You know that late Sunday post race feeling. Joints setting solid on the sofa, food and drink cravings usually chocolate and wine and a sense of suffocating fatigue that only bed will cure...assuming you can make it up the stairs. Yes, this was another Sunday evening and these were very much the symptoms of the moment. Only thing is...we hadn't raced. But we had been down to London to watch the Marathon and the effect was pretty similar. What a great day out.
Getting on the 5.50 train, you already sensed something was 'going down' as they say. The plan was already set, mile 14 and 21 were to be our viewpoints. I had the flag, we all had our club tops on, little Joe had his banner ready, the excitement was building rapidly. I've never watched a Marathon before. First the elites, then a trickle of very determined top notch club runners, then like some huge tap unleashing the waters behind the dam, the flow of the masses started...and never ceased. What a spectacle. Brilliant.
But how to attract the attention of your intended quarry, assuming that is you spot them first. Tricky. Monday I had no voice whatsoever. And what of 'James-3 days since London'? Another story, one he is still developing, reflecting on and reasoning with. I'll just say '3.10'. Since Sunday we've cycled through a target missed, a lucky escape and a fair result...considering! Whatever, he was clearly emotionally moved by the enormity of the moment and his training leading up to it.
Even as a spectator, you can't fail to be moved by what you see and get wrapped up in the excitement of the crowd. The train journey home was fun. It was packed with clanking Marathon medals and happy faces. More celebrations, drink and analysis. He did, however, use the phrase 'next time' with casual indifference, though everyone around him slumped with dreaded anticipation of having to go through all that again. And it was a thought that crept through everyones mind that day. Would I/you follow the blue line again...err no!
