It’s 6 am and I lay nervously awake as the light flickers through a gap in the curtains. Hania and the girls still soundly asleep in our hotel room. They are oblivious to me having slept all of three hours last night. They look so peaceful and I wish for a moment I could just curl up into a ball and will myself to sleep for five more minutes. Adrenaline courses through my veins and I jolt upright sitting on the edge of the bed. I look down at my legs and feet for they have work to do today. They look ready. As a whole I look lean, verging on the prisoner of war look. I’ve got here. Finally. Unscathed, healthy, fit and with only myself in control of my destiny. Everything looks perfect. I know the drill for London like the back of my hand and for once the weather is absolutely playing ball. Highs of 13 degrees forecast with no rain nor wind to speak of.
That said, I feel shattered but beyond excited; like a child waking up on Christmas morning. There is excitement in the air, I can virtually taste it. This is the day that I have been waiting for for months.
I look aimlessly at the wall pondering the past. It’s been two and a half years since my last decent marathon when I ran 2:25 representing England at the Scotiabank Toronto marathon. 2017 promised to be a great year, I had so many plans and they nearly came to fruition. I was in the shape of my life shortly before London but then got ill which put paid to my attempts to finally break 2:20. I know I was fit enough to do it. Instead I changed focus knowing the illness had knocked my chances and instead decided to try and win the British 100k Champs that May. Simply put, I was inexperienced and I overestimated the challenge. It was also virtually impossible trying to peak for a second time in only a short number of weeks and to put it bluntly, I failed. I didn’t stay down for long. I picked myself up and looked to return to Berlin where I had run my PB of 2:21:51 in 2015. It wasn’t to be, mentally and physically exhausted. Struggling with my own personal battles of anxiety, depression and concern for the worsening of Dad's Parkinson’s. I was asking too much of myself. I kicked it to the curb. Returning to training, I started to feel fit around the end of November before being struck down with the first serious injury of my career; a stress fracture in my sacrum. Fuck! Now 2018 looks like it’s all down the toilet before I’ve even started. Never mind, you will be back I told myself. There’s always another race. Just get fixed and you’ll be running well before you know it. Gingerly, I started training in February and sensibly I thought. May comes and I have niggles galore. I muddle through. I race Eccup 10 and finish around 6 minutes slower than two years previously. Crack! I can’t walk after the race. Another stress fracture, this time in my ilium. Rest, rest and more rest. I faced the fact that I may have to bin all of my running ambitions just as I had started to believe that I could go on and do great things.
It can’t be over. Can it? I have unfulfilled dreams. I look across to my daughters, Mia and Antonia. They don’t understand what it means, but maybe one day they will. Maybe they’ll look at their Daddy and think ‘wow, he worked so hard. He chased his dreams, literally and figuratively. Daddy never gave up in the pursuit of something that on the whole doesn’t actually mean anything to anyone but him.' I long for them to see those qualities in me. I want them to have those qualities for themselves, I believe they probably already do. I think of my own Dad, a brilliant swimmer who worked tirelessly to be the best he could be. Winning medals at World Masters Games. He was always moved by the glory of winning, but more so by the striving of an individual to be one’s best. I saw tears roll down his face countless times, as he saw an athlete in any discipline giving it their everything. We watched the 2012 ladies Olympic marathon from the finish line and both sobbed inconsolably at the sight of Catriona Jennings of Ireland finishing last. Not because she finished last but because of what it meant to her. She needed to finish the race. Catriona was crippled by plantar fasciitis and a stress fracture. Her face said it all. She had made the Olympics and there was no way she wasn’t finishing. It would have been easy for her to drop out. No one would have minded. Everyone would have told her she did the right thing. But to her, deep down she would know. They were wrong. Catriona battled on in excruciating agony. That spirit is the only thing that matters, that drive to compete and complete on one’s own personal grandest stage. I’d never heard of Catriona prior to that day but she remains one of the most inspirational athletes I’ve ever had the opportunity to witness.
I get up and start my routine, bread and jam , a strong coffee and a couple of bananas. I’m feeling like a coiled spring as the girls start to stir. I shall make my own way to the start and see them and Mum out on the course.
I board the tube at kings cross to get down to London Bridge for the train to Blackheath. It’s already quite busy with other runners moving like lemmings. Lemmings with smiles on their faces, but concern in their eyes. The trepidation for what the day has in store. I’ve done this many times before, but I still have those feelings. I need to achieve what I’ve set out to do. I need to do it today. This is it.
Arriving at Blackheath, I traipse up to the common in my own world, going through the plan. Remembering why it is important to me.
Then the usual rigmarole of dropping off my bag and shuffling around the roundabout as a sardine to the start line just behind the elites. My heart rate rises as it nears the start time. Bang! We’re off.
‘Make your first mile the slowest’ I tell myself. No one has ever won a marathon in the first mile, not even Steve Jones. I’m coasting along, my feet lightly kissing the ground as I stride along. Others storm past, it’s a race but largely a race against yourself. I suspect I’ll be seeing some of them again. I feel relaxed. ‘Is this too easy?’ ‘Yes. Good, that’s exactly what I wanted’. I remember back to Abingdon in 2010 where my first three miles were a relative jog to the rest of the race. On I go. Am I in a group? Not really, there are others with me but no unity. People drop off, push on. I’m unmoved, I’m doing what I need to do. And it feels good. I reach 10k and I start to smile. This should be a good day. It should be my day.
The cheers from the side as we go through Greenwich are spine-tingling. It’s tempting to play up to the crowd but I reserve myself this time. I need every ounce of energy for later.
A steel drum band hit out rhythmic beats as we move towards halfway. I see Hania, Mum and the girls at Bermondsey. As usual they go bananas. I want to stop and cuddle them but every second counts. I blow a kiss as they beam from ear to ear.
Tower Bridge, it's one of the iconic parts of London, not just on Marathon Day. It feels so special to be able to race up the ramp feeling strong. It's an absolute privilege to be here. I am so lucky. I feel like the luckiest man in the world, in the prime of my life and flying over the tarmac. There are many that dream of doing what I'm doing, there are many that are unable to. I promise myself that I whenever I feel down I will remember what I have got and that I really couldn't have it much better! If someone could bottle the Tower Bridge race day feeling, they'd probably be the most respected chemist on the planet.
My breathing is still controlled but the first signs of genuine tiredness are starting to reach my legs as I reach half-way. I check the clock at the side of the road, it says 1:10:50. That means I have to come back in 1:09:09 to break 2:20. Have I left myself with too much to do? I still believe I can make it happen. This was all in the plan. Trust the training, trust your ability, trust your fitness. Believe in the dream and keep striving. The next six miles go strongly and I am gradually picking up the pace, over taking what seems like scores of runners that have paid the price of an overenthusiastic start. I am still doing my own thing, no one is with me. I am on my own, just the way I like it. Despite the noise from the crowd through Canary Wharf, I hear my own voice the loudest. You can do this, keep focused, ignore the growing dullness in your quads, the sharp pains in your feet. This is exactly how you're supposed to be feeling. Enjoy it, take it in, use it to your advantage. I think back to the height of my training a few weeks ago, hammering out gruelling long sessions at 5:00am. This day is what they were for. I think of Dad & Anne, I can imagine them at home, watching the marathon on TV and Anne trying to track me on the website and giving Dad updates. Dad is confused but deep down he knows what is happening. His son, Jay is out there running the race of his life, not just for himself but for his hero, his Dad. I hit 20 miles in 1:47 exactly. This means I am back on track, I can do it If I can just maintain 5:19 per mile to the end. 21, 22, 23, are ticked off in 5:21, 5:18, 5:16. Everything is killing now, I want it to be over. My head starts to drop and my form starts to crumple. But why? You're the strongest one around you, no one has come past you since the third mile. You're still picking people off. Keep going. Just keep going, keep concentrating. Mile 24 in 5:30. Disaster. There must be a mistake? Maybe I pressed my watch too late? Yes, that was it, just run. Run as fast as you can. Go. Now, this is it. This really is it. No regrets.
Just two and a bit miles to go and I'll see my family in just over a mile. Sprint to them. Make this your hardest mile. The last one should feel like a stroll in comparison to this one. I grit my teeth and urge my legs to keep a high turnover. As I approach Big Ben I look up to see the 25 mile clock. I've just run a 5:10 mile, the fastest of the race and one that I'd be pretty proud of in an interval session! I turn into Parliament Square, the crowds are going ballistic, I feel like a rock star. I see Hania, I see the will in her eyes for me to just keep on going. My Mum has tears rolling down her cheeks. Tears of sheer pride and she makes sure everyone knows that I'm her son. 'That's my Boy', she screams. I feel myself welling up, especially as Mia and Antonia shout 'I love you, Daddy' in unison. This is it. I can do it. I sail down Birdcage Walk. This is not just for me, this is for them. The amazing people in my life, that support me and will me to fulfill my dreams. I go under the bridge that says only 385 yards to go. I go again, pushing myself. I am sprinting. Literally sprinting. Turning into The Mall, I see the clock in the distance. It still says 2:19.... but how much time do I have? I get closer, pushing every last bit of energy out, desperate to stop, but desperate to keep going. It's not done until it's done. I'm close now 2:19:51, 2:19:52,... I lift my arms above my head as I cross the line and slowly bring myself to a stop. I look down at my watch willing it to give me good news. It does, 2:19:56. Instantly my legs buckle underneath me as I let out a scream of delight, absolutely spent.The medics rush over, they're concerned. They needn't be, they've just witnessed a runner realising his dream. I lie on the floor looking up at the sky, the sun is starting to come out. I close my eyes completely satisfied. This was my absolute best.
Of course, all of the above was a dream. Or was it?
