Pheidippides, by James Gleeson (1967)
In the year 490 BC, so the story goes, a herald from Athens named Pheidippides, already having run 150 miles over the previous days, ran the 25 mile distance from the battlefield at Marathon to Athens, to announce the victory over the Persian armies. As he arrived, he uttered the word ‘Nenikékamen’ (‘We have won’), and died from exhaustion on the spot. The modern marathon event, which now stands at 26 miles and 385 yards (lengthened to place the finish in the Olympic stadium at the 1908 London Olympics), celebrates Pheidippides’ mythical run, and his words ‘we have won’ capture the feeling of the millions of people who have run the distance to memorialise lost friends and family, raise money for the most important and urgent good causes, and fight personal demons. Twenty-six miles is a distance calculated to expend the normal strength of the human body, leaving the runner face to face with their limitations. ‘The wall’ that occurs when the body runs out of muscular fuel is the great metaphor for the barriers that are part of the human experience in all cases. The marathon runner embodies the victory over those barriers: the progress of each runner enacts human hope and persistence.
Last Sunday, after nine months of waiting and training, I finally stood at the start line of the Edinburgh Marathon in Scotland, ready to undertake this experience: to cover this distance for the first time. In my training runs I had gone twenty, and even twenty one miles: but no further. What lay ahead was unknown, but I felt energised by the thousands of runners around me, and the sound of drums and bagpipes as we set off through the streets of that beautiful capital city. Thousands of people lined the streets, cheering and holding signs for their loved ones and friends. Time passes differently when you’re running: the body seems to count its own temporality in the flow of the run, and I had to remind myself of my pace, checking my watch as I passed the first few mile markers. After half an hour we were out of the city, and into the county of East Lothian: running along the seafront, by a huge power station and a stately home, through towns and villages. All along the route, pockets of people smiled and clapped encouragement, with families holding sweeties out for the runners. The people of these towns were pulling us forward with their goodwill, through mile after mile. On most mile markers there were water and fuel stations, where adults and children would stand beside the road holding out opened bottles for the runners. The volume of Lucozade consumed during those six hours must have been an epic quantity: but again, to me it was an inspirational element of the support, the team effort of this event, keeping the flow of runners moving towards the unseen goal.
I knew I would be crossing unexplored ground in my first marathon, and the elation of the experience began to mix with a different set of sensations as I approached the 18 mile point. The Edinburgh Marathon route progresses away from the city until mile 17, where it turns, and heads back along the same road. On Sunday, that meant a turn back into a frighteningly strong headwind, and we knew it was coming. Rain pounded the runners just as the distance started to take its toll: this is where the marathon really begins, and I was feeling my limitations in a way I never had before. The muscles around my knees cramped up, and my whole body felt depleted. Needless to say, the next part of the race was a battle with myself: doing whatever I could to move myself forward, then hearing the cheers of the people beside the road, and finding the strength to speed up a little. I thought of the generosity of my friends around the world who had donated money to Macmillan Cancer Support, the charity I was running for: and that moved me forward more. I read the back of the vests of the runners around me: in memory of their heroes, their loved ones. They ran on, and I ran with them. When I had no strength I could recognise, we ran together for all the goodness we had dedicated our training and this event towards.
As we neared the finish line, shouts came from the sidelines: “two miles to go”, or “a mile and a half”. By this point the copious amounts of Lucozade I had consumed were finally providing some energy to my legs, and I felt a little strength returning. We descended slightly into the town of Musselburgh, and heard the deafening sound of thousands of supporters who had ignored the organisers instructions and insisted upon lining the final bend of the course. There were so many of them that they constricted the route, and as we ran out the last of our effort, the crowds enveloped us with their cheers and celebrations. My body was singing from within, through my exhausted limbs: with all this, after our journey, I was almost overcome with emotion. We ran through the finish line, and into normal time and ‘life’ again.
But life could never be the same. My 26.2 mile run was so much more than I had imagined, and the time I had set as a goal for myself eluded me. Yet I am glad that my first marathon experience was just as it was. It delivered the dramatic power that the event has the potential to provide — it emptied me out, and filled me up again. Over the finish line, my wife Helen and I walked (I hobbled, more accurately) to the Macmillan Cancer Support tent, where celebrations, food and leg massages were provided. I talked with the other runners — each one matched and enlivened by their experience. For the rest of the day I felt an incredible clarity of mind and peace: beyond the horizon of my body’s capacity, I was rewarded with something new and profound.
I haven’t been out for a run this week — resting the body is essential for a proper recovery. But I’ve wanted to get out there, more than any time I can remember. For sure, I’ll be back (perhaps next year?) to battle for my target time. In the meantime, I’ll recommend this experience to everyone who has the slightest inclination to run. There are many great metaphors for the struggles we face, and the cooperative and personal victories that are part of this life. But I haven’t come across one yet that was more powerful or inspiring. For all of us: supporters, friends at home, volunteers helping, and the runners, I say: ‘We have won’. And we will win again.
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For an inspirational look at the event and the experience of five runners with very different goals and backgrounds, check out ‘The Spirit of the Marathon’ (2007). You can a trailer here, or – if you live in the UK – the whole film is online, starting here.
Beautiful.
I love reading about your experience. I love how connected the individual experience was with the community around you, how circular that relationship seemed to be. Congratulations to you!
Awesome! I’m so happy you wrote about this–I’ve been hoping we’d get to read about it here.
Congratulations!
Heather, it’s only a matter of time for you, right? :D
Get that film – you’ll love it.
This was a beautiful discription of everything i felt at that same moment, same place as I also ran my first marathon in Edinburgh on May 22, 2011. I appreciated the reflection that your experience gave me, it was wonderful. Job well done, congratulations!
Hollie, I’m amazed – you were in the same race?! Wasn’t it a brilliant experience: despite the wind and rain? :)
How did the race go for you?
It wasn’t quite the same challenge to be the supporter, but I really did enjoy being there. As they all set off it was an amazing sight, soo many people all moving forward on a massive journey. I then made a quick dash to the train station where those of us there filled the train and got off at various points down the track to give support to our family and friends. I decided to get to the furthest point down the track the train would take me (but before the turnaround point), that was a 20 minute train journey and then a little walk. I got talking to a guy on the train that was in running gear and I wondered if maybe he was part of the relay teams that were running, but he told me he was going to run the last 10 miles with his wife (she’s a faster runner than him, but he said he could keep pace for the last 10 miles). Not long after I arrived near mile 15 the leader passed, followed by ones and twos, and then larger groups of runners. I stood in a spot where I could peer through my zoom lens as the runners came round the corner and I stood there waiting, watching for Andrew to arrive. I was worried I’d miss him, but then, there he was I kept snapping photos, and suddenly he was almost past me – I shouted ‘go Andrew!’ or something like that, and he caught a glimpse of me as he ran past, then ran back and across the road (which was the return course) to give me a kiss. We got a few cheers. Then it was back off to the train to try and catch him at the finish line. Unfortunately I didn’t get to see anymore of Andrew’s marathon, but speaking with other runners as well as supporters made it a great day.
Well done Andrew!
Way to go dude..you must feel awesome!!
Excellent! A marathon is one of those life changing events, something that is hard to explain until you have done it. Congrats.
Thanks so much James. I loved your post about running here. Sums up a lot of the same feelings I have.
This is a wonderful piece – you brought me to tears, actually. :)
Loved this line: “What lay ahead was unknown” & your willingness to run into it.
Sweet story, Helen, about the kiss near the end. Yay! I can only imagine the energy in the crowds. Thanks for sharing a glimpse with us!
I also loved the kiss story!!
When I ran my first 10K in March (a pittance compared to a marathon!), the kids and Brent drove around to catch me in various places. I teared up every time I saw them. I guess I was vulnerable! ;)
Vulnerable. Perhaps. But you are right on with your expression of emotion. I don’t care if it is your first 10k or your first marathon, nothing quiet matches the emotion that comes with a personal victory in the sport of running. It’s you, and you alone. You had to get up early to train, you had to be honest with yourself in putting in the miles, having discipline required to get to your goal. And while there are generally hundreds of people, thousands even, when you cross a finish line it is a remarkably solitary moment – reflecting back on the race you just completed but everything that went into getting there – it’s a sense of accomplishment that I rank right up with with seeing my first born come into the world and finishing college. Emotion is allowed.
I get a bit emotional even now as I think about different parts of that race: and I’m not a particularly emotional person. It’s just such a powerful symbol of so many good things; so many struggles that may be overcome.
Interesting thinking about how, as you say James, the race is a uniquely solitary achievement: there’s no hiding from your ability and personal performance on the course… and yet, how interconnected it is. I couldn’t have run the race at all without the support of my wife, Helen, especially! I think this simultaneous solitary demand and interpersonal connection is what makes it such a great metaphor, too.
“Marathoning. The triumph of desire over reason.”-New Balance
I got goosebumps reading this article…I too was in your shoes last October. I ran the Loch Ness Marathon in Inverness last October. It was on my “bucket list” of things that I wanted to do “someday”. I was not an active runner prior to deciding to fulfill a 10 year dream to go back to Scotland and run this race. In fact I was a busy mother of 4 who never took the time to do anything for herself. Between working and kids I was too exhausted for much more. Needless to say the journey to accomplish my dream was life altering; the race itself was just icing on the cake. It was surreal to be standing at the start with thousands of others in the cold & rain and not really knowing what lie ahead. It wasn’t until I was at mile 9 and passing Urguhart Castle that it finally sunk in that I was there and actually running my marathon! The “Monster” at mile 18 (a 2 mile hill) was a trial of my training and dedication. For me it was the defining moment when I declared myself a marathoner and capable of accomplishing anything…as I saw those 6 fabulous letters (FINISH) after 26.2 miles I knew so much more about myself. I had a new awareness of myself and my strength, perseverance, bravery, and capacity for unbridled joy. . Something I had only ever felt before when I had my children. I remember that powerful feeling at the end of the race; the pride, awe and love I felt for everyone there. This past May I chose to repeat the experience a little closer to home-in Gettysburg, PA. While I doubt that any other race will ever mean the same to me as Loch Ness, that incredible feeling you have as you come upon the finish is what drives me to do it again. I know this message is long but I want to share a quote by Peter Sagal that I read the week after Loch Ness…”what I have found is that the last six miles separate distance runners from those who are merely obsessive or have a high tolerance for boredom. They are the crucible from which come molten, freshly recast marathoners, and each one of those miles is a distinct trial to conquer, and a reason to train, and reason to boast, and as such, in truth, I love them, because though you’ll never know exactly why you do them, it’s over those last six miles that you finally find out if you can. I’ll tell you something, though; the last .2 miles is a killer.” I’m so glad you got to have this experience…Cheers!!
Thanks so much for sharing your experience Taryn! I’d love to do the Loch Ness marathon: that hill at 18 sounds extreme!
I actually found the final 0.2 to be one of my favourite bits! :) I like that quote, though… as I went past others who were finding it even more difficult than I was, I felt so bad for their frustration… Over this distance, even with adequate preparation, a misjudged start or unexpected flareup of an old injury can happen. The ambulances lined the last six miles, to take away people who broke during that gruelling final stage.
Do you plan on doing another? What about other distances? I’m thinking about trying a competitive half before doing another 26.2: a totally different beast, of course.
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