After the marathon
A bit tardy with this, but better late than never. Annoyingly, my really bloody good camera conked out on Friday and so the compact was wheeled into action for Marathon Sunday. This is the 29th London Marathon I’ve lived through – anyone else remember the first, in 1981? – and it still doesn’t get boring.
t’s the only Sunday of the year I’ll happily clamber out of bed before 9am. It’s habit, from being woken up by preparations (and bands) from when I lived within water bottle-throwing distance of the route. Now it’s a leisurely stroll through the fun-runners at the one mile mark before wandering downhill to see the elite men at five miles – and hear the drummers under the flyover – and into Greenwich for a morning Guinness at six miles.
As an event which brings people together, it just can’t be beat.
I couldn’t help thinking the police were a bit on the officious side this year – nagging a bloke stood on a bit of street furniture seemed a bit sour but may have been justified, insisting crowds stand on the pavement even at the end of the race wasn’t, though.
At the back of the field, everyone gets their own personal cheer, although I’m not sure they’re helped by seeing marathon officials dismantle the race around them.
And then… peace and quiet, with no cars allowed onto the course until it’s cleaned up. One day, maybe, the marathon street closure will last all day and people will be free to walk the streets of Greenwich. Until then, those couple of hours after the marathon are the best we’ve got.