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.

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

I wake after a strained night of sleep at around half five. Toss and turn for a while. Eventually give up at seven, earlier than I wanted to wake. There's another guy in my dorm room running the Marathon, too. He's ready to go. I give him a thumbs-up as he heads out the door and start getting ready in the darkness.

The hostel is buzzing with activity. Many people are staying here for the Marathon. I see smiling faces and excitement. I'm the only one who looks like a man approaching the gallows. I take time getting ready - kit on, tracking tag in place, vaseline applied - and eat a bagel in the bar. Comments and good luck messages pour into my texts and social media. People want me to do well. I want me to do well, too. I listen to music and start getting pumped. Then I leave and follow the steady stream of people flooding the streets, heading toward Greenwich Park.

Even an idiot like me could find the right way.

Thousands of people flow into the park. Runners, supporters, and spectators alike. Tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds. The atmosphere is good. Positive. People are excited. My nerves begin to melt away. I call my nan to let her know I'm in the right place and things are going well. She promises to look out for me on TV.

So many people. All here for one reason.

After about ten minutes, we reach the race entrance. Runners only beyond this point. We are separated into areas based on the colour of our numbers - red, green, and blue. I follow people into the red zone, the main staging area for my group.

The organisers did an amazing job with this logistical nightmare.

The start zone feels like a carnival, minus the rides. There's a guy on a microphone somewhere, playing music and whipping the crowds into excitement. Giant screens show live footage from each staging area. People stand around laughing, joking, taking photos of themselves with runners in elaborate or amusing costumes. The atmosphere is amazing. I head over to the baggage trucks and drop off my kit. The baggage lady takes a photo for me.

Someone said that I look like Mario. Didn't see it until now. It's-a me.

There's a lot of standing around and waiting. The queue for the toilets stretches across the length of the entire area. There are several urinals in constant use. Overall, the atmosphere is positive, excited, fraught with nervous energy. I watch all the people around me and soak in the sights and sounds. As the speaker advised on Friday, I have not worn my headphones today. They're in the kitbag, on the lorry.

It's a cold, cold start to the day. The sun peeps through the thick, dark clouds every now and then, basking us all in bright, happy warmth. But these moments are few and far between. I start to shiver. Maybe I should have worn more layers. I could have worn my long-sleeved shirt, or my tights. But it's too late now. Those things are at home, miles away. I suck it up and suffer in silence.

It's a busy place, but a good one.

The giant screen displays the BBC footage from the start line. Andy Murray presses the button and a cheer goes up. The athletes have begun, Mo Farah among them. The 2019 London Marathon has started. Next, it's our turn.

The mass start is staggered in ten minute intervals, based on your own predicted finishing times, I said six hours, so I'm in zone seven, the last group to start. Zone one starts ten minutes after the elites, then zone two, etc. At ten fifteen, I head through the gate to zone seven and we wait our turn to start. I watch zone six walk past toward the start line. Nerves begin to rear up again. Am I ready? Can I do this? Everyone around is full of energy and looking good, ready, prepared. I feel like the odd one out.

Heading through the gate to zone seven.

I'll talk more about the costumes I saw later, but for now, take a look at the above picture. There is a guy in our group running dressed as Jesus. Not in a jokey Monthy Python way. He has a giant cross made of wood. It's hollow, but made of bloody wood. He wears a ring of leaves around his head and a white loincloth. On the back of the cross is a message about the recent terrorist attacks in Sri Lanka and a prayer of world peace. To top it all off, the man is barefoot. I hope he finished. Overtook him in the first mile and never saw him again.

Zone six clears through the barriers and my group begins moving forward. Excitement ripples through the air. People are laughing and joking, talking about the costumes they can see. I get chatting to a guy wearing a massive backpack displaying the list of challenges he's completing as part of the marathon. He spent three days running over fifty miles from Bedford to London to collect his number at the expo. Now he's running the marathon. In July, he complete the SAS-level Fan Dance, fifteen miles over mountainous terrain. All of this while wearing an army-regulation backpack. He asks me how much I've done before this.

'This is my first time,' I say.

'First marathon?'

'No, first running event.'

'We all start somewhere!' he says. I feel better about myself already.

Backpack guy - a hell of an athlete.

We're off the grass and on the road now, slowly heading up toward the main gate of Greenwich Park. The start line is less than a hundred metres away, but around a corner and out of sight. Spectators line the park on my right, waving us on through the fence. People strip off hoodies and long trousers now, tossing them to the left and the right. These will be collected and donated to charity later. The atmosphere is electric. TV cameras are stationed up ahead. Nobody knows if we're live, but everyone waves in the hope that we are.

Pace markers. Professional marathon runners and decent people.

Professional marathon runners carrying flags marking their projected completion time are scattered throughout the zone, in roughly fifteen minute intervals. I happen to be behind the six hour guys - and make a mental note to get in front of them as soon as possible. They're hilarious, warming us up nicely and dispensing advice. The best thing I hear from them - which sticks in my mind for the duration - is not to high-five everyone who offers. You'll injury your arm. I slap hands with a few young children (and a brigade of cheering police officers near Tower Bridge), but otherwise stick to the middle of the road. Backpack guy says this is a good idea, too.

The start line. Dark clouds above, but bright smiles all around.

Then we're through the gates. One sharp left turn and suddenly the start line is up ahead. The crowd begins to thin out. Cheers go up. The race is on. I cross the start line and begin my marathon. I'm doing it. I'm really doing it. I feel nothing but excitement and relief. It's on.

A handful of spectators are at the side of the road, standing in the field. They cheer and clap as though we're professional athletes. It feels incredible. I'm already glad I decided against headphones.

Within the first mile, I pass a familiar face. My old university friend, Colin. He's here cheering on his sister-in-law. He says, 'Keep going, it's that way.' Thanks mate.

We enter a residential area. It's all houses and shops here, but spectators are out in force. Some stand on the pavements, others hang out the windows of their flat. Some sit in fold-up chairs in the front garden, some sit on bus stops. They all clap and cheer. Children hold their hands out for high-fives. Music blares from pubs, from speakers, from people playing instruments in the street. If the staging area was a carnival, this is a full-blown party.

We're still in the first mile, gathered together pretty closely and passing through residential areas.

Most of the marathon is pretty flat, but this first area has a single long hill, followed by a lengthy slope. My training around the hilly parts of Bristol comes into play and powers me past several people here. Once we hit the downhill section, I hear a cry behind me - 'Watch out!' It's a wheelchair racer, gaining speed. He gets things under control again as the road evens out.

The downhill section. Runners clogging the street. A man carrying a Spider-Man dummy on the left, there. He moved at a good pace. I got in front, but he overtook me again later and disappeared into the distance.

We hit the first water station. Refreshments are available in some form at almost every mile - water, Lucozade, even jelly beans. From this point on, the sides of the road are littered with thousands of bottles. Some runners squeeze out a quick gulp and toss the bottle away. I kept hold of mine. Can't be too careful with hydration. Little and often, that's the way.

Thousands of volunteers had the sole task of gathering these together, squeezing them dry, and dumping each one for recycling. A thankless job, so I'll say a massive THANK YOU to them. Amazing people.

By this time, we're about three miles in. Everyone's looking good and the atmosphere is relaxed. The crowds are good. We take a hard left turn and are joined by the other runners from the blue and green start zones. This is it now, everyone is together in one enormous, fast-moving mass. I call my nan again to let her know I'm on the road. She sounds excited.

Four down. Twenty two to go.

The roads get wider and the scenery starts to look a little more London-esque. Still residential, but distinctly London. There are spectators cheering us all on everywhere I look. I can't stop smiling.

Five miles deep. Still fresh. Still feeling good.

For the moment, the roads are pretty long and straight. A couple of gentle turns, but nothing especially awkward. Later there are some weird bends and turns, but for now it's all smooth. Everyone is doing well. Paces are slowly starting to become set. Some people enter their own little cool down cycles. I obey the rules I set myself weeks ago - run five, walk one. It takes me about a quarter of a mile to actually slow down, though. With all the people cheering, it's almost as hard to slow down as it is to keep going in the later stages.

Now we begin to enter the more well-known parts of London. I spot the familiar signs of sails ahead. We're nearing the first major landmark on our whirlwind tour of the city, the Cutty Sark. Never seen it in person. Now I have. It's a big ol' ship. The crowds now deepen. Before, they were spread out fairly evenly. Now people are two or three deep, nestled in shoulder-to-shoulder. They applaud and cheer and ring bells and let off klaxons and scream individual names. I see so many signs I can't read them all.

The Cutty Sark. We loop around it and head northwest to the Thames.

Along the way, I see various people in amazing costumes, and even a few runners attempting certified world records. I see a man in a giant foam shoe. Several people in dinosaur costumes. A man singing karaoke. The rhino runners. Big Pink Dress. A bloke running as Big Bird (shoes and all). The guy from an earlier photo, carrying Spider-Man on his back. A chap running dressed as Elsa. I draw alongside this last man and ask, 'How did you train in the outfit?'

'I didn't,' he says, and laughs.

Karaoke guy. Jogging, singing, and breathing. A man of many talents.

One of the rhino runners. Amazing people. Utterly inspirational. Everyone cheers them on as we overtake them.

Big Pink Dress man in the flesh! Not a pink dress this year, but it was great to meet a legend. He posed for pictures with everyone, all while keeping up his pace.

The first world record attempt I encountered. A man running the marathon in freaking ski boots. Must have ankles of iron.

Another world record attempt. Six people in one team. If you think running it solo is tough, imagine this!

The last record attempt I saw, the world's fastest jukebox. Massive costume, blaring music the whole way along the course. Brilliant and hilarious. Probably not for the guy inside, though.

We head in a horseshoe around Rotherhithe. We've been running for about an hour and a half now, but the atmosphere is still good. Relaxed, happy. Everyone is all smiles. That will change over the next few hours. But this is what we've trained for.

'Smile and wave, boys.' I pump my fist in time to the fantastic street musicians. Great people, all of them.

Everyone has friends and family in the crowd to cheer them on. Some held up signs, or screamed like maniacs. Seeing people break away to greet their supporters is almost as uplifting as meeting your own fans. These fine folks came all the way to cheer me on:

My family! They rushed around from point to point and managed to see me four times on the way. It was amazing to see familiar faces on the way and get much-needed hugs.

I meet them for the first time on mile 8. Stop for a quick hug and a greet. Tell them I'm doing fine and pose for pictures. It's all fun and games. All good.

A photo of yours truly. This is what the spectators see. Lucky them.

We wind through Rotherhithe, still heading northwest toward Tower Bridge, entering another residential part of London. This is the last time we'll see houses and homes on the route. People line the streets. I see cake stands, barbeques, parties. People spill out of pubs. Spectators offer sweets, bananas, orange slices. Others offer sips of beer. Their faces are hilarious when people grab the pints and keep running. Don't offer if you don't want to share!

Sixteen to go.

The scenery is good, despite the overhead clouds. In some ways, it's a blessing. Nobody is overheating today. The wind will get colder later on and most of us will try to dodge the sprinklers set up on the roadsides, but for now it's quite pleasant. I'm not overly sweaty or having trouble monitoring my water intake like I do in extreme heat. This is probably perfect running weather. I'm glad I chose this outfit for today!

Toilets are stationed roughly every mile or so. I stop briefly once about twelve miles in. Note the girl on the left offering Haribo. Lots of people offer sweets to the runners. Lots of runners gratefully accept, myself included.

There must be somewhere between forty and fifty thousand people running the marathon today. I am somewhere in the second half of that number at the moment. All I can in both directions are hundreds of runners. Everyone bears the logo of a charity. Everyone is here for a reason. Everyone has determination on their faces. I still maintain my five-one rule, walking mile eleven to twelve.

Behind me, in front of me, all around me. You can't stop. Nobody wants to stop.

Twelve miles deep and we're back in the midst of central London. Tower blocks and bustle. Crowds thicken every few hundred metres. The noise gets louder and louder. People pick out my name and shout at me - 'Go on, Adam!', 'You can do it, Adam!' The feeling is indescribable. When you slow down, they cheer you more. I've been told that people like to cheer those who look like they need support. This explains why I hear my name called so often in the latter stages of the race. I must look like a sweaty zombie by that time.

Now we're nearing two more major landmarks. First is Tower Bridge, our path across the Thames to the other side of London. Right after this - after a sharp right hand turn along the cobbled streets - is the halfway mark. Thirteen point one miles are behind me now. I am offically halfway through the London Marathon. Before the race, I had expected to feel a tinge of dread at this point, with so much left to do, but instead I'm excited. With so many people around, it's impossible to feel less than ecstatic. I'm not wearing headphones, so the tracking app can't relay my time, but later it transpires that two hours and twenty eight minutes have passed by this time.

Tower Bridge. People clog the pavements thicker than ever at this point.

Our Hero and the halfway marker. The first half is done, but there's a long, long way to go yet.

Now I realise that my phone battery has taken an absolute pounding due to the sheer amount of messages I'm getting from everyone watching and tracking me on the app. I have to stop taking so many photos and videos if I want to record myself at the finish. This ends up being the right choice - my video across the line is filmed with less than five percent battery.

This stretch of the course has two parts. We're heading east along the Thames, to Carany Wharf. On the other side of the road, people are running west, toward Tower Hill and the finish line. I try to take a guess at how long it will be before I'm there. I suggest an hour. This estimate is way, way off. It's actually closer to two hours.

Somehow I hear my name over all the din of cheering spectators. I turn to see my friends on the other side of the road. I pose for photos and keep moving. They'll see me later, but I'll be in a very different mental state by then. Right now, I still have my wits about me.

One for my fans.

At this time, I'm still in good shape. Breathing well. Plenty of fluids. No aches or pains. I haven't hit the wall. But that's about to change. Things are going to get much, much harder.

I have reached the limit for posting. The second half will come later.

Judgement Day

It's finally here. The day I've both longed for and dreaded every moment for the last seven months. It doesn't feel real. I'm sitting on another coach to London with my marathon-approved kit bag between my feet. This bag is heavy. I've probably overpacked, but what do you take to a marathon? I have my kit for tomorrow. My tracking tag. Running shirt. Protein. Water. Bagels for breakfast. Pasta for tonight. My instruction booklet. Coach tickets. Hostel confirmation. Is it enough? Is it too much? Have I forgotten anything? I'm driving myself crazy with doubts and worries.

But I'm putting on a brave face, like this guy.

I spent the day trying not to think about anything. Went to see Avengers: Endgame with my fiance and a mate. Then the movie ended and all the worries came rushing back. Have I done enough? Should I have pushed harder? Have I eaten right? Will I be able to do this?

I know it's pointless to worry and I'm trying to focus on all the advice I received at the expo yesterday. It's my first marathon, relax! Enjoy it! Revel in the atmosphere and enjoy the feeling of a thousand people screaming my name!

Part of my worry is the sheer logistics of it. As stupid and arrogant as it sounds, I have never really sat down and thought about what I'm going to be achieving tomorrow. Lots of people have told me that I'm brave/ crazy/ both, but I've never really felt like either. I signed up to fulfil a personal dream and keep my fitness going. Never once did I stop to actually think about anything except the finish line. All I've been focusing on is the end, not the journey. I'm going to see the Cutty Sark. The Thames. Canary Wharf. Lizzie's Place.

'Keep running, peasant'

Deep down, I know I've done everything I can to prepare physically. Mentally is another story. Can you mentally prepare for a marathon? Or do you just have to run it? My guess is the second one. I know how challenging it can be to keep pushing yourself, to keep going when all you want to do is rip off your legs and throw them in the bin. I've never run with anyone else, or had people watch me go. That's going to be a strange new experience. But an exciting one!

It's been one hell of a journey to get to this place right now. To be here, calling myself a marathon runner. All the work I've put in. The sweat. The tears. The times I asked if it was even possible to do this. I set my targets and I reached them. Most people don't start training seriously until after Christmas, but I was working my arse off back in October to be ready for this point. I remember how good it felt to run six miles. Nine miles. Ten. Thirteen. Fifteen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. I taught myself how to run, then how to run long distances. I did this. I earned it.

The whole time, I've tried not to let any of this go to my head or to get cocky about anything.  But tomorrow morning, when I stand in Greenwich Park with tens of thousands of other people and start walking to the beginning of the 2019 London Marathon, I'll allow myself to smile with pride. I made it. I did it. I earned it.

So this is the end of my journey. This time last year, I was overweight, unmotivated, unable to achieve anything meaningful. Now I'm a marathon runner.

Tonight I will try to sleep. Tomorrow I will go out there and have the best day of my life. Come rain or shine, hell or high water. I'm finishing what I started seven long months ago. And after that... Who knows? The world is my oyster. Maybe I'll take up some of those offers I got yesterday and go see what the Frankfurt marathon is like. Or Valencia. Or Norway. I can do it. I can do anything I choose.

Thanks for reading my strange blog and coming on this ride with me. I'll try to tell you what it was like early next week. In 24 hours time, this will all be in the past.

Seven months. One day. Twenty six miles. Bring it on. I'm ready.

One last job

Less than 48 hours to go now. I've had a full and busy Friday and I'm writing this on my phone while riding the coach home through London rush hour traffic.

Something that I didn't know until about a month ago: your running pack does not get sent via post. Instead, all runners are required to make a trip to London in the days prior to the Marathon to collect the gear and enjoy an entire expo dedicated to the event. While it initially seemed like a pain in the bum to make two separate trips to London, in truth this ended up being a really great day and I'm glad to have made the journey (if I didn't, I wouldn't be able to run on Sunday...)

What greeted me at ExCel station...

The expo was great, if I'm honest. I was expecting to grab my kit and leave, but the atmosphere made it worth sticking around longer and exploring the various stalls and stages on offer. Most of it was based around sports clothing companies trying to sell stuff, along with protein/ sports bar manufacturers flogging their wares. But what made it great was the palpable sense of excitement in the air. Everyone was excited about the Marathon and the air was filled with the constant sounds of encouragement and well-wishing. Every time I said it was my first event, people would tell me how great it was going to be and not to worry about anything. That's the main thing I'm taking away from this: have fun on the day. Don't worry about anything except finishing.

Have you seen this man? Last spotted running very slowly through London.

I collected my number and finally got my start time. I will be in red zone, group seven, meaning that I will be in the last group of starters, setting off around 11am. This is a time based off my own predictions several months ago when filling out the original paperwork. I'm still aiming to complete the Marathon in less than six hours, though I reckon it will probably be closer to five. That's quicker than watching Infinity War and Endgame back-to-back!

Plenty of speakers took to the stage to assuage our worries.

The most beneficial part (for me at least) was listening to the speakers on stage giving out tricks and tips. This first chap explained how the day will unfold. There could be up to twenty minutes between my 'start time' and actually crossing the beginging marker, so dont get frustrated. The tag will only track me from post to post, so my time will be fairly accurate. Also, the times displayed around the track will begin when Andy Murray presses the buzzer to open the day, so ignore them.

A trip to head office!

After that, I dashed back through the city to Warwick Street for a special Marathon-friendly lunch at my company's head office. I got to meet the people behind the scenes who have been arranging this incredible experience for me (and may I say that you're all lovely people! Thanks for supporting and I'm really grateful that you're reading this blog, too!) There are about nine of us taking part in the Marathon this year, all with different levels of fitness and personal goals in mind. About half of us are newbies, while some have done some marathons before, but not this one. In fact, there's one chap who has run six marathons and is a few minutes off the professional athlete completion time. I asked, but he won't wear my tracker while I go to the pub. Spoil sport.

The Mall: my destiny

After that delicious, carb-heavy lunch, I had enough time to head across town and check out the finish line. The Mall is currently a work in progress. Fences are stacked in piles, while scaffolding, signage, and broadcast dishes are being erected all over the place. Horse Guards Parade, the staged meeting area, is under construction, but there are already massive spectator seating podiums set up in a loose L-shape, ready for the day. That's where I shall meet all the incredible people making the long journey to London to cheer me on. I don't know if I'll get a chance to see them while I'm running.

And that's that. Now I'm on the coach, trying to absorb everything and formulate a plan for the day. I still intend to run five and walk one. That seems to work for me. I have no shame or worries about setting a good time. I just want to enjoy the day. In fact, I'm not going to wear headphones on the day. I thought I would (and have been training religiously to Iron Maiden) but there are going to be thousands of people cheering my name on Sunday. I'll never get the chance to hear that again.

So here we go. I'm done. I'm ready. Nothing left to do but wait. One more coach ride. Two more sleeps. Then it begins. Can't wait.

Tick-tock

It is Tuesday 23rd April. The 2019 London Marathon is just over four days away. It's squeaky bum time.

#nospoilers

I'm starting to feel the nerves and the pressure. Not just about the marathon itself - I feel strangely calm about that, I know running twenty miles is possible - but more about the day itself. I've booked a bed in a hostel a short walk from the start line. Still yet to book the coach down to London or the ride home. I think there are a few people meeting me in London on the day - my fiancé, my mum, dad, brother, brother's girlfriend, aunt, uncle, and cousin, plus our friends - maybe up to six extra people! If that doesn't give me a reason to run, nothing will.

This coming weekend is going to be pretty busy. Got a lot lined up. Firstly, I need to go to London on Friday and collect my running pack from the Marathon Expo and have lunch at my company's head office (mmm, yummy carbs! Can't wait!) On Saturday, I've got a date with destiny -

Dread it. Run from it. Destiny arrives, all the same.

-and then I need to head back into London and try to sleep in the hostel, if I can. Sunday... well, I'm trying not to think about Sunday too much.

My head is a whirl of things still to sort out and stuff to arrange. I get to bring a bag to the start line, so I need to prepare some kit for the night. What will I need after the run? Where will I meet everyone? How will I get home? (The answer to that last query is, 'carried on a golden throne', obviously).

Here I stand. Four days away from the end. This time next week, it will all be a memory. But what a memory it will be.