On April 26th, 35 000 people pounded the streets of London for 26 miles and 385 yards. With the news full of bailouts, corrupt politicians and greed, the London Marathon restores my faith in mankind, womankind and those in Bananaman costumes.
Entrants put their bodies on the line in the name of something bigger than themselves. Paraplegic soldierMajor Phil Packer was told he’d never walk again after an injury in Basra. He aims to complete the course on crutches, to raise money for others wounded in conflict. Even the celebrities, whose motives I often view cynically, must notch up the miles themselves. There is no other way. Chef Gordon Ramsay, glamour girl Jordan and her husband Peter Andre, joined in the race that has raised £450 million pounds for charity since 1981.
Hopefully, by now, the deep-heat muscle rubs, nipple protectors and rehydration gels have eased the pain.
“Knees and hips are stiff,” said my friend the Yianoo, “but I’m surviving!”
The London course covers some of the capital’s best known sites, starting in Greenwich at zero degrees longitude. Runners pass the Millennium Dome, as tumbled down by James Bond in the World is Not Enough, before crossing Tower Bridge, sidling up to Big Ben and ending in triumph at Buckingham Palace.
But what next for runners who have got the bug? Or for onlookers who feel inspired?
The biggest marathon in the world – in the Big Apple.
Every November, runners congregate at the United Nations Headquarters for an International Friendship Run. The next day, over 38 000 competitors tackle the real thing to finish in the heart of Manhattan, Central Park.
Bananaman costumes sold separately.
Marathon photo courtesy of 762_AK
