I like to think of myself as a storyteller, and plenty of people would probably agree on that, for better or worse.
Stories are the threads that stitch together our world. Religion is a collection of stories, and film and TV revolve around stories we all follow. Our own lives are endless stories, some told and some untold. To a degree, I’ve been blessed with the ability to spin a yarn people seem to enjoy, and it’s that spirit I wanted to bring to this piece.
I knew my upcoming book would finish with the story of those 36 hours in London, but I didn’t know how the ending would look: would I finish? Would it be a dream or a nightmare?
Now I do. Here’s (part) of the story.
Travelling to London was always going to be a source of anxiety for me. Luckily, staying with my cousin Sarah in North Greenwich took some stress out of that, even if it meant a 40-minute walk to the start area. Thankfully, Sarah’s friend Sophie, also running, met me early on race day, and having someone to talk to while nerves built was a godsend. Sarah and her family have been brilliant, taking the stress out of everything, and Sophie was a nerve settler as well. We meandered through Greenwich, the buzz already alive around us, swapping stories.
The holding pens for runners are sprawling — not just a couple of fenced areas, but the size of several football pitches, filled with people, toilets, water stations, and the humming energy of anticipation. I got there early, sipped water, and nervously planned toilet visits. Jasper was also there, but they’re so big that there was little chance of bumping into him. Suncream was another drama — I hadn’t packed any, and the official stations had run out. Salvation came from a man dressed as a clown, obviously.
Things happened fast when my wave was called after two hours of waiting. I shuffled forward, heart racing, and by 11:21 a.m., I was running the London Marathon.
The first few kilometres were pure, unfiltered joy; it’s so hard to explain without you being there. The noise immediately hit me like a snooker ball in a sock, louder than any race I’d done before. I’d ironed my name onto my shirt and it turned out to be the best move ever. Every few steps, someone shouted it: “Go on, Gary!” “Come on, Gazza!” Little kids, old ladies, groups of young lads — their voices pushed me forward. It’s not just a twee statement either – I had a broad smile on my face and just kept shaking my head in disbelief. I know I’d been told the crowd were great, but this was on a different level.
The early course took us through Woolwich and Greenwich, packed with people leaning out of windows, pounding music, and people handing out Jelly Babies and Haribo. I kept my pace relaxed, soaking in the atmosphere, grinning like an idiot, barely even noticing the first few miles slip by. My planned careful pacing was never troubled, course congestion saw to that. My running playlist went out the window as well. Sure, I had my music on in patches, but more often than not, I stopped it to listen to the spectators. Outside community centres, people sang, and some had megaphones calling out runners’ names. It was, for want of a better word, awesome. This was bigger than a run; it was a street party I was lucky enough to be part of, a multicultural celebration of London’s best bits.
At around 10K, I saw friendly faces — Sean at the Angerstein Hotel, then Fe, looking emotional, flanked by Sarah, Mariano and Keeley, holding up a sign and screaming my name a little further down the road. Those moments were a bolt of energy, an even bigger kick than the rest of the crowd, just keeping me going. This race was going to be easy.
Next came the stretch through Bermondsey and Rotherhithe — six winding miles I hadn’t mentally prepared for. I’d imagined Tower Bridge would be right after Cutty Sark, naively, but no — it felt like forever away. The crowd here, though, kept me alive. More multicultural communities lined the streets, blasting reggae, Bollywood tracks, and house music. Kids handed out sweets; families sprayed runners with hoses. I lost my plan, missed a gel, struggled with my hydration tablets and the water bottle lids, but I didn’t care. I was loving it. I’d fist pump people who called my name, smiling away. I had 4:30:00 in my mind and while the crowded course and heat meant I was a little short, I was still comfortable I’d get there.
Tower Bridge was stunning—the iconic view, the roar of the crowd—but also my first real frustration. Runners stopped mid-bridge for selfies, blocking the course. It was hard to stay in rhythm. My first forced walk came here, just ten miles in, and it was the first of many. I wanted to run, but the congestion made it difficult. I’d spotted Ben and Rachel as I rounded the corner, and it was strange – that gave me a big boost, but it was like hitting a power-up on a video game and spinning out moments later. The crowd cleared after the bridge, briefly, but it was the first of many landmarks that just pissed me off a little. It was iconic being there, but frustrating as some were happy to walk and take selfies.
From there, it got grittier and challenging. Heading into Canary Wharf, the day grew hotter, and the water stations became more chaotic. I missed one water stop as I ran under a shower on the opposite side of the road, meaning three miles without a drink under a blazing sun. I had to stop at the next one and reach over an ankle-high pile of discarded bottles. I was lucky – some people tripped on a bottle, others, inconsiderate runners, just dropped on the course. I saw a woman at the side with her head split open, having done just that. Runners around me grew tired and erratic; some were oblivious to those behind them, walking, veering, and stopping for video calls. My patience thinned, my body ached, and yet — somehow — the crowd still held me up.
The Isle of Dogs was a highlight: proper London grit, jokes on signs, firemen outside Millwall station with a hose, blokes with pints cracking gags, real community spirit in buckets. However, the course wound around Canary Wharf and it began to feel really hard. By mile 18, I was deep in the pain cave. My left foot throbbed (an old injury, dubbed my ‘gammy toe’, first noticed the day we beat Tranmere in 2019), my right knee twinged and began to feel bruised, and my hands swelled. I felt dehydrated, weak, but still determined. I’d trained for this, but nothing can quite prepare you for it. It’s one of those pains you hear about, but only when you live it can you truly understand.
I tried breaking the remaining race into chunks — just a 10K and a 5K to go, not 15K, but two distances I ran three times a week. Sadly, my watch was wrong; I’d covered more distance weaving in and out of selfie takers and walkers three abreast that I was a little lost with my pacing. The mile markers blurred, I missed a couple, and the pacers from other waves showed times of 7:30, not the 4:45 I had readjusted to, and mentally, I was battered. It felt confusing, like a whole load of races had merged into one. Weaving through walkers, dodging kids crossing the course, sticking in 100m long puddles of spilt Lucozade — it felt like every corner brought a challenge.
Maybe it didn’t, maybe it’s like when you’re trying to concentrate in the car, and you have to turn the radio down. All of those things were the radio I couldn’t turn down. I stopped trying to calculate finish times. Survival mode kicked in.
Coming along Victoria Embankment towards the finish, the famous “wall” loomed. I could feel the shadow of exhaustion casting its darkness over me, wringing it’s tentacles into my muscles, squeezing my bones until they were close to breaking. Then I entered a real shadow as we went under the first road tunnel. That’s where it hit me.
By ‘it‘, I’m not talking about the wall or a shadow. That’s where the wall of emotion hit me. I don’t know what the tunnel is called, or if it even was a tunnel. I don’t know exactly where it is, it just appeared. All I know is the people under there smashed the runners with a noise that was utterly deafening. My headphones were turned up full, and I couldn’t hear a thing. I went into that tunnel broken and almost beaten, but for a few seconds, all I could feel was a tsunami of noise pulling me out of the darkness.
It was the first moment I felt genuinely emotional, and I emerged broken, but absolutely not beaten. These people were here to see us, to see me, and I felt for the first time the magnitude of the achievement. This wasn’t me smiling at the crowd and interacting; it was deeper, a primal emotion I’d never experienced. It reached into me and pulled out something I didn’t know I had, and I fought tears as I emerged into the light.
For a second, it went quiet as the crowd thinned, and I heard the first beats of ‘Lose Yourself’ by Eminem coming on my headphones. “If you had one shot, or one opportunity…”
It was cinematic, like a scene from a film where the protagonist is on the verge of losing, and a soundtrack drops that changes the plot. My plot changed – a surge of energy, born from pain, serviced by the crowd, set to music, and completed by my sheer bloody-mindedness. My race was back on. From there, it was no longer just running but a battle. I had to keep my emotions in check and push my body to places it had never been.
I’ll be honest, the last few kilometres were fucking brutal. On two or three occasions, I had a cold sensation running up my back and over my head, the first sensations you get when you pass out. I felt the early onset of cramp a couple of times, and even my shoulders ached. My mouth was dry, and my lips were almost sealed like grouted tiles. My body screamed to stop, but the noise drove me on, and I was in control.
Strangers yelled my name, and each time they did, it was like an arm on my shoulder, dragging me on. I pushed harder, barely seeing the London Eye, Big Ben, and Parliament — landmarks blurred into a single mission: finish. Of course, that was made difficult by walkers constantly taking their selfies and ringing their friends. “OMG, I’m near Big Ben.” I don’t care, Princess, get out of my way.
My watch clicked over to 42km, and I knew I couldn’t be far, but I had no idea how far. We came up the front of Buckingham Palace, and a big sign said ‘385 yards to go’. I had no idea how far that was, but I glanced briefly at the Palace, didn’t stop with the groups taking selfies, and was back focused on the course. Ahead, salvation: the finish appeared in the distance, like an oasis in a desert of physical pain, just as I approached my mental breaking point. It was the final leg up I needed.
I’d imagined finishing the marathon a few times. In bed, during the parts of my training where I was having other issues, I’d imagine finishing to drive the other thoughts from my mind. Occasionally, on my long runs, I’d look at a stretch of road and wonder what it would be like when that road was the Mall, and the crowds were cheering me on. We all have things we picture long before we experience them, I’m sure, and sometimes, they’re better than we imagined.
This was one of those times.
The straight before the finish is no more than maybe 200 metres, but it flew by. I didn’t know what to do, and I saw a few people raising their arms, so I raised mine as I went over the line. It all happened so quickly – one minute I was excited on the start line, the next dying on Victoria Embankment, and finally, I was crossing the finish line of the London Marathon.
4:55:59. A marathoner.
I stopped, tried to process it all. Someone hung the medal around my neck. I called Dad, managed a few words before the tears came properly. I tried to call Mum, but the signal was patchy and the call dropped out. I tried to call Fe, waiting in the holding area, and got no signal. I stumbled along exhausted, proud, but oddly alone. Those 25 minutes from the finish line to the meeting area were weird. I struggled to walk, twice tried to drink from a bottle I knew to be empty and finally ended up with free bottles of stuff I’d never drink, a yoghurt protein beverage and a bottle of anti-freeze coloured Lucazade.
As a storyteller, this is the film version, but the longer series will be available in my book when it drops. There’s so much more to tell (6,000 words in the book) and I can’t tell it all here. Hopefully, that will give you a bit more clarity on some of the events of the course, other things I found tough and more about how it is organised, for you when you apply next year….
What I will say is this: the London Marathon is marketed around landmarks. They’re listed on the medal, and beforehand, I was focused on those, thinking what the pictures might look like, imagining how I’d feel when I saw the Tower of London at my side, or Big Ben ahead. However, that’s not it. They’re almost the points I enjoyed the least because of other runners and their infatuation with selfies and videos.
No, for me, the London Marathon was about Bermondsey, Woolwich, Rotherhithe and Millwall. It was the winding roads that took me to what felt like the deepest corners of the real London. It was a journey through cultures, through the spirit of the capital city and into its hidden depths. The marathon took me to the deepest depths of my spirit, pulling out resilience and endurance I didn’t know I had, and it was the people of London that helped me discover that, not a selfie at Buckingham Palace, 385 yards before the finish.
That was my London Marathon. The ballot is open, why not see if you can get your experience as well?
You can still sponsor me here – the total is over £6000 and there’s still a few bits to announce!