Five hours, sixteen minutes, thirteen seconds (part two)

Along the course, I see thousands of signs held up by spectators. Some are funny. Some are inspiring. Some are directed at specific runners. I try to memorise as many as possible to recall here.

Brexit humour is the most common shared joke I see. Variations of, 'You run better than the government'; or 'You're faster than Brexit' litter the streets. These are easily the most common signs held up to us. Other jokes include, 'If May can hang on, so can you'. It's pretty funny to see the same jokes cropping up along almost every mile of the course.

Most signs display that trademark British sarcasm - 'This is a lot of effort for a free banana'; 'Hurry the pub is open!'; 'Pain is just the French word for bread'; 'Run now, beer later'; 'I trained for months to hold this sign'. A personal highlight is the simple white sign I glimpse in Parliament square that  reads, 'Creative + inspirational marathon sign'.

The more inspirational signs are good to read. 'A random stranger is proud of you'; 'I believe in you'; 'You can do it'; 'You are amazing'; 'If your legs give up, run with your heart'. These are great and genuinely uplifting when the energy starts to wane. Somewhere around mile twenty, one lady holds up a sign that says, 'Go Adam'. It's not meant for me, but she lets me have it. I thank her. It helps.

But my absolute hands-down favourite sign of the day is one with a picture of Vaseline. The sign reads, 'Lorna! Have you vase'd your vadge?' It's hard to run and belly laugh at the same time.

We're halfway through the course and it's dawning on me how gargantuan a task this really is. My best run so far is twenty miles and today I will go even further than that. It slowly becomes apparent that all my training is coming into play. I'm controlling my breathing. Monitoring my water. Maintaining a steady pace. All of this is second nature to me now, I'm not even concentrating on what I'm doing. My mind is busy absorbing the surroundings and enjoying the wonderful, infectious atmosphere that bursts through the cool, grey day and uplifts my mood.

Just over halfway through and still looking like a beast.

I run into my family again here, around halfway through mile thirteen. They're positioned next to a stand offering Lucozade jelly beans. We have a quick catch-up. I'm still going strong at this point and it's great to see them again. They cheer me on.

Just before mile fourteen, we hit a sudden and shocking change of scenery. The course takes us down beneath the Rotherhithe tunnel and into darkness. Suddenly the crowds are gone. For the first time since we left Greenwich Park, there's nobody around to cheer for us. We splash through puddles of Lucozade - or what I hope is Lucozade - with our footfalls echoing off the walls. It sounds like a stampede. The sudden absence of noise and dim, orange electric light is jarring. Someone immediately gets a chant going, a familiar refrain we've been yelling every now and again along the route:

'Oggie-oggie-oggie!'

'Oi-oi-oi!'

After maybe a minute, we exit the tunnel and hit the streets again. The roar of spectators fills my ears once more. We're back on the main roads, heading into Canary Wharf.

The Canary Wharf loop.

This section of the marathon is totally different to all the others. Tight turns, cobbled streets, narrow roads, and a more industrial feel to the surroundings. People have still packed the streets and cheer like crazy as we move past. At some points we crawl to a fast walk, the tight turns forcing a slight bottleneck every now and then.

My pace is going well, even at this late stage. I maintain a steady time of roughly eleven minutes per mile and slow to a walk every sixth mile. As I'm grabbing my third energy gel, the guy dressed as a jukebox overtakes me. Then I hear someone screaming my name. I turn to see Amanda from work, one of the people who arranged this entire experience for me. She waves like crazy. I stop for a hug.

'Keep going!' she says.

'Need this,' I say, holding up the gel.

The eighteen-mile mark is traditionally designed by the local community. This year is a tribute to the charity established for Stephen Lawrence. 'Because of Stephen we can', it says.

It begins to rain now, but not hard. More of a light shower that soon clears up. Mile eighteen arrives at Heron Quays and I get back to running. The course takes us on a winding route across rivers and bridges, changing direction frequently. We follow like a giant human snake, slowly making our way through the city. One last hairpin turn - a really jarring corner that feels out of place amidst everything else in the marathon - and we're back on the main streets. Canary Wharf is behind us and mile twenty is up ahead.

The weird hairpin turn.

Now, for the first time, I experience a sudden sinking feeling. The surroundings look familiar. I recognise the tall tower blocks and corporate landmarks. These were the buildings I saw on Friday, on the way back from the running expo. I saw these surroundings through the window of my tube train as it raced back toward the heart of the city. It dawns on me that there is still so much further to go. I begin to realise how big the city can be, and how enormous the marathon route is.

I break mile twenty. This is now the longest run I have ever done. My pace begins to slow. I shift between running and walking more and more over the next few miles. I don't experience any pain or discomfort, just exhaustion. Everything I've done to prepare for this day sudden comes into play - the long hours of training, the miles I've run, the carbs put away to store in my muscles - it all seems to return at once and keeps my legs moving. I couldn't stop even if I wanted to.

We pass a school on the right. Children and parents stand outside holding a sign. 'Go Mr Deveraux and Mrs Turner'. It's hard to tell from their faces if the teachers have already come this way, but they cheer for everyone regardless. Music still blares from pubs. Drummers and jazz bands and karaoke singers continue to perform in the streets. Applause and cheers and shouts of encouragment ring in my ears. It's hard to pick out any one thing. Faces start to blur together in a long pink streak, like lights breaking and refracting through raindrops. I hear people yell my name when I slow down. All I can do is raise a fist in thanks.

My fiance messages me to say they've found a place on the course, around the 40K mark on the map. I don't know where that is. I call her.

'Where's 40K? Am I close?'

'No,' she says. 'At your current pace, you'll be here in about an hour.'

'Don't tell me that!'

The atmosphere on the road has changed. The jovial, happy feeling has dissipated, replaced by silent determination. People interact with the spectators less now. There are fewer waves from the road. Now when runners spot their supporters on the roadside, they rush over with genuine relief and seize a firm hug.

Current location. Arrows added for direction.

My legs are burning. Chest aches. It's a struggle to keep going. I begin to walk more than run now, tucking into jelly beans and sweets offered to me along the way, desperate for sugar, for energy, for something to fill the gaping hole in my body. I've given everything and there's so much more to go.

Somewhere around mile twenty-one, I see Amanda again. This time, I'm running. I wave at her. She cheers for me. Feels good. Keeps me going.

We're now running on the long stretch of road I saw about an hour or two before, just after Tower Bridge. The other side of the road is now empty. Street sweepers gather the dropped bottles. A man with a jet wash cleans the blue pace line from the floor. Bin lorries trundle along, collecting the waste. I see one or two people still walking the route alongside the cleaners, but they're ten miles behind, walking slowly, and their faces are grim. I don't know if they will complete the course in time and neither do they.

Twenty-two miles deep and I suddenly see two more familiar faces - my friends, who took the photo of me from the other side of the road as I ran toward Canary Wharf. That must have been well over an hour ago. It takes me a moment to recognise them - my brain is almost totally fried at this stage. They hug me and tell me I'm doing well. I can do is nod and agree. Then I'm off again, still alternating between walking and running.

Spectators still scream and cheer. A big red bus plays live music in the centre of the road, the band belting out an admirable rendition of 'Livin' on a Prayer'. But it sounds like it's coming from the far end of a tunnel now. I can hear it, but I can't hear it. I mouth along with the words, trying to feel the energy inside me. The runners are all taking far fewer pictures now. Everyone is focused on moving forward. No distractions. Just keep going.

Every so often I see people pull up and head to the St John's Ambulance teams stationed at regular intervals on the route. Some need a quick application of ibuprofen gel on their legs. Others lie down for more in-depth leg inspections. Those who can't reach the ambulance teams pull over to the side, grab a fence, and try to stretch their legs and feet, willing the circulation to start flowing again. I see many runners come to a halt and hobble off to the sides, grimacing. I pass a handful of people sitting on the floor to the sides, their faces twisted in pain as medics race toward them. Twice I see stretchers being used. I can't imagine the agony experienced by people who don't make it to the end. The most heart-breaking sight is on the very final corner, heading onto the Mall: a guy on the floor, surrounded by medics, two hundred metres before the line.

The ambulance crews standing along the roadsides are fantastic. Initially, I think that they're offering high-fives to the runners. Before I can make a terrible mistake, I realise that they're actually holding out hands coated in extra Vaseline for anyone who needs an additional smear. People run past, slap hands, and rub more jelly under their armpits or between their legs. I am still doing fine. My running shirt has protected my nipples, exactly as planned. I don't want to stop and slather up. At this stage, I might never get started again.

The Tower of London appears on my left. I've seen this monument twice over the past few days, both while leaving Tower Station for the connecting lines at Tower Gateway. Despite all my hard work, all my effort, all the sweat, I'm still so far away from the end.

The view from the sidelines.

I'm now twenty-three miles deep into the marathon and the end is nowhere close yet. My family are waiting for me one final time past the marker, off to the side. Thank God they wore those fantastic coloured shirts - I can't recognise faces now. I stop for a high-five. My mum asks if I'm okay.

'Knackered.'

It's all I can say. I turn back onto the course and keep going. Keep going. Keep going. Every time I slow down, a voice screams my name and I start running again. There is nothing left in the tank now. I'm running on fumes, on adrenaline, my muscles burning through the carbs I spent the last week consuming. This is why runners eat certain foods. It finally makes sense to me now. My legs are moving by themselves. I'm not doing any of this. My legs are pistons. I'm here for the ride.

After this, we have one more gentle downward slope that takes us beneath London Bridge. We plunge back into darkness and silence. This time, nobody starts up a chant. We're too exhausted, too drained, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other. From the point on, I do not slow down. I run harder than ever. I am two and half miles away from the end and I am going to finish this.

Accidentally left it paused for about a mile after stopping for a wee.

At some point beneath the roads, I check my phone. The battery is almost depleted. I'm forced to turn off my tracking app here, much to my disappointment. I was hoping to record myself to the end, but I need to photograph the closing moments of the race.

We emerge from the other side of the tunnel and the crowds become almost deafening. It's like being in the middle of a football stadium. I can't even hear individual cheers anymore, just the roar of support. It's fantastic. It fills my aching legs and propels me on, on, on.

Three miles... two miles... one...

The last couple of miles are utterly extraordinary. We run through a sea of flags and horns and waving banners. The sides of the road are packed with charities and their volunteers, cheering for anyone wearing their colours. I pass the Crisis stand at mile twenty-four and receive a hearty cheer.

I keep moving and keep running. Can't stop. Can't give up. Even when my thoughts start to wander away from the marathon and I begin to daydream about my bed, I still keep moving at a good, steady pace. Too many people are depending on me. Too many people are screaming for me to succeed.

The Thames gently curves down toward Westminster Bridge and we follow, desperately moving now. So close, but still so much left. My fiance is waiting for me at the 40K marker, as promised. I approach her, playing with the crowd, egging them on, telling them to cheer louder. They respond. It feels amazing.

'I can't hear you, London!'

My fiance hugs me. Tells me how proud she is. Tells me that I can do it. I'm so close now. Our friends hug me one final time. Even total strangers in earshot tell me how well I've done. It feels surreal.

So close. So close.

I hit the road again, hard and fast. Not much left now. The crowds are boiling over with enthusiasm. I'm wrecked and spent, but cannot stop moving. The end is close. Not quite in sight, but I can smell it. Spectators cheer, reaching fever pitch.

The last water stand looms. I grab a final bottle. A man in a Buxton t-shirt offers me a chunk of brownie. I accept. It's the sweetest, most delicious thing I have ever eaten. I could almost cry.

One last mile marker looms ahead. Nobody is stopping now. Nobody is dropping back. Everybody is pushing themselves to the absolute limits. We're in this until the end now. Runners are breathing hard all around me. I see wide eyes and determined grins. We all probably look totally insane.

ONE MORE TO GO.

We make a sharp right turn away from the Thames. Big Ben is up ahead, covered in scaffolding. I don't rememeber the time it displays. People crowd in all around, getting louder and more frantic in their support. I pump my fist over and over, willing them to surge through me. I need all the energy I can get. This is beyond hard. This is beyond endurance. I'm not even sure where I am right now.

The last moments.

Police officers line the streets, facing the crowd, but watching us over their shoulders. The crowd screams even louder. I leave Parliament Square and the crowd thins once more. St James's Park appears on the left. Then I see this sign:

One thousand metres to glory.

I think I roar. This is it, the last few hundred metres. Nothing stands in my way now. It's just me and forty thousand other people, racing for the finish line. This is the moment I've dreamt about for seven months. The moment I've tried to imagine every single lap of every single mile. It's here. It's just up ahead. It's-

Two hundred metres are longer than you realise.

-getting further and further away. Two hundred metres are marked off with signs that mock and taunt us. Desperation fills the air as the road widens. Every time we pass a sign, we move quicker. Cheers and whoops of encouragement and the sound of padding shoes thunder along the road. I don't have tears in my eyes because I've sweat them all out.

Six hundred metres. Four hundred. Then we begin the gentle final corner of the 2019 London Marathon and pass beneath the bridge signifying the twenty-six mile mark. This bridge bears a single slogan on the side:

ONLY 385 YARDS TO GO!

The phones come back out. People snap selfies with the bridge, proof that they were here. They made it. They earned this. Smiles break out all around. The atmosphere lifts once again. This is our moment of triumph. The air crackles with joy.

I turn the corner and see a man down on the ground, surrounded by medics. No time to stop. The end is here. The end of my journey. The sight I've been dreaming about for seven long, long months. Buckingham Palace is behind me. The end is in sight. Crowds line the Mall. The grandstands are thick with supporters cheering for us all.

That red streak in the distance is the finish line. So close I can taste it.

Push. Push. Push. One last effort. I run. Run. Run. Faster than I've ever gone before. I AM HERE. I AM FINISHING THE LONDON MARATHON.

Just enough time for one final roar.

And then -

- twenty-six point two miles -

- five hours, sixteen minutes and thirteen seconds -

- after setting out from Greenwich Park -

- I cross the finish line.

I did it.

I ran the London Marathon.

Relief washes over me. I walk through the finish area in a daze. I'm handed my medal. All around are smiling, dazed faces. The faces of survivors. The faces of people who share an experience that can be fully described or explained. I feel like crying with happiness, but nothing comes. I'm overwhelmed. I'm exhausted. I'm walking on air.

I collect my pack and stretch over by a tree. My victory bag contains a t-shirt and several snacks. There's a caramel flavour protein bar. I hate caramel. I eat it anyway. It's delicious.

A man approaches me, one of the many thousands of stewards. He asks if I'm okay. I nod, eyes wide.

'First marathon?' he says.

'First running event.'

'Oh, wow.' He blinks for a moment, stunned that anyone would be dumb enough to attempt this course as their virgin foot race. Then he says, 'Well, I'm one of the organisers. Was there anything we could have done better?'

'No,' I say, with a shake of my head. 'It was perfect. Best day of my life.'

Team Adam.

I head through to Horse Guards Parade and reunite with my family and friends. It's the best feeling in the world. I would do it again in a heartbeat.