Virgin London Marathon (the first 13.1 miles)

THE UNEXPURGATED REPORT. This is the first half.
Second Half. Final Analysis.
Mile splits are Garmin; kilometer splits are official timing mats.

The taper towards London was a puzzle. Why wasn’t I more excited, more nervous, more manic? My relatively blasé attitude would have been unnerving, except if I’d let it unnerve me, then I wouldn’t have been blasé, now would I? So I was a little surprised when I slept poorly Saturday night because I was visualizing the race. Still, I awoke at 6:15 AM well-hydrated and clear-eyed. Saturday night, at a dinner hosted by expats living in South Kensington, I met the other TeamFox runners, and so three of us traveled to the start on Sunday morning. We met in the hotel lobby at 7:30 and took the train, which was remarkably easy (and free for marathoners). I appreciated having the company of Scott and Michael, who were nearly completely opposite runners (Scott has been running since high school track, his goal was to run well under 2:45; Michael picked up marathoning in 2008 as a way to fundraise, his goal was to finish). The two men were funny and chatty, both managing their pre-race jitters in their own way while allowing me mine. As it turned out, sitting next to us was minor celebrity Dave Heeley, a blind runner who a few years back ran seven marathons in seven days, one on each of the seven continents, as a way to raise money for a guide dog charity. As we exited the train, his running partner said to us under his breath, “He’s quite famous in the UK.” Poor Blind Dave, what bad luck, sitting next to the only people on the train who had no idea who he was. He was friendly enough anyway, cracking jokes and singing the praises of the NYC Marathon (clearly for my benefit). Even though I ate my usual pre-race meal of oatmeal, I was hungry by the time we arrived at Blackheath, but there was nothing for it. It was time to scope out the area and pee as often as I could before I had to head to my corral. The walk to the Red Start from the station took about 20 minutes, through a pretty hamlet and through some lovely gardens and fields. London definitely beats New York as far as ease of getting to the start (LND: 1 / NYC: 0).

I laid down my trash bag, covered it with an old mylar blanket, sat quietly and hung around in my own head for a while. I set Little G’s Virtual Partner to my goal pace; I recited my A Goal splits in my head. 1:54 at the half; 1:54 at the half. I noticed someone light up a cigarette! That’s a first. It was now 9 AM. I went to pee once more; I put my trash bag on since it had started to rain. I stood under the wide branches of a tree with a mass of other runners; I chatted up a first-timer; I took off my warm-ups and changed into my throw-aways. I pulled on my red racing gloves; I patted the pockets of my RaceReady shorts. I checked my big red kit bag; I idly wondered why I wasn’t excited, or nervous.

As it rained steadily upon us, I wandered over to the jumbotron to watch the women’s first mile or so. There was Deena, I recognized her hipless, capped figure immediately, and started crying. Finally, it hit me: today I was running the London Marathon. The course where Ryan broke through, where Paula set the World Record. The marathon that captured my imagination exactly two years ago as I watched the race stream over my laptop at four in the morning, sitting at the kitchen table in my Poconos house with a steaming mug of coffee. In half an hour, I’d be following behind Deena, Mara, and Irinia. I brushed away my tears: no need to dwell on the rocky road that was my 2009. I was about to pave it over with something smoother, quicker.

As I stood in my corral, swapping war stories with veterans of the course, I reflected back on the last time I stood in a marathon corral. New York, 2008. I was with EN, and he was calming me down with his trademark practical optimism. Behind us were two Englishmen. Now, in 2010, I liked the symmetry. We welcomed them to our race, and now the British were welcoming me to theirs. 1:54 at the half; 1:54 at the half.  I thought about the challenges (and how I could minimize their deleterious effect on my performance) unique to today’s race: course crowding, the many turns, and the warmer-than-ideal weather. I stretched; I fiddled. I felt a bit dropped out of the blue; I lacked a sense of context.

With a cheer, the populous surged forward. I crossed the start at 9:47:44 AM. The first miles I use to get warmed up, to find a rhythm, and to keep myself in check until my impatience floats away. I knew those miles would be erratic, so I tried not to be bothered too much by inconsistent splits and a spiked heart rate. We ran through Charlton and Woolrich before the three starts (Red, Blue and Green) were fully merged. These towns were clearly outlying residential areas, quaint and pretty and, to my American eyes, perfectly English. I was definitely abroad. In the early miles, crowd support was spotty but still enthusiastic; there were many folks on the sidelines with a pint and a fag. There was less music than I encountered in New York, but when there was music, it was right on, like My Sharona, or the rat-a-tat-tat of a marching band. The scenery of this race has already faded from my memory in a way I wasn’t expecting, very few landmarks grabbed my eye. I was working so hard, I was so focused, right from the get-go, I couldn’t pay too close attention. And because I was unfamiliar with the neighborhoods, one blended right into the next. I found myself wanting to ask the runners next to me, throughout the race, Where are we now? What neighborhood is this now? What’s that building?

By the time the first 10k had passed, I realized I was adding serious distance to the race (already one-tenth of a mile) as I scrambled to find openings in the pack to move forward. Also, it was difficult for me to run the tangents; every time I’d follow the dashed red line, I’d have to slow down because the runners bunched along around the shortest route were holding me up. This crowding was a frustration the ENTIRE race, which was the thing I’d most feared. EN had even counseled me about it on our last run together. It was nearly impossible to get any flow going because as soon as I’d lock in, I’d have to pull up to avoid tripping on the runners ahead of me. What an energy waster. Sure, the crowds in New York frustrated me in certain parts of Brooklyn and down Fifth Avenue, as did the “tourist racers,” but most of the time EN and I could pick out a straight course forward (LND: 1 / NYC: 1).

Mile 1, 2, 3 – 8:52, 8:33, 8:46
5k — 27:24
Mile 4, 5, 6 – 8:47, 8:58, 8:37
10k — 54:59 cum (27:25)

We all trundled along through New Charlton, Greenwich, Deptford and Rotherhite. I was watching my cumulative time closely and figured out I was falling behind pace if I wanted to get to the half in (you guessed it) 1:54. Part of this was because of the extra distance I’d run—I had to add a minute, a minute-thirty to my actual time if I wanted to hit the mats at 1:54. I felt like a rookie but didn’t dare dwell on it, I needed to stay positive. I didn’t absorb nearly as much of the scenery as I’d hoped to, yes because I was so focused on chasing my goal, but also because it took an awful lot of attention to avoid tripping over other runners and the bottles of water and Lucozade that littered the course. Each hydration station supplied us with skinny (read: easy to grasp) bottles with tops that flipped open to a nipple, thus no spillage whatsoever. While this meant that runners could grab and go (there was none of that walking-through-water stations which makes me so angry in US races), it also meant that there were thousands of half-full water bottles all over the course. I got sprayed in the shins more than once as runners trod on bottles, and I feared I’d slip on one (I didn’t). I also realized early on that I had to manage my fuel intake very carefully. I felt nearly from the start that I had to pee, but obviously didn’t want to stop. So I had to get just enough fluid so as not to dehydrate; if I overdid it even a little I’d have to stop and use the loo. Especially in the later miles of the course, I found myself praying for the next Lucozade station – there were only 5, meanwhile in New York they had Gatorade every other mile (this one’s a draw. LDN: 2 / NYC: 2).

Mile 7, 8, 9 – 8:37, 8:37, 8:51
15k – 1:22:29 cum (26:30)

At Mile 10, one of my pigtail ties snapped, forcing me to use the one remaining to tie my hair back in a single ponytail. Of all the indignities. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed at losing my signature hairdo mid-race, but at least I found the fleeting thought of Samson’s strength shorn away with his locks wryly amusing. Heedless of my style snafu, the masses trotted forward through Sermondsey and Wapping.

Miles 10, 11, 12 – 8:34, 8:40, 8:44
20k – 1:49:43 cum (27:14)

In my first marathon, it wasn’t until I passed the halfway mark that I fully believed I could actually do the entire thing. I knew in that moment that I was going to be a marathoner, and I cried with awe and joy. In my third marathon, the middle miles—13 to 16, through Queens—were also full of emotion as I reveled in my training by zooming over familiar streets and my Queensboro Bridge. This time, my fourth outing, that omphalos moment of emotion came as I hit the Tower Bridge. As I ran over its distinctive, lacy blue and white span, I finally grasped my context. Locus: London. Goal: to see how tough I really am. Reality: this was going to hurt a lot worse than New York. In fact, it felt more like my second, the Disney World Marathon, where I dealt with awful humidity and ran a painful, pathetic positive split. Despite that last, sobering realization, I made myself soak up the crowds cheering us across, to gaze at the London skyline, to capture a detail or two of the bridge’s fretwork in my memory. I smiled, and that would be the last time until I reached Buckingham Palace.

As I turned the corner onto East Smithfield Street right before the halfway mark, I kept my eyes peeled for TS. I spotted her big brown eyes and gave a shout. She gave big waves and a cheer while I kept at the running, the half-way point just up ahead. I already knew I wasn’t going to hit 1:54, but I had a morbid curiosity about how behind the plan I actually was. Stubbornly, I refused to give up on my time goal even though I was 1:33 behind my projects split at the half. I thought of Rod Dixon, who reeled in Geoff Smith (who had 40-second lead) in New York in 1983. Dixon has said that he ultimately won by nine seconds by running the tangents. I also reminded myself that if I couldn’t reach my A Goal, I still had a B Goal that required a negative split out of me. I kept at the running. The tangents proved more elusive. It is at this point that I switched over from Little G’s stopwatch to the Virtual Partner, set for an 8:34 per mile pace). VP said I was two minutes behind; but actually I was three minutes behind if you counted the extra distance.