I wrote this after running the London Marathon in 2007. During my last proper period of being alcohol free. 2007-2009. It was a time of deep emotional freedom for me. But by 2009 my life was falling apart again. As I read this once again... it reminds me that I am a loving person who has the power to overcome anything I put my mind to in life. I guess i've just forgotten how...It's About Love everybody...
As I read this once more, it is galvanising my strength.
Hope everybody's training is going well, mine less so this year (had to have a bloody tooth pulled last week but hey, the legs still work)... Its so easy to get buried in the selfish motion of aching shins, self pity about how much we all ache and all the rest of the emotions that come with the training.
I wanted to share with you all, my own little story of last year. I'll never forget April 21, 2007 for the rest of my life.
I missed the 8.30 train from *********, which put me in a right stress before the day had begun. ********, my sis (some of you know her here on the forum) was meant to be meeting me at Blackheath so we could run together (take a mobile!). That didn?t happen!
I got there late, but just in time to make the hooter.
In 2005, my first run. I had had my fair share of personal challenges running up to the day, and I remember emotionally standing there thinking: "this is it. I'm here". An overwhelming feeling. I stood quietly, soaking up the sheer number of people.
Looking into the faces of some of the other people there, I remember wondering whether they were feeling like me. Taking off my (old) shirt and trackies was a symbolic moment. I left them at the start line (for the charities) along with other things. Bad life choices, less happier things. It was time to move on...
I think the marathon does this to you. Dave Kalama (a big wave rider from the documentary ?Riding Giants) said of the act: ?Riding a big wave is a purifying because for that moment? nothing else exists?.
I think that Marathon running is the same. It?s actually a selfish process of conceiving the inconceivable just so that we can prove to ourselves that anything is possible. Quite a lot of bulls--t really.
And yet, from something so reducing physically, comes a natural healing factor which so many people say is the best reason to run it; to remind us all that we are indeed actually still alive.
In 2007, I had a relatively uneventful first 13 miles, nothing to shout home about ? other than bumping past 16 squaddies in full kit and a bunch of blokes in prison fatiques. Actually a bit slower than 2005, but who cares about that right.
I kicked on, up the hill toward Narrow St? still feeling good. A couple of gels and (more) water ? too much lucozade is bad for you, blah blah.
No toilet break yet. Turn down through Westferry. 15 miles. 16 miles. 17 miles. Christ it?s hot.
The temperature had gotten up to about 24 degrees. We?d all been dreading this. Everybody knows that training in a cool 15 degrees through March and April is fine. The body stays cool, and it?s easy to regulate fluid intake. But today it?s Madrid.
There is a bridge that goes across the canal about a mile before the entrance toward the Canary Wharf precinct. I must have run it a hundred times. But that day, my body just stopped. All of a sudden I started to get very worried. I?d never (and I mean never) felt like this before. I felt empty. Sick. Lost.
I remember that famous photo of Barry McGuigan, after losing to Stevie Cruz in Vegas in 1986. His eyes. That?s how it felt. In literally 2 miles my body went from 8 minutes 15 a mile, to zero.
I felt child-like. I wanted Mum. I knew she was at Docklands, another ? mile. I struggled to her, and then I lost it.
The Marathon strips away your dignity. I was sick 3 times in a row ? why? Every time worst than the last, and for the first time I felt defeated. My stomach felt rotten and I needed the toilet so badly that I had to go under the barrier at Docklands and down into the station.
There was a huge queue outside the toilet (typical London). Gallantly everybody moved aside and I walked into my own private Marathon cocoon. It was calm, and I was out of that hell. I wasn?t going anywhere.
I?m ashamed to admit it, but ?can?t? kept creeping in. I tried to concentrate only on one thing. Only the sounds. Low dull chanting, eerie. Lonely. Tears filled me. I couldn?t physically move my stomach was so bad. I had to stay there for 10 minutes, (perhaps longer, I don't know).
I made my way back up to the road. There looking up at me was my son: ?you?re running the London Marathon aren?t you Daddy!?. His eyes were full of hope. Excitement. This 6 year old, had a blissfull non-comprehension of the s--t I was going through.
I realised that indeed I was running the London Marathon. Just as I was living my life. For *** and *******. For my children. Every moment of every day. One day at a time. I?d take this last 8 miles one mile at a time.
As I began trying to get some life back into my legs (the smell of the fish market I think), I thought for a moment about why I was feeling so ill. It was then so obvious; too much fluid.
I?d been sick a total of six times in the half an hour I stopped at Docklands. It might even have saved my life (though thankfully, I?ll never know!). Many people suffered from taking on too much fluid that hot day. Sadly, it did cost one runner his life that day.
After ? a mile, I was running sub 8-minute miles. It was incredible. I ran the last 6.2 miles in under 50 minutes ? finishing in 4 hours 50 in the end. I?ll never be able to explain that. That is the Marathon for you
At 21 miles, I tucked up behind two runners. Two guys wearing the same t-shirt. Looking more closely, it was a photograph of a smiling little boy. The caption read:
?To our son William, Rest In Peace? See you at the finish. Love Dad.?
William April 2005 ? November 2006
This is for me, what marathon running is about. It?s not about competition. It?s not about sweat. It?s not about hurt and pain, and it?s not about me.
It?s about love. x
As I read this once more, it is galvanising my strength.
Hope everybody's training is going well, mine less so this year (had to have a bloody tooth pulled last week but hey, the legs still work)... Its so easy to get buried in the selfish motion of aching shins, self pity about how much we all ache and all the rest of the emotions that come with the training.
I wanted to share with you all, my own little story of last year. I'll never forget April 21, 2007 for the rest of my life.
I missed the 8.30 train from *********, which put me in a right stress before the day had begun. ********, my sis (some of you know her here on the forum) was meant to be meeting me at Blackheath so we could run together (take a mobile!). That didn?t happen!
I got there late, but just in time to make the hooter.
In 2005, my first run. I had had my fair share of personal challenges running up to the day, and I remember emotionally standing there thinking: "this is it. I'm here". An overwhelming feeling. I stood quietly, soaking up the sheer number of people.
Looking into the faces of some of the other people there, I remember wondering whether they were feeling like me. Taking off my (old) shirt and trackies was a symbolic moment. I left them at the start line (for the charities) along with other things. Bad life choices, less happier things. It was time to move on...
I think the marathon does this to you. Dave Kalama (a big wave rider from the documentary ?Riding Giants) said of the act: ?Riding a big wave is a purifying because for that moment? nothing else exists?.
I think that Marathon running is the same. It?s actually a selfish process of conceiving the inconceivable just so that we can prove to ourselves that anything is possible. Quite a lot of bulls--t really.
And yet, from something so reducing physically, comes a natural healing factor which so many people say is the best reason to run it; to remind us all that we are indeed actually still alive.
In 2007, I had a relatively uneventful first 13 miles, nothing to shout home about ? other than bumping past 16 squaddies in full kit and a bunch of blokes in prison fatiques. Actually a bit slower than 2005, but who cares about that right.
I kicked on, up the hill toward Narrow St? still feeling good. A couple of gels and (more) water ? too much lucozade is bad for you, blah blah.
No toilet break yet. Turn down through Westferry. 15 miles. 16 miles. 17 miles. Christ it?s hot.
The temperature had gotten up to about 24 degrees. We?d all been dreading this. Everybody knows that training in a cool 15 degrees through March and April is fine. The body stays cool, and it?s easy to regulate fluid intake. But today it?s Madrid.
There is a bridge that goes across the canal about a mile before the entrance toward the Canary Wharf precinct. I must have run it a hundred times. But that day, my body just stopped. All of a sudden I started to get very worried. I?d never (and I mean never) felt like this before. I felt empty. Sick. Lost.
I remember that famous photo of Barry McGuigan, after losing to Stevie Cruz in Vegas in 1986. His eyes. That?s how it felt. In literally 2 miles my body went from 8 minutes 15 a mile, to zero.
I felt child-like. I wanted Mum. I knew she was at Docklands, another ? mile. I struggled to her, and then I lost it.
The Marathon strips away your dignity. I was sick 3 times in a row ? why? Every time worst than the last, and for the first time I felt defeated. My stomach felt rotten and I needed the toilet so badly that I had to go under the barrier at Docklands and down into the station.
There was a huge queue outside the toilet (typical London). Gallantly everybody moved aside and I walked into my own private Marathon cocoon. It was calm, and I was out of that hell. I wasn?t going anywhere.
I?m ashamed to admit it, but ?can?t? kept creeping in. I tried to concentrate only on one thing. Only the sounds. Low dull chanting, eerie. Lonely. Tears filled me. I couldn?t physically move my stomach was so bad. I had to stay there for 10 minutes, (perhaps longer, I don't know).
I made my way back up to the road. There looking up at me was my son: ?you?re running the London Marathon aren?t you Daddy!?. His eyes were full of hope. Excitement. This 6 year old, had a blissfull non-comprehension of the s--t I was going through.
I realised that indeed I was running the London Marathon. Just as I was living my life. For *** and *******. For my children. Every moment of every day. One day at a time. I?d take this last 8 miles one mile at a time.
As I began trying to get some life back into my legs (the smell of the fish market I think), I thought for a moment about why I was feeling so ill. It was then so obvious; too much fluid.
I?d been sick a total of six times in the half an hour I stopped at Docklands. It might even have saved my life (though thankfully, I?ll never know!). Many people suffered from taking on too much fluid that hot day. Sadly, it did cost one runner his life that day.
After ? a mile, I was running sub 8-minute miles. It was incredible. I ran the last 6.2 miles in under 50 minutes ? finishing in 4 hours 50 in the end. I?ll never be able to explain that. That is the Marathon for you
At 21 miles, I tucked up behind two runners. Two guys wearing the same t-shirt. Looking more closely, it was a photograph of a smiling little boy. The caption read:
?To our son William, Rest In Peace? See you at the finish. Love Dad.?
William April 2005 ? November 2006
This is for me, what marathon running is about. It?s not about competition. It?s not about sweat. It?s not about hurt and pain, and it?s not about me.
It?s about love. x
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