Pain: Just The French Word For Bread

I wouldn’t say I necessarily recommend running the marathon. It isn’t for everyone. But if you've not done it before, I definitely recommend turning out to line the streets of one. I ran the Brighton Marathon yesterday and it was one of the best experiences of my life. Us humans have been having a torrid time of it of late  – so much of it self-inflicted too. If you want a reminder of what we can be like at our best, a day out at a Marathon event will do that as well - or better - than anything else I can think of.

A bright, slightly blustery, Brighton city centre was heaving to watch the more than 13,000 runners taking part. And what a turnout of people supporting the runners. Families with kids handing out sweets. Elderly people, many of them single. Young people, students, lining the streets blasting out every type of music under the sun from every era. The best homemade sign I saw all day was one at Mile 5: two women bearing a sign that said: “Pain is Just the French Word for Bread”. As a runner, you really can't beat that on marathon day.

One of the things you may not appreciate unless you’ve done one of these is the fantastic atmosphere in the suburbs of a city hosting a marathon. The TV cameras don’t go there. Most supporters don’t either – they concentrate in the city centre. The burbs of Brighton were fantastic. An early sign of that was at Mile 2. This was when a female vicar came bounding out of the side door of her church, clad in full vicar regalia, made a beeline for the perimeter of the churchyard running parallel to the street, and began clapping manically, barking encouragement with great authority at all the runners jogging past her. A celestial coach in the dugout if I ever saw one.

From Mile 8, the route took us way out east of the city along the road following the beautiful but desolate Sussex coastline. Dotted along there, all by themselves, were three different two-or-three man bands. Stopped, big audio equipment out on the grass, playing anything from “Run Like The Wind” to “Gimme some Lovin.” They weren’t going to get any money out of the runners. They were just there to support them. There was a full choir by the roadside too! Back in the burbs, there were several street parties off to the side of where the route snaked its course. People partying - some sober, some not so sober. All cheering the runners as we went past them. Loads of boom boxes. More 70s and 80s music. Lots of Donna Summer. And lots of older couples, garden chairs out on the street, glass of prosecco in hand, hollering out encouragement on what was a lovely bright day in every possible way.

The ‘Pain is Just a French Word for Bread’ got very up close and personal with me at Mile 14. I was strapped up on both knees, anticipating event-scuppering problems from either one. And there it was at Mile 14 – like nothing I‘d felt before. A prolonged sharp, really sharp, kind of icy-cold, piercing pain somewhere to the right of my right knee. I yelped like a stuck pig and unloaded a volley of the bluest of blue language directly at the offending joint. I continued yelping, cursing and hobbling for the next minute or two. I feared this might be the end. Over those two minutes, maybe 5 or 6 different runners stopped and asked if I was alright, if there was anything they could do. They were all so nice I regretted letting fly so fulsomely with my full portfolio of truly vile North London vernacular.

Anyhow, I don’t understand quite why but, somehow, by walking on it a bit, stretching it a bit, stopping a bit and repeating that several times, I managed to start hobbling again. And before I knew it, the pain had subsided, and I was managing a decent run again. I’d taken Ibuprofen two hours before the start, and again two hours in. I took two more a couple of hours later. That’s more than what’s recommended but I got away with it. I got the exact same screeching pang of pain, only this time twice as strong, at Mile 25. More cursing, this time with a livid “I thought I told you…???....” parent-to-errant-child vibe to it.

Even though it hurt even more than the first time, at 25 miles it didn't feel like a crisis as it did at 14. At that point, all I needed to do was hobble on for one more mile. I do have to give a massive shout out at this point to my brilliant physio, Simon Gregory. I picked up an injury a month ago that was so painful I had to suspend my training. I discovered Simon has a practice up the road from where I live. He was clear there was nothing fundamentally wrong. It was just a case of inflammation that could be treated. Thanks to him working his magic with his magic tape, I was able to resume training. He strapped me up on Friday, two days before the big event. I literally couldn’t have done yesterday's run without him. But for Simon, I would have pulled out of the event after six months of training for it. There are no ifs, buts or maybes about that. Without him I would have pulled out – period.

Back to why I recommend turning out for a marathon, if not necessarily running one. It really is the most uplifting experience. Thousands and thousands of people – runners, organizers, volunteers, medical attendants, charity workers, street cleaners, mobile toilet operators, musicians, supporters out in the city (and the burbs) – all out enjoying the day, all sharing a common goal. Every last one of them wanting every other one of them to enjoy the day and succeed. Okay, maybe the elite runners don’t want their rivals to have too good a day. But that’s one wonderful, fiercely competitive, component of an otherwise joyously collaborative festival of mutual support. All of it fantastically good.

The only conceivable downside I can think of is the generation of thousands of plastic water bottles – but I even saw the clearing up of those being done with ruthless efficiency both during and after the event. Like I said, if you find yourself despairing of the difficulty we have getting along with each other, and martialling our skills and talents to move mountains and take ourselves forward, get yourself to your nearest marathon whenever it next comes to a town near you. I can pretty much guarantee you won’t regret it.

I raised funds for Mind the UK’s leading mental health charity. Many thanks to the 27 folks so far that have supported me with a sponsorship donation. My sponsorship page is right here and will remain open for a few days. Oh, and for anyone who’s counting: 6 hours, 3 minutes.