London Marathon 2006
I agreed, rather on the spur of the moment, to cheer on the Macmillan runners at the London Marathon this year. I’ve been determined, Danny Wallace style, to say yes to more things this year, and cheerage was one of them (although I’d forgotten that I’d already said yes to “do you want to be taken round the National Gallery by Paul Foot for a fiver while he lies about painting”). Based on geography alone, I chose the point on the Victoria Embankment, underneath Cleopatra’s Needle, which I later found out was the twenty-five mile point, the last cheer point before the finish line. Roping in Lyndsay to accompany me, I agreed to meet her at Waterloo, allowing me the morning to descend on Greenwich to watch the start.
Whilst waiting for the off, and photographing runners, I fancied I spied an old school friend, Tom Sumpster in amongst the other runners. Tom, through no fault of his own, remains one of those people I’m probably not going to forget. When playing basketball at school, I reached out to gain control of a stray ball, only to have Tom’s mouth inadvertently collide with my arm. I sustained a small puncture wound to the forearm, and he lost a crown. I’m scarred to this day, and never played the violin again. Or previously. I made a mental note, given my long history of recognising people that aren’t who I think they are, to Google him when I was next able and see if it was indeed him.
The start of the race loomed ever closer, and a volley of thrown ponchos, jumpers and drinks bottles came over the metal fencing. The runners occasionally were called on to wave at the BBC camera crane, parked in the field beyond the starting line. Then, almost without ceremony the running was underway. I made my way slowly back out of the park, hoping to meet up with the race later on at London Bridge. The tannoy announcer began his shout-outs to various runners and charities, occasionally saying things like “Let’s Have A Big Cheer For Altzheimers!”
My way back to the station was troubled slightly, as I managed somehow to get misguided back towards the opening stretch of the race. I got to see the pro runners go past, though, and took in the way in which Greenwich was transformed, with people allowing their front gardens to be invaded by the crowded spectators. Finally reaching Greenwich station, I decided to head straight for Waterloo, meeting Lyndsay there before crossing the river and making our way to the cheering point. Donning the charity greens we slowly warmed to our purpose, which was made a little more difficult by the prevalence of other greens. From afar the NSPCC singlets and the Macmillan ones were virtually indistringuishable. Still, it was better to cheer for the odd NSPCC runner as well as our own from time to time.
The trick, if trick there was, was to spot the name of the runner as soon as possible, and begin shouting once you believed the runner was in ear-shot. It’s quite an odd thing to do, though. That far on in the race you suspect many of the runners have entered a little mental sanctuary. Most people training won’t have run the full length of the marathon ever before, and will be in uncharted territory. More often than note, those still running would not notice the cheering point until they were all but past it. That said, the majority was pleased to see us. Some seemed a little baffled, which made me wonder how they had responded to the previous cheering points.
The most rewarding moments tended to be those who, on being cheered, would pick up the pace a little, finding in them a bit or reserved determination to keep going. There was also a strange circle of encouragement. As the runners responded to the cheerers, the cheerers responded in kind. If the runners weren’t... well... running, one or other of us would probably have burst.
And then there was the rain. A light drizzle that had begun a little while before the start of the race got gradually heavier and heavier, so that by the time the last of the runners were coming through, everything not safely ponchoed was soaked. Some flood damage occurred to a few volumes from the Go library that I had brought with me, but nothing that besmirched the type.
We counted through the final runners, a couple of Little Britain style “ladies” and a handful of more conventionally dressed runners not long after the roads were reopened, before making our ways home again. The following morning, aware that some of the people at work had been running, I managed not to bemoan my sore throat, or my aching calves. I dread to think of the level of discomfort the people actually running must have suffered.
Oh, and it probably was Tom Sumpster. There was a Tom Sumpster running but I can’t say for certain it was the same one.
The Macmillan team raised over a million pounds.
Whilst waiting for the off, and photographing runners, I fancied I spied an old school friend, Tom Sumpster in amongst the other runners. Tom, through no fault of his own, remains one of those people I’m probably not going to forget. When playing basketball at school, I reached out to gain control of a stray ball, only to have Tom’s mouth inadvertently collide with my arm. I sustained a small puncture wound to the forearm, and he lost a crown. I’m scarred to this day, and never played the violin again. Or previously. I made a mental note, given my long history of recognising people that aren’t who I think they are, to Google him when I was next able and see if it was indeed him.
The start of the race loomed ever closer, and a volley of thrown ponchos, jumpers and drinks bottles came over the metal fencing. The runners occasionally were called on to wave at the BBC camera crane, parked in the field beyond the starting line. Then, almost without ceremony the running was underway. I made my way slowly back out of the park, hoping to meet up with the race later on at London Bridge. The tannoy announcer began his shout-outs to various runners and charities, occasionally saying things like “Let’s Have A Big Cheer For Altzheimers!”
My way back to the station was troubled slightly, as I managed somehow to get misguided back towards the opening stretch of the race. I got to see the pro runners go past, though, and took in the way in which Greenwich was transformed, with people allowing their front gardens to be invaded by the crowded spectators. Finally reaching Greenwich station, I decided to head straight for Waterloo, meeting Lyndsay there before crossing the river and making our way to the cheering point. Donning the charity greens we slowly warmed to our purpose, which was made a little more difficult by the prevalence of other greens. From afar the NSPCC singlets and the Macmillan ones were virtually indistringuishable. Still, it was better to cheer for the odd NSPCC runner as well as our own from time to time.
The trick, if trick there was, was to spot the name of the runner as soon as possible, and begin shouting once you believed the runner was in ear-shot. It’s quite an odd thing to do, though. That far on in the race you suspect many of the runners have entered a little mental sanctuary. Most people training won’t have run the full length of the marathon ever before, and will be in uncharted territory. More often than note, those still running would not notice the cheering point until they were all but past it. That said, the majority was pleased to see us. Some seemed a little baffled, which made me wonder how they had responded to the previous cheering points.
The most rewarding moments tended to be those who, on being cheered, would pick up the pace a little, finding in them a bit or reserved determination to keep going. There was also a strange circle of encouragement. As the runners responded to the cheerers, the cheerers responded in kind. If the runners weren’t... well... running, one or other of us would probably have burst.
And then there was the rain. A light drizzle that had begun a little while before the start of the race got gradually heavier and heavier, so that by the time the last of the runners were coming through, everything not safely ponchoed was soaked. Some flood damage occurred to a few volumes from the Go library that I had brought with me, but nothing that besmirched the type.
We counted through the final runners, a couple of Little Britain style “ladies” and a handful of more conventionally dressed runners not long after the roads were reopened, before making our ways home again. The following morning, aware that some of the people at work had been running, I managed not to bemoan my sore throat, or my aching calves. I dread to think of the level of discomfort the people actually running must have suffered.
Oh, and it probably was Tom Sumpster. There was a Tom Sumpster running but I can’t say for certain it was the same one.
The Macmillan team raised over a million pounds.
posted by Hamilton's Brain | 12:12 pm
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