Proper Hate New Balance

One of the things that slowly started to grind my gears during the first few miles of the slog was that the face of the New Balance London Marathon campaign is not a runner. Does not run. I was pretty certain about this since I’ve met her. There’s also zero percent chance that she could complete a marathon.

If you couldn’t already tell I was feeling salty as fuck.

Yet here was I, in this astoundingly awful weather, grinding out a marathon where I’d already considered dropping out.

At mile 3.

It was sunny, too.

It was, come to think of it, potentially the best weather conditions ever to cheer on runners in the marathon. Runners will know, conversely, this means it was terrible weather to actually run in.

If you follow my writings (I can never assume) you’d be delighted to know that I’ll not be using shit as an extended metaphor throughout this piece. I went to the toilet in the morning. Many times. This means that my race start was vastly superior to Barcelona.

This was a very different race, however, with very different goals in mind. Since Barcelona I wasn’t really up for keeping in ‘A game’ form, but good enough to ride on the training I’d done before. I had thought, somewhere in the buildup, that I was 2:45 shape. On a normal day. With a breeze. It’s London after all.

Ah.

Costa Del London. 26 degrees. Hottest London Marathon on record.

Cool.

So GFA pen chat was mostly ‘what’s your plan today?’ Mine was really to try 2:45ish pace and see how I feel.

Wasn’t quite expecting the huge amount of traffic at the start. Wasn’t quite expecting the fast GFA pen to have so many people in. Wasn’t expecting to feel dizzy within the first 3 miles.

Three fucking miles. Dizzy.

This wasn’t my first rodeo so I was truly shocked. But also sort of releived. It was a pressure off moment, rather than a damn my time has gone to shit moment.

That couldn’t stop the grim feeling of running in this heat though.

I counted the miles from this point. Honestly, it was hell.

The difference is the crowds.

People tell you lots of things about running London. How it’s busy, how it’s fun, how the crowds are great.

All of the above was true.

When I was considering DNF’ing at mile 3, they lifted me.

When I was considering DNF’ing at mile 4, they lifted me.

When I considered DNF’ing at mile 15, there were simply too many people cheering that it would have costed me more energy to get through them than it would to actually finish.

There’s something to be said for that.

And then, well, there was Mile 21.

A little background for the non acquainted. Mile 21 is an institution. A high point. The vibe provider. It, simply put, was the place I’ve spent the last 4 years cheering on runners with RunDemCrew. It made me think differently about cheering. I’ve lifted people’s spiritis who weren’t even part of the queue and helped them get back into the race. I’ve almost hit famous runners in the face with confetti cannons. I’ve sat on the bus stop at Limehouse with the boys cheering until the voice gives out and still gives out the day after.

Running through it, mind. Damn.

You can hear them around half a mile away. London has quite good tracking so I figured they must have known I was close and I could hear a few screams of my name.

ALEX.

ALEX!!!

I couldn’t see shit. What I did know, was that I needed to fix up. I’d spent most of the race considering quitting so I had to wipe the sweat, fix the form and pretend that I was enjoying it?

Ha.

When I began to see people’s faces, I didn’t need to pretend. I grinned. Ear to ear. Then I started crying.

Thank fuck for sunglasses.

I had barely even got there when I saw people jumping over the barriers, I clocked Alex Morrison do this and figured I need to go in for a hug.

Go in for a hug, style it out, don’t cramp and high five people on the way out.

That all happened.

I felt like a damn rockstar. Everything about the previous 20 miles melted away and I ran away with a smile on my face.

Then I spent the next five miles trying not to DNF, but I carried that love with me.

CheerDem, I love you. I didn’t know how much until I was on the other side.

Did the London Marathon in 3:01ish. Wasn’t a PB, wasn’t fun to run, but to be there. Damn.

After crossing the finish line I basically collapsed. The difference is that there was nobody on the other side. That’s normal. But after the feeling of racing at Barcelona, deflating. It just gave me more time alone with my thoughts. Which were now focused.

On beer.

But I had to get back to mile 21, cheer, and do it all again.

With beer.

Why do I do this to myself.