Men V Man(chester): Part Two

If the London Marathon is the cool, trendy, tourist-friendly marathon, then Manchester is its more serious, edgy younger brother. London is studded with landmarks along most of the course and filled with runners wearing increasingly elaborate and eye-catching costumes, while Manchester offers few roadside distractions and even fewer amusing outfits. There are plenty of charity runners tackling this course, but hardly any clad in special outfits today. I spy a man dressed as a bee, another wearing a pale blue cylinder covered in DNA strands, and someone in perfect Mr. Bean garb, complete with tie, briefcase, and Teddy (also wearing a bib).

His bib name was "Runner". Top marks to this man.

This feels like a more intense, perhaps more "pure" experience, if that makes any sense at all. London has the notoriety, the fame, the status; Manchester has a more focused atmosphere. That's not a complaint in the slightest. I just find it interesting how two seemingly-identical events can feel so different from the inside.

Along the way, I see plenty of amusing signs from the spectators cheering us on. The most common, by far, are Super Mario power-up icons telling us to tap for more speed. Some other good slogans include:

• "Run like my uncle is chasing you"
• "Smile, you paid for this!"
• "Run now, pub later"
• "I trained for months to hold this sign"
• "In your marathon era"
• "Run if you think I'm sexy"
• "What's wrong with long and hard?

But the sign that we enjoy the most - and makes Scott laugh so hard he struggles to breathe for a moment - is one that reads, "THIS IS A SIGN".

The second half begins.

We've now crossed the halfway point of the marathon and leave Altrincham behind. Wide roads open up before us. Every now and then, we pass groups of choirs and musicians playing at the sides of the road, serenading the runners along the way. There are a few instances where we have to move to one side of the road to allow an ambulance through. Injuries are mercifully few, but we do pass the odd runners scattered along the sides of the road, being attended by medics. The one that breaks my heart the most is the sight of somebody being sprayed and massaged just after mile twenty-five. That must be soul-crushing.

Many course guides refer to the Manchester Marathon as "mostly flat". The keyword there is mostly. The vast majority of the route is calm and smooth and contains no unpleasant surprises. But the southernmost part of the course contain a handful of gentle inclines and small bridges. These aren't dramatic by any means - you probably wouldn't notice them normally - but they feel enormous after all these miles. The worst of these, and by some distance, is a winding incline around the back of a shopping centre. Thank goodness there are only a few "uphill" segments like this.

Another long straight section!

While we've been running the marathon, our family has been fighting their own battle at the same time. They intended to follow us as much as they could using the tram system to hop around the city. Unfortunately, so did a hundred thousand other people and public transport is hopelessly overwhelmed. Scott and I pass several tram stations and all of them have enormous queues just to get on the platform. This means that after our brief high-five at mile four, we don't see our family again until mile sixteen, just before the sharp right turn at the top of the map, above.

Sixteen down, ten to go.

It comes as a relief to stop moving for a couple of short minutes and chat with our loved ones. They've managed to get some blank signs given away by locals newspapers and have written, "GO ADAM & SCOTT! BROS ON THE ROAD!" It's impossible not to feel a jolt of extra energy at a sight like that.

After an all-too-brief pause, we head off again, following the road to the right and past a petrol station. Here is another pleasant surprise: people working at the station are handing out ice creams to runners. I can't imagine eating a Cornetto or an ice lolly while moving at this pace, but I can imagine eating a Callipo.

Best cold treat in the world: fact.

Now things start to get difficult. Not physically, but mentally. The stretch of distance between miles thirteen and twenty is all mind games. Each mile feels longer and more daunting that the last. No matter how hard you push, the end doesn't get any closer. If there is a stage in the marathon where the thought of jacking it in and going home seems genuinely appealing, this is the one. But we don't jack it in. We persevere.

The long, winding route back home.

Our surroundings are now a mix of quieter suburban landscapes and more densely-packed high streets. Things begin to get harder now. My chest is heaving, my feet are burning, my knees are screaming. Scott, meanwhile, looks comfortable at my side. Supporters yell out the names on our bibs, singling runners out for additional encouragement. Every time I hear a stranger yell out my name, I get a fresh burst of energy. We pass by a choir belting out "Defying Gravity" and hit the twenty-mile marker and head under the bridge, where the Underground Kollectiv is still pumping out tunes so loud I can't hear my own rasping breath.

Six miles left.

This is now Scott's longest run yet and he still shows no signs of struggling. In fact, he gets a second wind at this point and I become the dead weight dragging us back. Now it's harder and harder for me to keep running at this pace and I'm forced to beg for a walk for the last quarter of every mile. But I manage to get another decent official photograph.

Wonder if I can put this in my passport?

Every step brings us nearer to the finish line but also brings us closer to total collapse. I'm panting and gasping like oxygen is hard to come by and even the constant roar of the crowd is slowly being drowned out by the rushing of blood in my ears. Now it gets harder and harder to spot the giant blue mile markers ahead. My vision is blurring as all the energy is being sapped away and used up to maintain my momentum. We pass twenty-one miles. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.

Three short miles. Three huge hurdles.

The support swells louder with every mile. The crowds aren't cheering for us to keep going; they're cheering for us to finish. They want us to succeed now. Music washes over us from a dozen different sources at once. Halfway through mile twenty-four, there's a camera and an enormous screen by the side of the road so we can wave at our sweaty, beet-red selves. It's a nice touch, one that helps in these final miles.

The last stretch.

By now, all we can think about is the end. We're so close. So damned close. The finish line is getting closer and closer. We're back in the central areas again, surrounded by tower blocks and tall buildings. Volunteers spray us with water to provide a hint of relief. I barely feel it at this point. Every part of my body is on fire but I can't stop. I can't give up. I've got to do this. Then, finally, we pass this sign:

Three more turns and then we're home.

The atmosphere hanging over the course changes once again. All the intensity and the struggling and the teeth-gritting tension is replaced by newfound excitement. Nobody is stopping now. Nobody is slowing down. Nobody is thinking about jacking it all in. The end is so, so, so close.

This is it.

We turn a sharp left and the final straight opens up before us. It's less than half a mile long. Barriers are erected on either side, narrowing the road and guiding everyone toward the single pink archway ahead. The crowds cheer in a deafening cacophony of sound and hammer on the barricades to make as much noise as humanly possible. We pass the twenty-six mile marker. All that remains is a few hundred metres. The end of the 2025 Manchester Marathon is in sight.

Scott rushes on ahead. I race as fast as I can, my legs picking up the pace at the last few moments. I give a cry of pure triumph and cross the line and that's it. I've done it. We've done it. The marathon is over. We've achieved something that few people will ever manage.

Few words can describe how we feel in this moment, but one comes close: pride. We stagger through the swelling crowds of our fellow exhausted, smiling marathon runners. We collect our medals. All around us are delighted faces, all with faraway looks in their eyes. We're experiencing a unique feeling, but it will be a few hours before any of us can really grasp the extent of what we've done here today.

Exhausted. Delighted. Victorious.

As good as this moment is, there's one last surprise that feels even better. My official time, according to the tracker, is 5:14:52 - two minutes faster than my run around London, six years previously. Scott is a few seconds ahead of me. I could not be happier. 

My Strava results from the day.

And there we have it. We conquered Manchester. We ran a marathon. And we did it in a great time. I'm so proud of my brother and everything we've accomplished today. What felt so impossible just a few short weeks ago is now complete.

So, how does Manchester compare to London? I have the privilege of comparing the two biggest running events in the country, so I feel uniquely qualified to say that this one felt harder. It's difficult to say exactly why. Maybe because I anticipated how I would be feeling at specific points; maybe because I weighed more than last time; maybe the lack of landmarks made it seem longer. Either way, this was definitely the bigger challenge.

The question now is, what's next? For me, nothing. I'm over the moon to call myself a multi-marathon runner. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd be capable of achieving something like this. Now I've done the impossible - twice! - and I have earned the right to sit down for a bit. I've since learned that April 27th 2025 was one of the biggest marathon days in world history. Between Manchester and London, over 96,000 people tackled 26 miles, not including everyone who ran their own virtual marathons at home. Amazing.

Massive thanks to everyone who took part in arranging, organising, and pulling off the spectacular task of hosting the Manchester Marathon. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who flocked to the route and cheered, sang, held up signs, gave out treats, hosed us down and supported us on the way. And, of course, thank you so much to our family for coming all the way to Manchester to be there and cheers us on.

What a day. What an experience.