There was a chill on the breeze, mud underfoot and the overwhelming stench of menthol vapour rub. Everywhere I looked I was confronted by spandex encrusted crotches, quivering in the cool, early morning air. In every corner of the field people were queuing; for free massages, energy drinks, the baggage drop and most terrifyingly of all, endless snaking lines of runners desperate for a pre-race wee. Yes, I was at a half marathon. I was a spectator and I could drink it all in…
Jones had committed to running the Royal Parks Half Marathon and so, I had committed to supporting her. It wasn’t her first race by any means: she is a willing participant, having done the London Marathon twice and numerous half marathons and 10ks. However, she recently reminded me that it was my, extremely brief enthusiasm, for doing the London Marathon that encouraged her to run in the first place. Years ago we applied for the London Marathon ballot together. She got a place, I didn’t and our respective roles were sealed. So I felt it was only fair that, for once, I pitched up and cheered.
I hadn’t realised it be would quite such an early start but there was only one train from our area going into Victoria station, Leaving at 7.04am. The cold, dark platform gradually filled up with runners and a few other supporters. With many other stations closed for engineering works (as usual), people had come from far and wide to catch this particular train. 7.04 eventually arrived. The train didn’t. At 7.15 the train disappeared from the information board. The lone National Rail employee locked himself in what seemed to be a store cupboard and refused to come out. A station full of panicked, irate runners was too menacing for him to deal with. Eventually, 25 minutes late, the train rolled into the station. As we climbed aboard the store room door opened and a little head poked out. ‘Train’s here’ he yelled. Fortunately, no-one threw a trainer at him.
So, by the time we arrived at Victoria it was a fast yomp to the race village, just south of the Serpentine. There was a buzzy, party atmosphere but the need to join at least two of the epic queues (loo and baggage drop) meant we couldn’t appreciate it. I took on the baggage drop as, clearly, I couldn’t do the other job on her behalf. It was well organised and only took 15 minutes. Jones was nowhere to be seen. I eventually found her, still only half way down the queue to one of the hundreds of grim looking porta-loos. I went over to the blue funnel, Jones’ appointed starting wave, and waited.
It was marvellous watching people’s last minute routines and preparations. They were all fascinating, from the young lad adjusting his squirrel costume to the grim faced man doing the John Cleese ‘high knees’ run or the girl who strolled up looking like she’d just rolled out of bed, only to suddenly pull her hair back and strip off her baggy jogging bottoms to reveal a sleek professional runner. I particularly liked the family who came to send off their wife/mother. It was as if she were preparing to go to war. They hugged her, kissed her, prayed, hugged her again, wished her luck, another kiss and then, as she started to leave, grabbed her back, clasping her in family bear hug before she finally trotted off. I know a half marathon is no mean feat but it was possibly a little OTT. I also had a great opportunity to listen to the hyped up commentary coming over the speakers. As runners passed the start line there was a stream of encouragement and support, although sometimes it missed the mark; notably when the announcer shouted, in a very upbeat tone, “And Bowel Cancer! Let’s Support Bowel Cancer!(Pause) I mean let’s support the man running to raise money for bowel cancer… I mean, to prevent bowel cancer….” before he gave up and shouted ‘Here’s another squirrel!’
Finally Jones came bouncing across the field. Her wave had already fnished so she had to join in with next one. There was just time to wish her luck and she was gone. The race village had emptied out considerably. I wandered over to the porta-loos and availed myself of them without a moment’s queue! Then, I had to decide what to do. We hadn’t made any firm plans except that I would be at the finish line. I’d downloaded the RPHM app so I could track Jones as she ran. Her expected race time was around the 2 hours 10 minutes so I wondered if there were time to walk up to Piccadilly and go to The Wolseley for breakfast. Or maybe buy a paper, rent a deck chair and just sit quietly in the sun that was now beginning to shine. But I decided that wasn’t in the spirit of being a good supporter so I took off to follow her progress.
Using the app, I planned some points at which I could watch her go past and cheer. This was a good idea, except for the fact that, when going at a fair lick, most runners look the same. Twice she ran past me and I didn’t see her. I began to wish she’d dressed up as a Squirrel. I looked enviously at the people who’d prepared with signs or brightly coloured bunches of balloons. Once more, the people watching was fun. There was a pair of women who, at the half way point, were jogging along and coolly chatting to each other about what they would cook for Sunday lunch. Also, fabulously, at mile 10 when most runners were looking rather sweaty and little ragged around the edges a woman ran past, dressed head to toe in skin tight black, immaculate fishtail plait swinging behind her, dark glasses on and full make-up still in place. The look was finished with a purple gilet zipped up to her neck. She didn’t even look flushed!
I quickly discovered that “progress following” was a fair bit of hard work in itself. It felt like I walked for miles around the parks. (At least three times around the Serpentine). Finally at the fourth point, around the 10 mile mark, I saw Jones run past. She was on the opposite side from me and I shouted to her but my pathetic attempt was drowned out by all the other supporters. She didn’t see me at all although I was impressed she was looking so strong. (If you read her blog you’ll get a far more detailed account of how she was actually feeling, but the important thing is she looked good!)
I decided to head back to the finish line in the hopes of actually seeing her cross it. Fat chance. The spectators were four deep all along the finish and you could barely move at the spewing out point, where hot, sweaty bedraggled people (both runners and supporters) tried to reunite. Checking on the app, I saw Jones had finished but it was still a good 10 minutes before we managed to find each other. I hitched a spot under the ‘Breast Cancer Support’ banner (having donated money in the past I didn’t feel too guilty about this) and texted her where to find me. However, at that moment she emerged from the crowd, her sustainable wooden medal swinging in celebration.
She was rewarded with a chicken sandwich and a bowel of chips at the Serpentine café. Jones had tucked her medal away in her bag but I made her put it on and wear it. I’m fairly dubious about the sense of moral superiority some people feel when taking part in these events. After all, judging by the demographic of runners in this race, it is a classic pastime of the wealthy and privileged. But Jones has never been one for being superior and she had achieved a great run so I thought she should wear her medal proudly!
By the time we started to head home I was feeling a little tired but I thought mentioning might seem rather tactless. After all, I hadn’t actually run 13 miles, even though it felt like it. By this stage the weather had closed in, the sun was long gone and rain was beating on the train windows. Home seemed like an excellent idea.
All in all, apart from standing in the baggage queue, I’m not sure I was of much practical assistance to Jones. Certainly at the couple of points she says she started to find the run difficult, I was nowhere to be seen and so couldn’t provide any encouragement or support. I’ve learned that we should have designated spots along the route where we could look out for each other and I would have no embarrassment about making a big neon banner with her name on it so she could spot me easily. I’d also pack a bag full of disposable SheWees. I mentioned these plans for next time. Jones looked at me incredulously. “Next time?” she said. “Next time, you’re doing it with me.”
