London, at last
Brief notes from my first marathon
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London, at last. After travelling around the World for all these years, I finally meet for the first time the Bustling City, home of Kings and murderers, house of double-deckers and the restless waters of the River Thames. After all the training and preparation a sunny day welcomes me to te British capital. Green endless parks to run, famous palaces and streets, melting-pot of culture, people and food. Just a few days here, to prepare the marathon with short and slow jogging sessions running up and down the fresh spring air of the Hide Park. It is quite an emotion to run in the most famous park, side by side with so many other athletes, those that will be the protagonists and those that are here only to finish the race. I have always thought, and now I feel, this is the sense and the spirit of the marathon: we are all here together, different age, sex, country, culture, preparation, motivation. But we are all united in the joy of running and making together those 26.2 miles. Rain and a timid sun, plates of pasta and potatoes to fill the body with as much carboidrates as possible, sleepless nights in a noisy victorian hotel, long walks and longer reading in the park. Three days pass very fast. London is preparing its 25th marathon, and the trill is palpable: TV speaks about the local heroine Paula Radkliff, streets are closed to traffic, restaurants are full of athletes and spaghetti, the Big Ban looks wisely at the Mall, where workers are setting up the finish line. |
| 17th APRIL | ||
It is 5:30 of April the 17th. The alarm-clock says it is time. It is still darkish outside, but the hotel is already swarming with people preparing for the marathon: the race will start only at 9:30,  but medical advices suggest athletes to eat at least 3 hours before. My room-mate Adriano, a 35 years-old man from Sardinia has a fabulous 2h35 in his carnet. He is already up. Everything is packed and prepared since the night before. Just the time for a light breakfast and the bus arrives at the hotel. A long trip to the Red Start in Greenwich park, the place where the marathon will start for oversees runners.It is 8 o'clock when we get to Greenwich. There are still more WC than people at the starting line. The air is chilly, the sky of an intense blue, the Sun shines and the speaker announces sleeply the starting disposition. Me and Adriano, we have planty of time to warm-up, relax and think about the strategy, that for me is very very simple: arrive at the finish line, possibly in less than 3 hours. It is 9 and the park is finally full of people warming-up, stretching, doing the cue at the WC, taking picture and enjoing a last drink or a ray of sunshine. Here and there, among the others, a roman soldier, a human-car, a Scottish in kilt, a guy in swim-suit, a neolithic warrior remember to us all that the London Marathon is more than a race, is a feast, a sort of holiday from the rat-race, a special day to live together. Helicopthers invade the sky; people crowding behind the starting line wave at the BBC sky-camera; hundreds of yellow and green baloons take off; the speaker voice gets louder, faster and emotional. I enter in line number 3: a good position, near the front line. Pressed in the middle of an immense crowd of 50.000 people I stare at this endless strange body of colours and legs. Time is over. A collective shout announce that is 9.30. I'm strangly very calm and happy to be here being part of something so big and so special. And the race starts... |
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| WHAT IS A MARATHON ? | ||
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I would never be expecting this. A marathon is for the first 20 kms an euphoric experience. A kind of a dream, like being drunk without drinking. You find yourself embraced by a crowd of people claping and incouraging you, kids calling you and giving you the five, ladies offering you sweets and water. People are the heart of the marathon: their enthusiastic pulsating gives you the rithm and the pace. At every corner a band or a radio play something for you. There are the smiling raggae, the blues sax, the rock from the YMCA, the scottish pipes, the encouraging percussions, the gospel choirs. You traverse the suburbs, the sky-skreapers, the city center, the poors and the riches, and everywhere you find the same enthusiasm. It is impossible to write the many strong emotion you feel. A marathon is after km 20. Here is the race. The second half it get serious. Tiredness and a look at the chronometer tell you that is time to move up. When the majesty of the Tower Bridge appears in front of you, you realize that, well, it is a big event. The River Thames accompany along the Embankment. Only a few kms separate you from the finish line. When Westmister is on sight it is really finished, and you have just the energy for a last sprint and a look at Buckingham palace. A yellow line on the Mall signs the 42,195 kms you covered, together with other 36.000 people, only with your legs, you sacrifices and your enthusiasm. |
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| FINISH LINE, AND... | ||
 2:59:37 !!I did it! Under 3 hours...Pretty tired but so happy! Well, I won't be able to walk down the stairs of the Underground and I'm killed by cramps and pains, but it was worth it. I look at my commemorative medal, it looks like a gold medal, and to me it really is. And now? Sport is a drug: as I expected, after one hour I'm already thinking about my next race... maybe in LA on March 2006, maybe in Berlin in October 2006. Well, the dream is still the Marathon des Sables : 240 Kms, 7 days in the Sahara desert, but this is another story, still far away... |
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