We can all be heroes, just for one day
Spectating is a sport
Marathon runners are legends. Absolute rock stars. Inspirational beings of wonder. I am in awe of them.
Runners have done gruelling training, avoided likely injuries and raised thousands of pounds for good causes. Many of them have done marathons before. Some of them are fighting health struggles with their loved ones, are facing personal challenges themselves, or are sadly running in remembrance for those who have not been so lucky to win such battles. They’ve been out in the wind and rain for months. (No thanks.) They’ve practiced eating saccharine substances from plastic pouches. (Gross.) There’s a high propensity they could shit themselves in public. (Absolutely not.) They’ve eaten more carbs in three-day window than anybody on a week-long adventure through Naples. (That bit, I am jealous of.)
Marathon runners are brilliant. It takes a total showstopper of a person, a whole village of their fans to get through this event. They have rallied their friends, family, and loved ones to cheer them on. Behind every single one of these runners is an entire collective of supporters; a crew so impressed and excited about them dragging themselves around the twenty-six point two mile course that they will scream for them louder and prouder than any Swiftie watching The Eras Tour.
It’s sensational to witness. Standing in the barriers at London’s Marathon on Sunday, I could not stop myself from weeping. Before you even see a moving personal story on someone’s vest, you can feel it in the air as you approach the railing. The vibrations are infectious. Everyone is smiling, whooping, clapping, cheering. There’s an atmosphere of unity over something positive. It incredibly tear-jerking. But, let me tell you this: spectating is an elite sport of its own.
You must come prepared. You must analyse the course route for possible vantage viewing points. Bring water, snacks and coffee to fuel your screams. You must liaise with other supporters in your posse to ensure your main character’s support network are spread out along the route. You will stand for long periods: wear appropriate shoes. Get ready to have mild back pain and sore knees. (Maybe not as severe as those running it, but it is tough going.) It’s a long day — stay hydrated to replenish the non-stop stream of tears that might come your way. However, not too hydrated; toilets are hard to come by.
You need someone with a degree in direction-giving to try and explain how the late-comer friends in your crew can find you in the crowd. ‘You’re At Decathlon? Okay, great! Go down!’ isn’t very helpful when your friend is at the bottom of a huge building in the middle of a semi circular road with four exit spots and an amass of cheerleaders blocking your view.
What struck me, is how many people volunteer to make this event a success. It is a military operation to get across a road. Marshalls man a sophisticated large-scale human manoeuvre, coming out as an army wall; a human sluice gate encouraging runners to the other side so spectators can cross. Every single one of them wishes every spectator a good day, offering motivational words of encouragement to every runner as they give the directions. A woman in high-vis complemented me on my sign before saying ‘I really hope you spot your friends’ at mile nine. It left me sobbing. Why are people on marathon day just so lovely? It is overwhelmingly altruistic.
You also need to be quite good at pace-based arithmetic. The marathon tracking app never works with fifty-thousand people running and all their friends and family trying to use it. Someone please give them some extra BI resource next year? There’s a constant mental maths exam on-going through out the day. Working out the complicated equation of your friend’s start time, where you expect them to be in relation to the pacer flag, your course location and the sporadic updates with their split times via their chip to land at their expected time of arrival is like the numerical round from countdown. Stressful.
Trust me, trying to spot your runner friend in the crowd raises your heart rate higher than any HIIT workout you’ll ever do. Looking for a pink top, a white visor, or yellow trainers is impossible (it turns out everyone wears a pink top, white visor, and yellow trainers). You must have the eagle eye precision of an olympic archery pro and an operatic vibrato squeal to catch their attention when you do. You are nervous and excited for them, proud yet utterly panicked. Blink away a tear of anticipation or check your app one more time and you’ll miss them.
Once you do spot them the adrenaline continues to surge. You’ve pre-rehearsed all these lines of motivational prose but trust me, all that comes out is a high-pitched, raspy smoker scream of: ‘WOOOOO GO [insert name]’. They wave, they smile, they blow you kisses, and trot off to their next supporter beaming and fired up. You are left a wreck, weeping with pride and joy. Your heavy adrenaline come down from witnessing the marvel of their athletic prowess and mental strength is palpable. The woman next to you will probably start crying for you too, even though she doesn’t know them.
There are challenges and low moments. Mile nine is my lucky number but it did not provide the goods on the day. I missed one of my friends at Canada Water and was heartbroken and deflated (read: in denial). Once we accepted fate, all it did was leave us more determined to find them again at mile twenty-two. The tube and trains overflow on race day with spectators with queues snaking around for miles and one way traffic systems adding fifteen minutes on to any journey time. It’s like trying to leave the O2 after a concert but instead of everyone complaining and racing each other for the last remaining Uber, they smile and gladly exchange kind words of: ‘Wow! Isn’t this chaos.’ When infrastructure let-down is an inconvenience in pursuit of a positive objective instead our regular, capitalist routine, we are more forgiving to the TFL giants. More importantly, our fellow commuters. We ended up walking twelve-thousand steps to London Bridge to catch our gal at mile twenty-two. Adapt. Improvise. Overcome.
We did manage to catch her and boy was it euphoric. Plus, we got a bonus tour of London’s landmarks on the way: weaving through unknown wharf tunnels and absorbing the historic Tower Bridge with a waterside view. London is beautiful if you take a second to appreciate it.
Despite missing some friends at Mile nine, I did spot the weird, the brave, the wonderful. People beckoning the crowd for more cheers as they starred in their own main character moment made me smile cheek to cheek. A number of actors and celebrities were snooped; athletes running with freezers on their backs; some pushing others in wheelchairs; others guiding blind and partially sighted runners. One man ran backwards for the entire race. Some people were overtaken by a friendly but inedible Colin the Caterpillar, comprised of four runners joined together in one costume. Yet the man eating a Greggs sausage roll on the move was perhaps my biggest inspiration. (He was also going at a sub-four hour pace.)
Another race day highlight was a friend who accidentally gave Matt Hancock a cheer. We were shouting words of encouragement at people with names printed on their chests. Many of these people will look up and give you a smile, a thumbs up, or even say ‘thank you that means a lot’ as they speed past you. Every time, rendering it necessary for me to put back on my sunglasses and compose myself after another heart-warming moment of pride for a total stranger.
A friend shouted: ‘Go Matt!’
Yet as the words came out her mouth she realised who it was, adding ‘…Hancock!’ as he gave her a signature stare. Turning bright red with embarrassment and putting her head in her hands, we held it against her that she’s the only person to cheer Matt Hancock in tricky pursuits outside of a bush-tucker trial.
That said, even Matt Hancock of all people probably deserves some support. (Some being the operative word). Running a marathon is an amazing feat for any human being.
These people are superstars. They are changing the world, even if just for one day. The magic of the marathon is, of course, the participants but it’s also the effect they have on every one else spectating. They are able to transform the brains of every Londoner on the side lines. Race day is a bleak contrast from the silent bus to work, where you don’t so much as even say hello to the driver and you find it awkward if someone sits next to you, never mind offer up a conversation. There is no other day in this is busy city when someone would politely ask you if you want to skip the queue in front of them to help you spot your friend. Can you imagine any other time on earth where you call out someone’s name and the eight people either side of you join in too? I ended up hugging the woman next to me as her sister stopped running to tell her she loved her. She was weeping; I wept harder. Standing sobbing with pride for strangers is not crazy, it’s mandatory. These people are amazing and you don’t need to know them personally to recognise that.
Crowds uniting over a positive cause is rousing. You can actually feel it in your body. There’s selflessness. There’s unwavering, unconditional support. It’s why yoga teachers tell us that a class had ‘good energy’. It’s why protests are moving. It’s why people cry at music concerts. It’s why the theatre holds magic. Humans are more powerful than we think. We know people can exert power in horrendous situations: war, crisis, genocide but marathons are a microcosm of what we can do if we put our energy together for collective good.
So next year, even if you don’t know anyone running, go out and experience the infectiousness of positivity. No cheer is wasted. No clap is redundant. You genuinely can make a difference to someone’s race. Go out, brace yourself for the crowds and show these runners some love. Become a tiny but very important part of their inspirational magic. Not all heroes wear capes but they probably do wear Asics.