A Marathon Watch
‘So why are you standing out here today?’ a man in an anorak asks me. ‘Do you know someone who is running?’
‘No’ I say.
‘Are you supporting one of the leaders?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Are you working for one of the charities?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ my inquisitor shrugs. ‘So why are you down here today then?’
‘I just like it,’ I tell him. ‘I just like watching.’
I’ve been coming to watch the marathon for five years now. I did it first on a whim, in the same way one catches a last minute flight or buys a new top, and now I won’t miss it for the world.
I’m not really a running fan or anything. I don’t know who any of the leaders are, unless it’s Paula of course, and I don’t know how fast they are or what a good time is. Only twice have I known people who are running in it, and neither time did I actually see them go past, or even look for them if I’m honest about it. That’s not why I’m here.
I watch the marathon because I like the way it makes me feel. The world is a pretty miserable place 364 days a year, and London in particular can be a very depressing place to be. We all live in our own little worlds, going to our own crappy jobs to warn money to spend on ourselves, to try and make us feel happy, sat at home in our flats watching TV. We are lazy, selfish and spiteful, because that is what the world is like; that is, until marathon day when it all stops.
The change begins with the runners - a hundred thousand people all gearing up to do something harder than anything they have one before - all scared and unprepared. I can feel any self-importance evaporating in a steam of deep heat and sweat. On a free psychological playing field all begin on the same level, there is no preconception or dominance, because no-one can be entirely happy when there is a 26 mile road ahead of them to run, or indeed happy at all.
This is what I sense when walking down to the Victoria Embankment this Sunday morning, a collective sense of equality where all of London has forgotten that they are man or woman, black or white, lawyer or dustman, and for a few hours is embarking on one great adventure together. All the same sites are here – Big Ben, Canary Wharf, Tower of London – but they are nothing now but landmarks on the way – trees blown by the wind of exertion.
Beside me sit charity workers, policemen, schoolchildren, families, all out to support and urge the runners on. I like to watch them just as much as the runners themselves, as they look for their loved ones or celebrities and cheer everyone on as they pass – whether they need it or not.
But it is the runners who really make this happen. 26 miles, no matter who you are, is an incredible physical demand, and even as the elite runners pass us the pain and the determination on their faces is evident. There is no pride here, no arrogance – these runners are not here for the show. It is their bodies that get me – all skin, bone and muscle – like a medical wall chart – the bare essentials of a human being. I think that why they look so natural when they run – graceful, like a horse or a cheetah – they are doing something that humans are built to do, and doing it in a perfect way.
After a while I head into Trafalgar Square to eat a spot of lunch, less I be overcome by the running Gods I have just been viewing. All around I see groups of people heading towards St James Park, those late on the scene – the students with cases of beer, leisure runners at the end of a morning jog, shoppers caught up in the aurora of goodness forming from the Thames – all of them talking, laughing, ambling and although it is crowded like the Tube at rush hour there is not a face of irritation amongst them. In this show of commitment of pain and endurance somehow are small gripes seem irrelevant and rather embarrassing. Seeing all these runners – athletes and non-athletes, makes us helplessly aware of our fallibility as humans, and humbles us into good-humour and altruism. We feel we must take part, even if it involves sitting on the grass, getting drunk and raising the occasional clap – at least we are doing something.
People are nice. We don’t like be told to do it, or forced to do it, but if we can throw in the lifebelt of our accord, then we will.
As I rejoin the runners on the Embankment this is what I notice – the lack of cynicism anywhere. London is a city of sceptics, but here they clap with all the rest of them.
‘Come on Elvis!’ we cheer.
‘Come on Dave,’ we yell.
‘Keep going Fred Flintstone!’
Yes its funny, yes the sight of a grizzled man in a tutu walking with tears in his eyes is a wonderful thing, but at the same time we are laughing to encourage not to sneer. The honesty in the runners’ faces is too much for anything else:
‘It hurts.
Oh God it hurts.
I can’t carry on.’
From serious club runners to the village idiots that is the same. None of these people are asking us to look at them, at their great cause and what great people they are; they just want to get to the finish no matter what happens.
This is why we support them, and enjoy doing it – because they need it, because it makes a difference, because as humans we want to, because we are good. This is why the human race will always prevail, will never self-destruct, because inside us all, removed of the modern world’s cloak, is a need to help each other through adversity, to get to the finish line.
For years living in London I hadn’t believed this was true, but this was before I saw the marathon, the runners stretched to the limit, the crowds devoid of cynicism and humanity stripped to its bare essentials – survival and community.
As I sit in the park, watching as the runners meet up with their families, brandishing medals, supping on Lucozade, hugging one and all, I realise why this is, why we all feel so good. The marathon reminds us who we are as humans, and because of this it makes us happy. There is no confusion, nothing contrived, nothing forced upon us – we are just us, and at the end of it all of us are the same.
In a few weeks time, as the barriers are folded up, the tents taken down, the police back to walking the beat, the children back on school, all of this will be forgotten. We will all go back to ignoring each other, standing in queues, clenching our fists as the man in front takes the last place on the tube, but somewhere, deep in the back of my brain I will know that the marathon will come back soon, and people will be happy once again.
‘No’ I say.
‘Are you supporting one of the leaders?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Are you working for one of the charities?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ my inquisitor shrugs. ‘So why are you down here today then?’
‘I just like it,’ I tell him. ‘I just like watching.’
I’ve been coming to watch the marathon for five years now. I did it first on a whim, in the same way one catches a last minute flight or buys a new top, and now I won’t miss it for the world.
I’m not really a running fan or anything. I don’t know who any of the leaders are, unless it’s Paula of course, and I don’t know how fast they are or what a good time is. Only twice have I known people who are running in it, and neither time did I actually see them go past, or even look for them if I’m honest about it. That’s not why I’m here.
I watch the marathon because I like the way it makes me feel. The world is a pretty miserable place 364 days a year, and London in particular can be a very depressing place to be. We all live in our own little worlds, going to our own crappy jobs to warn money to spend on ourselves, to try and make us feel happy, sat at home in our flats watching TV. We are lazy, selfish and spiteful, because that is what the world is like; that is, until marathon day when it all stops.
The change begins with the runners - a hundred thousand people all gearing up to do something harder than anything they have one before - all scared and unprepared. I can feel any self-importance evaporating in a steam of deep heat and sweat. On a free psychological playing field all begin on the same level, there is no preconception or dominance, because no-one can be entirely happy when there is a 26 mile road ahead of them to run, or indeed happy at all.
This is what I sense when walking down to the Victoria Embankment this Sunday morning, a collective sense of equality where all of London has forgotten that they are man or woman, black or white, lawyer or dustman, and for a few hours is embarking on one great adventure together. All the same sites are here – Big Ben, Canary Wharf, Tower of London – but they are nothing now but landmarks on the way – trees blown by the wind of exertion.
Beside me sit charity workers, policemen, schoolchildren, families, all out to support and urge the runners on. I like to watch them just as much as the runners themselves, as they look for their loved ones or celebrities and cheer everyone on as they pass – whether they need it or not.
But it is the runners who really make this happen. 26 miles, no matter who you are, is an incredible physical demand, and even as the elite runners pass us the pain and the determination on their faces is evident. There is no pride here, no arrogance – these runners are not here for the show. It is their bodies that get me – all skin, bone and muscle – like a medical wall chart – the bare essentials of a human being. I think that why they look so natural when they run – graceful, like a horse or a cheetah – they are doing something that humans are built to do, and doing it in a perfect way.
After a while I head into Trafalgar Square to eat a spot of lunch, less I be overcome by the running Gods I have just been viewing. All around I see groups of people heading towards St James Park, those late on the scene – the students with cases of beer, leisure runners at the end of a morning jog, shoppers caught up in the aurora of goodness forming from the Thames – all of them talking, laughing, ambling and although it is crowded like the Tube at rush hour there is not a face of irritation amongst them. In this show of commitment of pain and endurance somehow are small gripes seem irrelevant and rather embarrassing. Seeing all these runners – athletes and non-athletes, makes us helplessly aware of our fallibility as humans, and humbles us into good-humour and altruism. We feel we must take part, even if it involves sitting on the grass, getting drunk and raising the occasional clap – at least we are doing something.
People are nice. We don’t like be told to do it, or forced to do it, but if we can throw in the lifebelt of our accord, then we will.
As I rejoin the runners on the Embankment this is what I notice – the lack of cynicism anywhere. London is a city of sceptics, but here they clap with all the rest of them.
‘Come on Elvis!’ we cheer.
‘Come on Dave,’ we yell.
‘Keep going Fred Flintstone!’
Yes its funny, yes the sight of a grizzled man in a tutu walking with tears in his eyes is a wonderful thing, but at the same time we are laughing to encourage not to sneer. The honesty in the runners’ faces is too much for anything else:
‘It hurts.
Oh God it hurts.
I can’t carry on.’
From serious club runners to the village idiots that is the same. None of these people are asking us to look at them, at their great cause and what great people they are; they just want to get to the finish no matter what happens.
This is why we support them, and enjoy doing it – because they need it, because it makes a difference, because as humans we want to, because we are good. This is why the human race will always prevail, will never self-destruct, because inside us all, removed of the modern world’s cloak, is a need to help each other through adversity, to get to the finish line.
For years living in London I hadn’t believed this was true, but this was before I saw the marathon, the runners stretched to the limit, the crowds devoid of cynicism and humanity stripped to its bare essentials – survival and community.
As I sit in the park, watching as the runners meet up with their families, brandishing medals, supping on Lucozade, hugging one and all, I realise why this is, why we all feel so good. The marathon reminds us who we are as humans, and because of this it makes us happy. There is no confusion, nothing contrived, nothing forced upon us – we are just us, and at the end of it all of us are the same.
In a few weeks time, as the barriers are folded up, the tents taken down, the police back to walking the beat, the children back on school, all of this will be forgotten. We will all go back to ignoring each other, standing in queues, clenching our fists as the man in front takes the last place on the tube, but somewhere, deep in the back of my brain I will know that the marathon will come back soon, and people will be happy once again.
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