Call the Midlife (31 page)

Anyway, realizing this is my only chance to head off impending doom and several potentially embarrassing headlines in tomorrow’s papers, I prepare to do whatever is necessary. From a few hundred yards away I can see a group of the East End’s finest watching on as this never-ending gigantic snake of sweating, puffing and
panting human beings pass by. I immediately go into full-on ‘must look like me’ mode: head up, so they can see more of my face and signature specs, the widest, friendliest, cheesiest grin I can manage and a little extra bounce in my stride. Fifty, forty, thirty and twenty yards away, and I still haven’t caught their attention.

Thankfully, with ten yards to go, just in time, hallelujah, one of the guys nudges his colleague.

‘Hey look, it’s Chris Evans.’

Thank you, Lord.

I can hear those angels again.

I slow up to give it time for the word to get around the whole group.

‘Heeeeeey, Christoff/Chrissybaby/Chris Evaaaans!’ comes the most welcome ensuing chorus of collective fire station approval.

‘Lads, lads, please may I use your loo?’

‘Sure,’ says one of the guys, immediately sensing the urgency via my furrowed brow and several tell-tale beads of sweat. This was obviously a number two situation and the fire brigade never knowingly let down a decent, tax-paying member of the showbiz fraternity.

The loo in question is up a brief flight of stairs just on the right-hand side of the garage.

‘Ouch!’ The steps hurt a bit. ‘Careful of your dodgy right hamstring, you Numpty,’ I say out loud. Once in the cubicle, I go to crouch into the hover, but more bother – I’ve double-knotted my shorts so tight in case they came loose and now I can’t untie them. All the time, precious seconds are ticking by. I check my watch and my pace reads 00:00:00. Bloody shorts. I will have to rip them off if necessary and complete the rest of the run in just my leggings.

I suddenly realize I am shaking, beginning to panic.

‘Calm down, you prick,’ a voice in my head rasps.

I just about manage to edge my shorts down around my thighs still intact. I am now a vac pac of my own making. A second later I’m good to go – except, now I’m all set, I don’t want to go. Major false alarm. Surely not the first for this fire station. But the most
inconvenient phantom poo of my life. Major maranoia. Or is it? I decide to sacrifice a minute of running time ‘just in case’ there is a boomerang contraction on its way back. I begin to strain, desperate not to get caught between a rock and a hard place, or something much less solid than a soggy place.

To shit or not shit, that’s the question. All the while, the panic of ‘Oh my God, something as simple as this could completely mess up my sub five-hour target’. Could this be in one of those, meant to nip to the loo for a quickie and end up still in there fifteen minutes later. Even a five-minute mandatory extension could easily see my plans go up in smoke, or steam as the case may be. But then again, if I can’t go now and find myself having to go a few miles later, a double stop will have the same effect. What to do?

NO ONE TELLS YOU:

Build in major margin for error.

If you want to run under five hours, aim for four hours forty minimum, as you are bound to have at least ten minutes of issues, dilemmas and distractions that will eat into your race pace. Preferably aim for half an hour under what you want to achieve, that’s the safest bet. Or perhaps, be ready to expect at least half an hour over what your best race pace might be.

ALL OF THIS WAS NEWS TO ME ON RACE DAY.

Here’s a quick top ten to help you see what I mean:

Top Ten Mid-Race Incremental Incidents That Could Derail Your Marathon:

I made a sensible decision and I’m happy. More importantly, I no longer have the distraction of whether I need to go putting me off everything else I need to concentrate on. The only thing I get wrong is my failure to notice the name of the fire station so I can thank the lads for their benevolence the next day on the radio. I have since rectified that oversight and would like to thank them via this missive in black and white.

My next challenge is to spot my wife and kids in between Mile 8
and Mile 9. There had been much discussion, debate and planning concerning where best we might get a chance to exchange a kiss or a wave, who knows, perhaps even a group hug.

What NO ONE EVER TELLS YOU is when it comes to marathon spotting, it’s much easier for the runners to spot people in the crowd than for the people in the crowd to spot the runners. Looking for a pal or loved one in amongst 47,000 people for up to an hour can send your eyes crazy. I know because I experienced just that when I went with my friend Kev to watch his wife Jen complete her first-ever marathon in a stunning 3 hours 47 minutes at a grand old age. The best tip is the novelty inflatable tip: make sure your ‘fans’ have something that makes them stand out from the rest of the crowd. Becuase, at over two million people, that really is some crowd.

We nearly didn’t bother with the now infamous inflatable banana, but I’m so glad we did. Perhaps the best £4.95 I’ve spent this side of the millennium as it enabled me to spot my clan from a good sixty yards away. As I draw ever closer to my waiting brood, my heart begins to sing like I never knew it could. Ecstasy on top of euphoria with a whole dose of unconditional love thrown in, enough to make a guy feel half decent about himself.

‘I don’t expect you to stop,’ Tash had mentioned the day before. ‘We just want to see you, Noah can’t wait.’

But it’s not as if I’m in the middle of a world-record attempt here where every second counts. I can’t wait to hug them all although when it comes to it, little Eli is dead to the world, snuggled up in his pushchair. Tash on the other hand is in bits, tears streaming down her face.

‘We’re so proud of you,’ she just about manages to blub, Noah beaming down at me from atop her shoulders.

It’s all over in a flash, there were two kisses in there somewhere I’m sure, as I wasn’t crying then but I am now. What tears are these? They really should prescribe whatever’s going on here via the NHS, it really is astonishingly life affirming.

Our next scheduled rendezvous is at Mile 11. The intervening
two miles of which disappear in a rainbow of cerebral other-worldliness, I’m running on air. In what seems like no time at all I am looking out for the mighty banana once again. And there it is, left side of the road, as planned, a bright yellow beacon to my little band of three. This time as I approach I can see there are more smiles than tears. We’ve had the big ‘Wow, moment – it’s time now to whoop it up and generally go crazy at puffing Daddy.

‘BA – NA – NAA,’ I scream pointing with both hands as I run up to them. We’ve lost our collective marathon virginity and the tensions that go with it; all-round pottiness is now the order of the day. Another group hug, Eli as well this time, more priceless kisses and another ultra-high to super-fuel miles eleven to thirteen.

I’ve never loved my family more.

Their presence has almost rendered any palpable physical exertion non-existent over the last hour, and look here what’s next to help me on my way. It’s Tower Bridge’s turn to work her magic. My oh my, what an honour to be able to run west down Jamaica Road, past Shad Thames and my old flat in Cinnamon Wharf, the only place south of the river I’ve ever lived, flanked by crowds on either side so deep now, they begin to merge with the buildings behind them. Then turn right to behold the magnificence that is Tower Bridge on London Marathon Sunday.

This really is one of ‘the’ moments of my life. I will never ever forget how bloody amazing it was to see that sight. If you ever have even so much as half a chance to bag a place in the happiest marathon on the planet, you must do whatever is within your power to make it happen. The wall of noise that greets all the runners as they edge step by step from the south side of the Thames over to the north with the Tower of London on the left and St Katharine Docks on the right is absolutely immense. The crowd just keeps on cheering, the noise not so much following us as pulling us along. A grade-one listed wall of sound. Screaming, cheering, laughing, shouting, more screaming, more cheering. I now sense this is how it’s going to be right to the finish.

First half done and dusted:

Duration: 2 hours, 25 minutes.

Distance: 13.1 miles.

One very happy Duracell bunny.

As the road opens up heading east and out towards Canary Wharf I begin my first mental check list for Part II. Calmly I assess my body, how is each of my various vital components faring? Shoulders fine, actually a little tense, so I drop my hands down lower by my sides, which simultaneously reminds me to give my legs a few hundred yards’ shake-down. These procedures immediately make me feel more relaxed. I even remember to breathe a little more deeply for a while. That feels good too.