London Marathon

 London Marathon

And so it came to pass that on an early October morning when autumn makes her most visible and gracious presence felt that thousands upon thousands of people spill out across the capital city of London and celebrate like they've never done before. It's unusual to say the least since they used to acknowledge this moment of the year back in April when the cuckoos were still finding their voices and the tulips were on the point of bursting out in technicolour profusion.

This morning, 41 years after its first appearance on the streets of London, the London Marathon held us spellbound, completely overcome with emotion, astonished by the sheer magnificence of it all and insisting that the London Marathon would become a permanent fixture every year. It took one man, a certain Chris Brasher, surely one of our finest of all athletes, to be the choreographer cum organiser of the most inspiring, inspirational, joyous and most harmonious street runs ever seen in the capital city.

It's been well documented now that the very first Marathon was shared honourably by a leading athlete and a waiter carrying a tray. But that was 1981 and since then the London Marathon has become one of the most established and impressive sights you could ever hope to see. It is a wondrous spectacle, surely the best organised sporting event in Britain and transcending both class, religion, social position and any other hierarchical obstacle that may come our way. 

The London Marathon is exclusively designed for the masses, everybody, the country, the county, the shire, the village, town, city and any postcode of any description. It ticks all the right democratic boxes, makes you feel good all over and just gets you here. When Brasher was pondering the idea over 40 years ago he must have felt that there was a yawning gap in the British sporting calendar which had to be filled. He knew that across the world Marathons had been going since the beginning of time but could never understand what all the fuss was about when, suddenly, a London Marathon became his brainchild, his creation.

So after 41 years of punishing, gruelling, intensive often painful foot running starting at Greenwich, London and finishing at the Mall, another edition of this now deeply revered race finished with all the bells ringing, horns blowing and thousands of medals bouncing around participants necks. In previous years the likes of Mars sponsored the Marathon and we all thought this was some bizarre contradiction in terms since surely chocolate was bad for you and you'd put loads of weight on and it just didn't seem right.

But when the tape came down at Greenwich and the club runners had shared pleasantries with the familiar celebrities, it all seemed to make sense. This was sport at its most welcoming, tolerant, inclusive, consenting, accepting, never leaving anybody out. The London Marathon was all about diversity, racial harmony, egalitarian values, promoting both brotherly and sisterly love. It was about running, jogging, smiling, pushing your body to its limit but also enjoying those precious moments of togetherness and solidarity.

You knew when the London Marathon was about to start because this was a cue for a huge outpouring of charitable benevolence, people running for dementia, cancer, Parkinson's disease or the local hospice. This was the one time of the year when nobody seemed to care how young or old you were.  There would be effusive laughter fit to burst, the wheelchair athletes would be roundly acclaimed and cheered while those in fancy dress costumes would be recognised almost instantly.

And that is the recurring theme of London Marathon day, a chance to set your best time on your watch or just admire the cream of world athletes breaking records while your auntie would pass you a piece of Dundee cake if you were flagging. So it was that the massive multitudes gently broke into a trot before breaking into a quicker run as Greenwich was left behind and the whole of London would line the railings just to wave Union Jacks or yell good natured encouragement to Uncle Peter.

Amid a riot of colour and a sea of faces, they spread out across the genteel back streets of Lambeth, through Woolwich before eventually crossing the river to Docklands, a vast, sprawling maze of corporate dotcom companies and a railway system of its own. The London Marathon can easily identify with Docklands because this was the place London could once rely on all its vital commodities from all over the world. To some extent that dependence on the bare necessities of life still exists but not quite on the same scale.

Then the London Marathon winds and twists and meanders and stretches like one huge elastic band being pulled right across the capital. Hordes of people dressed in Spiderman, Batman, Minions, pink afro hair styles and frilly skirts would file their way around the course in the most leisurely and respectful fashion. Nothing seemed out of place and everybody was determined to enjoy every single moment of the day. 

By the time the club and fun runners had finished their personal Marathons, the professional athletes were already at Blackfriars, the Embankment and where the river Thames meets the outskirts of the West End of London. They were all here, the accountants, the lawyers, the solicitors, the dentists, the supermarket shelf stackers, the cab workers and the friendly members of staff in those supermarkets. They were followed by the postmen and women, the milkmen and women and the office workers who are engrossed in their computer spreadsheets, designing websites and working their fingers to the bone.

Now we come to the crunch, the business end of the Marathon, the moment when Olympic, Commonwealth, World and European Championship stalwarts, the athletes with times to beat, make a breathtaking sprint for the final tape. This year was no different to any other London Marathon. The Ethiopians and Kenyans were still in dominant form and conquering all comers. They usually do because they are by far the sleekest, fastest and smoothest runners in the world. 

Over the years we were told that when they were young they would run to school from their local village and think nothing of clocking up the miles. They would then run back home after school and that was the logical progression. First, they would win medals and trophies at yearly sports days and then become upgraded to club or regional champions before the world came along and that was their oyster. 

So it was that Kenya's Amos Kirputo would win the London Marathon, lunging across the winning tape in record time and a whole army of men and women wrapped silver foil all over him, before holding up exhausted athletes who were completely bent over and just clinging on to anybody who happened to be available. They would remember the immortal words of that famous Olympic soul Baron Pierre de Courbertin who believed quite categorically that it was the taking part that counted and nothing else.

In second place would be Ethiopia's Leul Gebresilase who looked as though he was running on empty but wouldn't have minded ending up in the Lake District. In third was Belgium's Bashir Abdi who would have been quite happy nip off to the Yorkshire Dales for a day such was the encouragement from the crowd. Time of course had now become immaterial since Marathons are all about fun, frivolity, running across bridges, past traffic lights, neat rows of shops and houses, a bewildering blur of activity and much merriment.

For the women Yalemzerf  Yehualaw won the ladies Marathon for - yes- you've guessed it, wonderful Ethiopia followed inevitably by Kenya's Joyciline Jepkosgei and in third place Ethiopia's Alemu Megertu. Now the most highly regarded of our wheelchair athletes came powering their way towards the finishing line including Marcel Hug and Catherine Debrumer from Switzerland and once again David Weir of Great Britain quite triumphantly and deservedly.

Another London Marathon had passed into history and another stunning autumn Sunday had reached its conclusion. It had been a day like no other, a day for remembering who we are and just how capable we are of completing 26 miles around London's noble streets. Against a ghastly backdrop of war and murderous aggression in Ukraine, a small corner of London had restored our faith in human nature. Bravo.