for the 1st 18 miles. I took 23 minutes for Mile 19. 14 minutes of that mile was spent in the portaloo. A World of pain.
I came out and started running, thinking, "well that's not so bad I'll still try and beat 4 hours, that's cleared the decks". I ran on for 1/2 mile until the stomach gurgle came back, the energy went and I felt sick. Oh god 6 miles to go and I'm in bits. I started cramping again.
The urge to shit my pants was so strong, but i held on. I did a world record clench. Then followed a slow run for the next few miles until i was forced to stop and walk on mile 22 for a few yards until I was forced to stop, I leaned over the barriers and began retching. I was in big trouble here.
I started running again, along limehouse onto the embankment. By now the crowds were fever pitch and huge but there was a sheet of glass between me and them. I couldn't engage. I couldn't take it in. I couldn't feed off them. I had nothing left. I was spent. Thoughts of quitting seemed so good, but then I couldn't face anyone then. No i had to continue. Another slow jog until mile 23 when another sanctuary in the Blackfriars Underpass. More portaloos. Oh fuck me YES! Thank you Lord of Portaloos.
Same scenario as before, but this time I wasn't so fussy. I would have shat in a sewage tank the state I was in. Another 10 minute pit stop and then out, chugging away. I saw people I knew but i wasn't really aware or able to communicate, heavily cramping and dehydrating i passed the London eye, (I was going slower than it) and saw the Houses of Parliament. Only a mile to go. Oh please help me make it. Please don't let me finish up the mall with turd down my legs. I'll never get on tellie then.
I turned into Parliament Square and the runner in front of me buckled and collapsed to the floor. Legs gone. Eyes rolling, he was delirious. I knew the feeling. For a moment I thought of joining him, but i stopped with another bloke to check he was alright, we gave him a gel, squirted some water on his face and then i have no idea why i said this or where it came from, but i heard the words come out of my mouth to the other guy 'lets carry him. We have to get him to the finish'.
We hooked his arms around us, flanking him either side, carrying his weight and trotted on. Fuck me the crowd went wild. All runners passing us saying 'well done' patting us on our backs. "good on you mate", "That's the spirit of the marathon"
"Oh fuck me yes. Of course. This is it", I thought. "This is the reason I've done it. This will pull this horrible marathon out of the bag. Forget about selfish personal bests. Forget about individualism and selfishness. This is human spirit. We have to get Josh across the line. It's going to be the enduring image of the marathon. It will be huge. Front page photo. Tellie. Interview with Johnathon Edwards.
The true meaning of humanity was right here, right now and then he started passing out. No!!!!
Nightmare. I talked to him, kept him awake, telling him it was OK, willed the crowd to shout for him but his legs stopped working. We were 600 yards short of the finish on Birdcage Walk. Less than half a mile to go. We could actually see Buckingham Palace.
"Fuck, don't wilt here Josh. You're our fucking saviour. Hang in there pal". I said. The other guy said 'no more', his legs had gone too. I considered for a moment carrying him on my shoulders, single handed. That would definitely make tellie and the media. I reckon I would get a few interviews and speaking tours out of it. Together we are Stronger would be my Mantra. I would be the spokesman for humanity and togetherness. Me, with a stomach bug, sick, dehydrated carrying a half conscious man over my head across the finishing line. That's a front page right there.
And then Josh started to fit. Fuck it was all over. The dream had ended. We got the paramedics, they sorted him out, wrapped him up, got him conscious. He was OK but his race was over. Mine had 500 yards to go and i was disappointingly forced to finish at a crawl anonymously, with no fanfare, no sick man on my back. No interview with Colin Jackson, no media photograph. Just me, my ill body and dodgy guts. Barely able to stand. Josh was so fucking selfish, he ruined my future.
I staggered across the line, with no TV, no Publicity, no attention. Just another finisher, apparently had my medal hung around my neck, collapsed into the portaloo's (Heaven, they were sparkling fresh) My London Marathon was over and I didn't publicly shit myself.Thank God.
I collected my bags, got changed, staggered to the meeting point to see my family, collapsed into them and couldn't speak for ages. I was spent. Totally gone. No pictures, no videos, no joy. No euphoria. Just need to get home to a toilet.
I was ill for the rest of the night (and next day) and if I'm honest embarrassed by my time. I expected a lot quicker but on reflection it was probably one of my greatest achievements to actually finish. When you are Ill like that the place to do it is on your sofa in front of 'Loose Women' and 'Flog it'. Not with 8 miles to run on a marathon course in baking sun in front of Half a million people. It was harsh. Never again.
I made some stupid mistakes. I'm a right twat sometimes but never did i think i was going to get that reaction. In hindsight i wouldn't have taken anything, kept it simple and gone old school. Still never mind. It's over now. I raised £1500 for Action on Addiction, my superb charity who were there supporting. I enjoyed half of the occasion, I got called David Beckham 16 times on the way round and I helped another human being for 700 yards. Not all bad.
If only Josh hadn't whited out it could all have been so different. Instead 125 people will read this blog instead of 125,000. Oh well at least it's good for my ego. God knows best. I did learn though that deep down i am a good person and did practice what i preach in helping another human, but what is really fascinating is really deep down, so deep you wouldn't see, is an inherent selfishness and sense of delusion that is quite staggering. Only an alcoholic can think of speaker tours and TV under the guise of helping out a stricken runner. My selfishness makes me smile. Weirdly I can only see it when sober and that Ladies and gentlemen is why I ran it for Action on Addiction.
#TogetherWeAreStronger (that would have been world wide trending on my speaker tour Twitter page if only Josh hadn't fucking well passed out - he was so Selfish!)
Peace and Love
Nicholas Edward Evans
xx
The start is always a nervy occasion. There are so many runners it's hard to get any kind of pace. I had left my watch at home so I decided to run 'on feel'. I had my previous best of 3 hours 37 in the back of mind. Someone had bet me £400 for my Charity if I could do it. I'd been injured for most of the winter, was under cooked in training but I felt good. I felt strong. I felt euphoric and I really enjoyed the first few miles. Taking in the scenes, the crowds, the sound systems. It really was a celebration of life. The crowds turned out in force, almost in defiance of what happened in Boston and it was the busiest I'd seen in my 9 years of doing it.
I kept a steady pace. Not too quick. Saw some friends on mile 2, fed off the crowd. Keeping my head down, doing the occasional High Five with a little kid on the side. Really the marathon doesn't start until Mile 13. The first half is all about pacing yourself and enjoying it whilst you can. Keeping energy in reserve.
I got through Greenwich on mile 6, Cutty Sark and the crowds were just enormous. Even through Rotherithe and Surrey Quays. The noise was so intense. Then you get to Tower Bridge on Mile 12 and you float across. I saw my family and had a quick hug and then it was eyes down to half way in 1 hr 54. I decided to slightly quicken my pace a little just to see if I could get ahead of the game. This is where it started to go wrong and so the story turns.
I had been getting a stomach ache from mile 10. Thinking it was a bit of wind, I carried on but it kept getting worse. Worried I may 'do a Radcliffe' I refrained from trying to shift it - the consequences were dire and I couldn't trust myself. I'd just have to live with it.
On mile 15 I found my energy draining, getting the sweats and stomach worsening. 'Oh god I'm in trouble now'. Here's where I made Mistake Number 6. I took an energy gel and ibuprofen to get through it. In hindsight, not a great move.
**WARNING. THIS FOLLOWING BIT IS GRIM. YOU MAY WANT TO LOOK AWAY **
By mile 18 at Canary Wharf I was in big trouble. I needed a toilet. I was definately going to shit myself. Gurgling, cramping and pain shooting through me. I felt sick. I was ill.
"Oh fuck me no. Not here. Not in front of 30,000 people. Not with 8 miles to go." I thought about my Facebook update - Please God don't let me shit myself. Well here it was Nick. You were about to. Who's laughing now. With your self serving supercilious updates. Fuck you Facebook!
I looked around, people were lining the course. No toilets, no quiet places, no pubs or restaurants as the crowds were 20 deep. Oh god no, I'm going to be Googled as 'the bloke who shit himself at Canary Wharf'. I could see it now. I'd be trending on social media by midnight. #shitboy.
The carefully crafted self obsessed image. All the hopes of being taken seriously as a writer, comedian, compere, comedy club host, businessman, actor, David Beckham look-a-like. All dashed, I'd be forever pointed at wherever i went as that bloke that squatted in front of crowds, families and kids and shit a river.
Oh god, please no. "I can't do it in front of people" I thought. They've come to watch their families running, not my arse with torrents of brown laser".
I was in a world of pain, just about carrying on through Canary Wharf until Mile 19 then A miracle, A mirage. 10 portaloos!!!. Oh my God. It was like a mirage of green in a desert - I staggered up to them mouthing gratitude under my sickly breath.
Opening the first door I was confronted by a scene from turd hell. It was like a shit grenade had gone off. I immediately recoiled in horror, slammed the door shut and tried trap 2. Exactly the same. "Oh fuck what if they're all like that?" Trap 3, 4 and 5 were rendered 'impassable', I was running out of options here and panic was rising. Then I saw a girl come out of Trap 6, "nice one, i thought, A girl is bound to only use a clean one". My theory was proved correct and in I went, Thank God. AHHHHHHH.
To give you an idea, I was averaging 8 minutes 40 a mile for the 1st 18 miles. I took 23 minutes for Mile 19. 14 minutes of that mile was spent in the portaloo. A World of pain.
I came out and started running, thinking, "well that's not so bad I'll still try and beat 4 hours, that's cleared the decks". I ran on for 1/2 mile until the stomach gurgle came back, the energy went and I felt sick. Oh god 6 miles to go and I'm in bits. I started cramping again.
The urge to shit my pants was so strong, but i held on. I did a world record clench. Then followed a slow run for the next few miles until i was forced to stop and walk on mile 22 for a few yards until I was forced to stop, I leaned over the barriers and began retching. I was in big trouble here.
I started running again, along limehouse onto the embankment. By now the crowds were fever pitch and huge but there was a sheet of glass between me and them. I couldn't engage. I couldn't take it in. I couldn't feed off them. I had nothing left. I was spent. Thoughts of quitting seemed so good, but then I couldn't face anyone then. No i had to continue. Another slow jog until mile 23 when another sanctuary in the Blackfriars Underpass. More portaloos. Oh fuck me YES! Thank you Lord of Portaloos.
Same scenario as before, but this time I wasn't so fussy. I would have shat in a sewage tank the state I was in. Another 10 minute pit stop and then out, chugging away. I saw people I knew but i wasn't really aware or able to communicate, heavily cramping and dehydrating i passed the London eye, (I was going slower than it) and saw the Houses of Parliament. Only a mile to go. Oh please help me make it. Please don't let me finish up the mall with turd down my legs. I'll never get on tellie then.
I turned into Parliament Square and the runner in front of me buckled and collapsed to the floor. Legs gone. Eyes rolling, he was delirious. I knew the feeling. For a moment I thought of joining him, but i stopped with another bloke to check he was alright, we gave him a gel, squirted some water on his face and then i have no idea why i said this or where it came from, but i heard the words come out of my mouth to the other guy 'lets carry him. We have to get him to the finish'.
We hooked his arms around us, flanking him either side, carrying his weight and trotted on. Fuck me the crowd went wild. All runners passing us saying 'well done' patting us on our backs. "good on you mate", "That's the spirit of the marathon"
"Oh fuck me yes. Of course. This is it", I thought. "This is the reason I've done it. This will pull this horrible marathon out of the bag. Forget about selfish personal bests. Forget about individualism and selfishness. This is human spirit. We have to get Josh across the line. It's going to be the enduring image of the marathon. It will be huge. Front page photo. Tellie. Interview with Johnathon Edwards.
The true meaning of humanity was right here, right now and then he started passing out. No!!!!
Nightmare. I talked to him, kept him awake, telling him it was OK, willed the crowd to shout for him but his legs stopped working. We were 600 yards short of the finish on Birdcage Walk. Less than half a mile to go. We could actually see Buckingham Palace.
"Fuck, don't wilt here Josh. You're our fucking saviour. Hang in there pal". I said. The other guy said 'no more', his legs had gone too. I considered for a moment carrying him on my shoulders, single handed. That would definitely make tellie and the media. I reckon I would get a few interviews and speaking tours out of it. Together we are Stronger would be my Mantra. I would be the spokesman for humanity and togetherness. Me, with a stomach bug, sick, dehydrated carrying a half conscious man over my head across the finishing line. That's a front page right there.
And then Josh started to fit. Fuck it was all over. The dream had ended. We got the paramedics, they sorted him out, wrapped him up, got him conscious. He was OK but his race was over. Mine had 500 yards to go and i was disappointingly forced to finish at a crawl anonymously, with no fanfare, no sick man on my back. No interview with Colin Jackson, no media photograph. Just me, my ill body and dodgy guts. Barely able to stand. Josh was so fucking selfish, he ruined my future.
I staggered across the line, with no TV, no Publicity, no attention. Just another finisher, apparently had my medal hung around my neck, collapsed into the portaloo's (Heaven, they were sparkling fresh) My London Marathon was over and I didn't publicly shit myself.Thank God.
I collected my bags, got changed, staggered to the meeting point to see my family, collapsed into them and couldn't speak for ages. I was spent. Totally gone. No pictures, no videos, no joy. No euphoria. Just need to get home to a toilet.
I was ill for the rest of the night (and next day) and if I'm honest embarrassed by my time. I expected a lot quicker but on reflection it was probably one of my greatest achievements to actually finish. When you are Ill like that the place to do it is on your sofa in front of 'Loose Women' and 'Flog it'. Not with 8 miles to run on a marathon course in baking sun in front of Half a million people. It was harsh. Never again.
I made some stupid mistakes. I'm a right twat sometimes but never did i think i was going to get that reaction. In hindsight i wouldn't have taken anything, kept it simple and gone old school. Still never mind. It's over now. I raised £1500 for Action on Addiction, my superb charity who were there supporting. I enjoyed half of the occasion, I got called David Beckham 16 times on the way round and I helped another human being for 700 yards. Not all bad.
If only Josh hadn't whited out it could all have been so different. Instead 125 people will read this blog instead of 125,000. Oh well at least it's good for my ego. God knows best. I did learn though that deep down i am a good person and did practice what i preach in helping another human, but what is really fascinating is really deep down, so deep you wouldn't see, is an inherent selfishness and sense of delusion that is quite staggering. Only an alcoholic can think of speaker tours and TV under the guise of helping out a stricken runner. My selfishness makes me smile. Weirdly I can only see it when sober and that Ladies and gentlemen is why I ran it for Action on Addiction.
#TogetherWeAreStronger (that would have been world wide trending on my speaker tour Twitter page if only Josh hadn't fucking well passed out - he was so Selfish!)
Peace and Love
Nicholas Edward Evans
xx
