How 1 running club made 2 dreams
come true
by Kirsty Leishman
The
news that I had secured a place on this year’s London Marathon
through Carnethy’s ballot was greeted with excitement and dread.
No turning back now, no work excuses. Just do it. But
as winter and foot and mouth kicked in, so did my running, carefully
planned, monitored and accompanied by Steve. (Rawson) As east coast
winds drove snow and ice over the Capital, I wrestled grimly with
run after run accompanied in body by Steve, or in spirit as weather,
sore knees and rugby drove him to plan B - the bar. By
April, I knew I was feeling good; good enough to start to imagine
PB times – a humble sub 3,30 which, in a club of super-runners
sounds a little unremarkable but for me I knew would be a stretch. Pre
race-week
Runner’s
world warned of pre race nerves affecting diet, sleep and concentration.
Too right. I would have done more work if I’d set my laptop up
in the Ladies’ loo at work, and as for sleeping, I’ve written my
memoirs nocturnally at least twice that week.
Friday
April 20th Steve
and I train it to London. Steve tries to read with Leishman jack-in-the-box;
phoning friends, family, office, eating, chatting crap - no change
there. Saturday
21st
We pre-register
at London Arena. As one enters the building the atmosphere hits you
hard. London 2001 is underway. Officials are decked out in white
Flora sweatshirts and the system is operated with breathtaking efficiency.
I continue my fascination with Me and My World of sleep, visualisation,
food. Steve, London newcomer, finds the way, plans the routes, manages
trains, soothes Leishman nerves.
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Sunday 22nd.
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It
is a cold but beautiful sunrise over Greenwich Park, which greets
its thousands of runners. An air of hushed expectation hangs
over the crowds and already the air scented by deep heat, and
the unmistakable odour of many a pre-marathon pasta meal. I am
shaking with cold and anticipation. The gun goes off, Steve is
gone, my job begins: run, and run well. |
The race itself
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Pace,
relax, pace, calm. I can do this. Feeling good, I enter an inner
world of focus, breathing, planning. So much so I miss the Cutty
Sark altogether. I am awoken by the sheer volume of roaring crowds
at Tower Bridge filling me with a choking excitement. Careful,
careful. Adrenalin pushes me into race gear, three minutes ahead
of anticipated half marathon time. I am also anxiously scanning
the crowd for Steve, and our friends Phillip and Caroline out
there somewhere, waving me on. I know Steve’ll be thinking too
fast Leishman, too fast! But I feel good. |
Just
beyond the 13 mile point a roar, "C’mon Leishman!!" and
I look up at Steve, Philip & Caroline; and shout back, on top
of the world at the thrill of seeing my team.
We
were warned of the Docklands and the silence. Try running the Lairig
Ghru I thought, to experience true solitary running. I am pounding
now, focused on the real chance of my PB time and fighting a bit
too against a painful toe, rasping breath and a sore gut. Steve & Team,
faithful to the last, give me a hearty shout and I am again boosted.
Digging deep I find an ounce or two more of grit iron to push me
into the last and most painful miles.
At
Tower Hill more friends spring up from the sea of faces, and I
am again spurred on over these hellish cobbles. Barbican, and we
race in to a dark tunnel where an eerie silence pervades the void
of blackness and pounding feet.
We
explode into a world of sunshine and fever pitch crowds. Now at
Embankment I focus on Big Ben’s kindly hands and swear to be home
by 1 pm. It is now 12 minutes to. That mile along to Parliament
Square is forever.
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I
am propelled by a heady cocktail of pain, joy, nausea – and deadly
determination to get that goal. Westminster, Bird Cage Walk –
Steve now yelling me on for the 5th and final time;
I just want home now. Even the police join in, pushing us on,
up to Buckingham Palace, onto the Mall, and as I enter the grandstand
area, I am aware of a strange hush. I look up at the enclosure,
a panoply of Flora yellow and green, rather like a summer garden
party. My watch face tells me: 3:24:56. The world stills. A smiling
camera-man waits for me to wipe away tears before the photo.
My champion chip is removed; and a woman passes a medal over
my neck. Down the lines to my kit bag where the lorry team shout
and cheer their support. I limp into hot sunshine, aware of utter
elation, exhaustion, and overwhelming emotion. |
He’s
there. By some miracle, Steve’s waiting for me. Just has I had
dreamed it. Best time, best coach, best bloke. 2 dreams – 1 club.
London
2002 here we come.
Thank you Carnethy.
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