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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.

Sunday 22nd.

The Start

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

Tower Bridge 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.

Birdcage Walk
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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