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London Marathon 1996

by Peter Cookson

You have seen it many times in the pages of the Blister. Runners who have joined the Striders and run their first marathon, all the time vowing that this would be their last and then a few months go by and they are out there again, pounding the streets training for the next one. (Yes, I've been sucked in!) A few more local marathons under the belt and the urge comes to combine a holiday or business trip with an overseas event (don't forget to mention it to your partner - preferably not in the taxi on the way to the airport).

It is not always easy to get entry to some of the more well known events unless you are prepared to go on a fairly inflexible travel package, or in fact are good enough to qualify for Boston, which ruled me out. So, through a business contact I was quite lucky to meet one of the Directors of the London Marathon a couple of years ago who offered me the chance to avoid the "ballot", an offer which was quickly accepted. I kept in contact and called up the favour this year and was even able to obtain another place for David Solomon who just happened to be on his way to a meeting in Montreal (marathons are his cure for jet lag - Striders medicos might like to do some research into this).

I had to leave Sydney three weeks before the event and try and keep up the final training during a mixture of business and holiday over the Easter period. There were some compensations in this though, as it is quite strange going back many years later to the area that you grew up and run over all your old walks and cycle rides from childhood. The thing that really hits you is how the scale has changed. What is to be a two hour run turns out after half an hour to cover the whole of your childhood universe...back to the maps.

With such a popular event, now in its 16th year, the London Marathon Committee have got the administration down to a fine art and I was keen to mail the paperwork in as soon as I received it, firstly to avoid the vagaries of two postal systems and secondly to avoid paying a hefty overseas entry fee by registering through my mother's address in Wales. So, when the forms arrived I filled them in for myself and David, getting a colleague to sign the disclaimer for David (Nobody ever checks that do they?) and they were back in the mail within 24 hours.

Registration for the marathon takes place in Earls Court Olympia 2 from the Wednesday prior to the event. This has to be done in person for UK entrants, which we now were, and everybody is advised to turn up as early as possible in order to avoid the lengthy queues that build up on the Saturday. I arrived at Olympia Tube station on the Thursday morning along with a few dozen obvious runners and a Chelsea Pensioner in full uniform complete with medals - I'm not sure what he was doing there, I didn't see him in the race, perhaps he had a Preferred Start.

When I lined up to collect my number I had to sign for it and was surprised to see them check my signature against my entry form before handing it over. Oh well!, time to come clean on the issue of David's entry so I was sent off to the "Trouble Desk" to sort out the problem. As soon as I explained the position to the stocky SAS Sergeant Major type behind the desk I could see why this was not called the "Help Desk". No, I was in trouble and this was the place for me to have it rubbed in. I now know what all the years of negotiating with difficult clients, waterside workers and rebellious ships crews had been for... it was to prepare me for the "Trouble desk".

Forget logic, excuses and even lies it really had to come down to out and out grovelling and humiliation. I guess the only thing that kept me from telling him where he could stick his Flora London Marathon finishers medal was the thought that David was going to arrive from Sydney the following day especially for the run and might decide to take a similar course of action with my finisher's medal when he found out he'd come all the way for nothing.

Well I left there with a sort of acknowledgment that he might be able to sort something out. Not wishing to leave this to chance I rang my Director friend who said not to worry, if there was any problem, just send David round to his desk and he would sort it out. This got somewhat lost in the translation to David as I headed out of the hotel in the morning to a meeting and David arrived in a taxi from the airport.

So off he went to Olympia to pick up his number, hoping to get away with a scrawled signature; up to the desk; "Oh, your number must be at the Trouble Desk". Well after a few minutes Mr SAS was clearly not going to yield to actuarial logic so David played the trump card: "Just speak to John Legge, he'll sort it out". "Who the hell is he" was not the response David expected and as he couldn't remember which desk John Legge was going to be on it was back to the grovelling before finally emerging clutching his number.

There is a moral in here somewhere and I suppose it is that the London Marathon is extremely well run (even if the Administration is a little rigid). It is big business due to the fact that a large proportion of the runners are running for charities and collect hundreds of pounds each for a variety of causes. The closest experience you could compare it with is a big, well organised City to Surf, without the long wait at the start like rows of sardines and the surges towards the line as the start approaches.

With memories of Cities to Surf gone by we feared the worst so figured we should front up to the start at least two hours before the start at 9.30. We'll leave the support crew to have a leisurely full English breakfast before they head out to the Cutty Sark at the six mile point. Meeting in the hotel lobby at 6.30, a short stroll to Oxford Circus tube, but it seems somebody had forgotten to tell London Transport that they should get an early start too.

In fact by the time we got down to Waterloo we still had 10 minutes or so to wait for the first train and had visions of hordes of people queuing for the loos and crushed daffodils as we crowded into a bulging Greenwich park at the start. The train eventually set off for Blackheath barely half full and barely two hours to the start. At Blackheath there seemed to be more marshals at the station and approaches to the park than there were runners. They must all be there already, so much for a good start.

There is nothing we Poms like more than a good queue. I had this mental picture of people camped out overnight at the start around camp fires, in sleeping bags, with beanie hats on their heads, thermos flasks of tea at the ready singing "Ging gang gooly" and other scouting favourites to while away the hours through to dawn. But no, there we were an hour and a half before the start and barely any runners in the park. One portaloo per runner, a drink Marshall each and even a park bench to sit on adjacent to our start area. A couple of trips to the loo for the nervous bladder and I finally found a queue, the masses were stirring!

And what a sight!. Roman Centurions were very popular, perhaps an acknowledgment of the origins of the race. Some wore light plastic breastplates, but others had the full regalia as if they had just stepped off the set of Ben Hur. Quite some weight to cart around the course.

The fellow with the bi-plane strapped to his shoulders probably had a similar task before him, even though made of fibreglass, the four foot wing span would have been very tricky to handle, especially having to taxi all the way. But I think the toughest one to comprehend was the guy in the painter's overalls with the two section aluminium ladder on his shoulder - have you tried carrying one of these from the back shed to house - that's enough for me. Apart from the masochists there was a vast selection of humorous outfits ranging from Supermen to Satan. 1996 appeared to be the year of the Queen, as the date of the run coincided with her 75th birthday.

A cannon boom at 9.00 a.m. heralded the start of the seeded women's race, not that we saw it, as it was across the park from where we were, at one of the other of the 3 starts. Finally, a few people wandered onto the road into their designated start zone (estimated finishing time), with Marshals checking nobody was in the wrong zone. With 20 minutes to go we decided to abandon our position basking in the morning sun on the park bench and ambled into the road to wait for the start.

As you can imagine, my main concern when training for this race had been how to handle the cold weather, especially whilst hanging around at the start. How many layers would I wear?, thin gloves or thick?. Well there is one thing that English weather can always guarantee and that is unpredictability. Sure enough, the 3 weeks prior to the race had been cool, cold, rainy, windy, the odd day of sunshine, but hot weather - never. Suddenly the day before the run the north-easterly wind veered to the South East and Siberian winds were replaced with winds from the African Desert.

Over 20 degrees at 9.00 a.m. and 26 degrees by midday was hardly what I was led to believe we could expect for the run. However, whilst we were sitting on our park bench enjoying the morning sun, the Belgian runner Vincent Rousseau was probably cursing his luck and swearing at his Manager. Normally he has a clause in his contract that says he has the right to pull out of any run right up to start time if the temperature rises above 19 degrees. Even he didn't think it would be necessary to insert a clause like that for a London marathon!.

So one layer of Striders' gear was all that was required and as usual it helped to break the ice with the local runners. A minute or so before the start a lady came up to us wearing a Striders' singlet, wished us all the best and then disappeared before we had a chance to find out who she was. I've never seen her at any Stars before or since...one of life's little mysteries. Also, standing in front of us was a pair of identical twins, Jean and Jenny of Asian decent who had the broadest West Country accents you can imagine. They had run just been interviewed by the BBC and were running for the second time.

Finally, the gun went and we shuffled towards the wrought iron gates of the park to turn left towards the start line. By the time we got there the leaders were well over half a mile down the road. Three minutes to the start was really not too bad considering the numbers and it didn't feel quite as frenetic as the starts for shorter runs. After about 4 minutes we were running at a steady pace without too much side-stepping, although the footpath came in handy from time to time.

This was the big hill of the race!, Charlton Road, a gentle decline, obviously not a course designed by a Strider. At Artillery Place after 5km the competitors from the two other starts merge in with us and we run parallel for a few hundred metres before the barrier in the middle of the road finishes. There is plenty of good natured rivalry at this point. The influx of extra bodies doesn't really seem to make much difference to the crush but I think others had problems with a few tumbles occurring close to us. One fellow directly in front of me tripped and fell, hitting his head against the kerbstone with a nasty crack. Plenty of blood and people rushed to his aid. I don't think he was able to carry on with the race. Woolwich Road was next taking us back close to the start and on to one of the highlights of the run at 10km - the "Cutty Sark". This was a very popular viewing spot not only because Greenwich is a pleasant spot and near to the start, but also because there is a tunnel under the Thames at this point where spectators can walk through and catch the mid section of the race through docklands. No sign of the support crew though, breakfast must have delayed them. The disappointing aspect of the run is that although the course follows the Thames for much of the time, there are not many opportunities for the runners to see it, especially in the section from Greenwich to Tower Bridge.

One thing we couldn't complain about was drink stops. The official ones were every mile all equipped with 1 litre bottles of water and large squeeze packs of Isostar. As well as this there seemed to be ad hoc stations in between not to mention local communities handing out oranges, barley sugar and all manner of sustenance. The end product was that before too long we were forced to make a toilet stop, lined up along a chain link fence with a few other similarly afflicted others, but with the temperature rising, we weren't about to stop taking fluid.

Talking of fluids, the pubs were doing a roaring trade by now and all those with a beer garden or balcony seemed to have laid on some form of band to keep our spirits up. These ranged from Trad Jazz bands through to a full Youth Orchestra at Canary Wharf. At one pub in the East End they even had a rock and roll group "The Undertakers", belting out a 60s Standard. From memory they started life as Screaming Lord Sutch's backing band - and he's still unsuccessfully running for Parliament on behalf of the Raving Looney Party. In the Jamaica road we had a Cockney band made up of Pearly Kings and Queens, their sequinned waistcoats flashing in the sun.

As we approached Tower Bridge the crowds got thicker again and the roads narrowed down. The crowd all seemed to be shouting "Come on Chrissy Boy" so I figured the fellow in front must be a local T.V. or Sports celebrity. That was until I overtook him and saw he had "Chrissy Boy" in large bright letters on his chest. The Striders logo drew a good response. I was wearing the T shirt which has "Sydney Striders" in clear letters front and back and I had welcome encouragement throughout the race. Running over Tower Bridge was a great experience. The Tower of London on the Northern bank with flags fluttering from the Bloody Tower and hordes of people crushed onto the footpath.

The fact that this was almost the half way mark helped to boost the spirits too - now for the Easterly run down to Docklands through the East End. Along Poplar High Street with the blocks of flats straight out of the television series "The Bill". The guy in front was wearing a full wedding dress and veil and had been just in front of us for the previous 10km. He had plenty of support and a few proposals of marriage along the way, and he must really have been hot under all those layers. Not that things were too cool with us. Most of the local runners we talked to along the way figured we'd be used to running in such conditions - right of course, but it doesn't help much on the day.

The next 10 or so km would be run through fairly uninteresting territory and we looked forward to the boost we would get from our support crew who must by now have finished breakfast and be eagerly waiting for us at Canary Wharf on the Isle of Dogs. By this stage we were well over the half way mark having done 25km and although there was a full orchestra and throngs of onlookers there was no sign of our team - perhaps the Docklands light railway has been too crowded and they would be waiting at the Tower of London. This section went on and on for ever with twists and turns and we really felt that we were getting nowhere.

There were more kids out now offering "high fives" to all, but any setback to forward motion at this stage would not have been a good idea. Somewhere around here I heard somebody say that the men's race had been won by Dionisio Ceron of Mexico in 2:10 flat. We later heard that he had ambled down the Mall waving to all , costing himself about $40,000 by not securing the bonus he would have received for breaking 2:10. Rousseau of Belgium overcame the heat and came in second. The women's race was won by Liz McColgan in 2:27:54 after holding well back for much of the race.

Around this time I lost David. Assuming he had gone ahead I tried to lift he pace to try and find him. Little did I know that the he'd had to take another toilet stop so had to run like crazy to catch me up again. We felt sure that around the next bend we would see the familiar form of Alf Field. Surely as he had run Boston only that Monday he would not be in sufficient shape to be too far ahead of us, even if he did get a better start from the Blue area.

But instead of Alf we bumped into another Strider, Steve Roach, who was not going so well and had seen Alf go past a few km back. The frustrating thing at this stage was that Tower Bridge kept appearing on the horizon reasonably close and then we would head off at 90 degrees to it. I wasn't quite aware that when we reached Tower Bridge for the second time we would only have about 5km to go, it had always seen so far from one end of London to the other. By now there were a fair number of sorry looking people around us even down to a few lying on stretchers obtaining medical treatment.

David was complaining about a sore ligament and telling me to ahead. My quads felt like they would cramp if I increased speed too much, but I gradually drifted ahead of David and so before long I was on my own and heading past St Katherine's Dock and the Tower of London, at last, at about 38km. The Bride was still ahead and being courted by a couple of Portuguese runners who were out for a good day out and insisted on taking each other's photograph with the Bride in front of the Tower of London.

The cobblestones along the Embankment by the Tower were very hard on the legs and the rubber matting they put over them for the benefit of the wheelchair athletes were more of a hindrance than a help, so I opted to run on the cobbles where at least you could see the ruts. Normally by this stage of a marathon I run between drink stops, stop for a drink for as long as I want and then run on to the next. That's OK when the drink stops are 5km apart because you have a goal, but what do you do when they are at every mile - keep running that's what I did.

The Embankment was packed all the way along and I was overtaking an increasing number of tired runners. Big Ben finally appeared on the horizon and at least I knew that it was a straight run before turning into Parliament Square, past the Houses of Parliament and Birdcage Walk.

That was when my spirits lifted. The end was close, the streets were wider and there was more room to move and the crowd was cheering. This is what it was all about and then the right hand turn towards Buckingham Palace and the magnificent Queen Victoria Monument. What a place to finish a marathon!. The final corner and the end in sight. Two hundred metres down the Mall to the finish, framed by the Admiralty Arch at the end and Nelson's Column visible behind.

Time to turn it on, the final sprint, my legs suddenly strong again and powering me to the line. And as if by magic a new finishing chute opened up as I got there so whilst the others queued I kept on running down the outside to collect my medal, my space blanket and bag full of goodies. The time, well nowhere near my best at 3 hours 49, but I had to keep something in reserve for walking around the sights.

David finished a few minutes later without lasting injury, but pretty tired. Alf of course was already here, waiting for us at the meeting point, looking like he had been for a trot around Hyde Park. And the support crew?. They finally made it - but only to the meeting point, I think the silver service in the breakfast room had been a little slow that day. Well at least they were able to join Alf, David and myself for a very pleasant dinner in Mayfair that evening (outside - yes, it was that warm)- and we all stayed awake.