There are many things I LOOOVE about the London Marathon.
The atmosphere … The crowds … The music ...The motivational signs ...
That the entire city LOSES its fricking mind in support of 59,000 people voluntarily running 26.2 miles. AND we paid to do it.
What I DO NOT LIKE is getting to the start.
OR staying in a hotel which has 56 stairs to my room.
OR sleeping next door to someone who apparently believes 4:30am is an appropriate time to START ramping the party up.
… but I'm getting ahead of myself …
The journey started with train chaos. Because of course the trains weren't running on time. It's England.
A train was cancelled, which meant the next one was already rammed when it arrived. I wasn’t entirely convinced I was even on the correct train, but fortunately it DID arrive at Euston and after making someone move their belongings, I even managed to get a seat.
Winning already.
The tube was insanely busy but I managed to wangle myself, my rucksack and my suitcase on, much to the disgust of the normal Londoners who were horrified at a further influx of Marathon tourists. But they were of course, far to cool to tut at us.
Eventually I made it to Earl’s Court with the intention of dropping my suitcase and heading onto the London Marathon Expo.
My hotel was the Wembar, which was incredibly discrete because it was hidden behind scaffolding and building works. Marvellous.
Inside though it was clean-smelling and the staff were helpful. Suitcases duly dumped in reception (as too early to check in) and I was back on the tube where despite the busy-ness I managed to get a seat on both trains with the help of my well-practised and perfected RBF (Resting Bitch Face). Another win.
THE EXPO
Number collection was reasonably painless and before long I was officially in possession of a race number and therefore committed to running 26.2 miles whether I fancied it or not.
Of course, I bought a vest at the Expo.
£45.
Forty-five quid. For a VEST. After all those years as a child refusing to wear one, I am now paying forty five quid for one.
My Mother would be laughing her ass off.
I justified it by reminding myself that I still regularly wear the Adidas vest I bought for the 2014 marathon.
Therefore, technically, this was an investment.
I popped over to the Stroke Association stand as although I have a GFA place in the race, I have also been raising money for the Stroke Association and wanted to wear one of their bands during the race for Dad who is very poorly from a stroke, so having that little reminder with me around the course meant a lot.
I was quite thirsty but was too tight to pay £3 for a can of coke at the Excel. They can get stuffed. They're normally about £1. Didn't they know I was skint from spending all my money on a running vest?
.. And back to the hotel.
Back at the hotel, they’d texted me the door codes, which was helpful because all of the staff had evaporated.
I found my room and it was right at the very top of the building. THE TOP.
Fifty-six stairs.
FIFTY SIX.
Because who needed fresh legs for a marathon anyway,
The room itself was tiny and slightly grubby, but it did have an inspirational sign. Rather than the usual LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE bollocks, this establishment had opted for the rather less familiar:
‘OGETHE is my favourite place to be.’
'OGETHE'.
Not a tourist destination I’d ever heard of nor a place I was particularly desperate to visit. I assumed the sign was supposed to say TOGETHER, but someone had lost the T and R somewhere between the factory and the wall and the hotel management had decided that replacing them was an unnecessary expense. Meh. Close enough.
Either that or OGETHE is a magical land where the Wi-Fi is free and the snacks are plentiful.
Adding to the room’s general sense of psychological unease was an owl print hanging at an angle that suggested it had just received some devastating personal news. It was impossible to straighten because the nail on the back of the frame was in the wrong place. So the owl remained permanently pissed, staring into the middle distance like it was questioning how it ended up on a hotel room room.
Which got me thinking. Was the owl drunk? Had it been on the sauce with the bloke who made the sign? Or was there some sort of underground owl-tipping scene in London, equivalent to the cow tipping in rural communities?
I lay there wondering whether I was overthinking this or whether someone had put some kind of drugs in my cup of coffee earlier.
Then I discovered that the sink was too small to fill the kettle, so I used my only other option which was to fill it from the shower.
After checking the shower head carefully for pubes first.
Obviously.
I enjoyed my cup of tea and headed across to The Blackbird in Earl’s Court for dinner and two pints of fizzy cola and an evening wander in Brompton Cemetery which was beautiful in golden hour.
Perfect.
It was quiet, peaceful and a really nice way to spend the evening before the madness of race day. I had a nice hot shower and got into bed at about 8pm.
Then the people next door started laughing, shouting and partying.
And kept partying.
At 3am the music started up properly.
They were still going at 4:30.
My alarm went off at 5.
Excellent.
RACE MORNING
I don't know what I was complaining about. I'd had almost 30 minutes sleep and the shower was cold because the water refused to warm up.
I decided to reframe it as cold-water therapy. Meant to be good for you, right?
I walked to Earl’s Court station.
It wasn’t open yet.
Of course it wasn’t.
Shit.
But eventually we were let in and I met 2 other girls heading to the start: Lee and Lou and we chatted and it was a really lovely start to the day. So exciting! It really felt real now.
The only problem was that all of our phones were giving us completely different routes to the others. For the same start areas.
Lou and I followed Citymapper and got off at Embankment to go to Blackheath. Lee followed ChatGPT and stayed on until London Bridge. This was not the moment to discover which AI was right. I just decided to trust what I'd used before. I waved goodbye to the girls and we had a hug before heading off to our start pens.
I had A PLAN. I had gone this way last year and popped into the local cafe 'Madeleines' for a coffee and a wee.
And I needed a wee.
Desperately.
Then the plan went wrong. Crowd control measures meant we all got diverted around Madeleine’s and the Costa bathroom was closed. Which I found out AFTER I'd ordered and paid for the coffee.
There was not a single convenient toilet anywhere. ANYWHERE.
And it was open parkland. Not a single convenient bushy bush anywhere. I genuinely don't think I have EVER needed a wee more.
Eventually I got the pink start and was let in. I would have RUN to the toilets but I was capable only of a hobble.
Luckily there were loos right in the entrance - female urinals! And no queue! Great idea.
Except there was no toilet roll.
Luckily, I’d come prepared.
This was a significant improvement on the 45-minute toilet queues I’d experienced previously at the London marathon.
The men’s toilet queue, meanwhile, appeared to stretch approximately to France. Karma.
AT the start, I bumped into a club buddy, Andy Burston and we had a lovely, chilled-out pre-race chat. We even bumped into Ant Smythe from the tri club and we got a quick photo. It was warm, sunny and relaxing.
It was a really nice way to start the morning. No panic, no frantic rushing around, just chatting and waiting in the sunshine.
Then it was time.
Andy and I set off together, although he was chasing the pacer and disappeared ahead fairly quickly
I had originally been thinking about sub-3:20 for my race goal and based on how training had gone, I knew I had a shot but I didn’t want to go out and try to bank time early.
My plan was roughly 7:35–7:40 minute miles and then see what I had left and aim to speed up in the second half.
I don’t plan negative splits but my body seems to assess the situation as I go along and at the start of a marathon it apparently thinks:
“Yes, this is about right. We’ve got loads of running left. Go slow”
And somewhere around halfway it goes:
“Right. Apparently we’re doing this. Let’s get on with it.”
So that was the plan.
Controlled. Patient. Don’t cock it up.
I love the support at London. The first few years I had done it, there were places where there weren't supporters but this year there seemed to be people everywhere.
SO MANY PEOPLE.
I had laminated my name and pinned it to both the front and back of my kit this year, hoping it would survive the showers better than last time. Where the felt tip I'd so cfarefully drawn had run.
It worked! I was being called by name constantly. Most of them were probably just reading my name but I didn’t care as every shout of “Go Sarah!” felt like someone had personally decided I was worth cheering for.
I was buoyed around the course on a ridiculous ride of goodwill from complete strangers.
And honestly, what a bloody privilege.
My kit was pretty simple:
ASICS Metaspeed Tokyo shoes, which were soooo comfortable and a brilliant red/orange/pink colour so good for the family to spot I hoped, my black skort, yellow and black lightweight vest and my Ironman visor. As can't NOT be a kit wanker for a day, right?
I’d decided against sunglasses because last year here were patches of shade and I really didn’t want a repeat of last year when I got distracted and tripped over at mile 19 and dropped my drink.
I’ve learned some things.
Not many.
But some.
The signs were brilliant. Some were motivational. Some were questionable. Some were deeply concerning. But they were ALLLLLLL appreciated.
Some of my favourites:
“Pain is temporary. Strava kudos is forever.”
“Why? “(Then, just behind it) “Why not?”
“I pooped myself so you don’t have to.”
“Don’t trust a fart after mile 16.”
“Run if you think I’m sexy.”
“Run if you think Spurs are shit.”
“My wife is fast as fuck.”
“Chafe your dreams.”
“Your ex would have finished by now.”
“Run like Prince Andrew is behind you.”
“Fuck Tinder. What’s your Strava?”
“Garmin will say this is unproductive.”
“What would Goggins do?”
“This is bloody tough. But so are you.”
“Tap here if you’re fucked.”
“Think your feet hurt? My arms are killing me.”
“I trained for months to hold this sign.”
“All toenails go to heaven.”
“Chafe now, wine later.”
“I don’t know you but I’m proud of you.”
“Run like your mum used your full name.”
And my personal favourite:
“Pick a cute butt and follow it.”
There were also Barbie signs, football signs, signs telling us to get off Hinge and, inevitably, several variations of “Where are you all going?”
Where was I going? I had no idea. I was just following everyone else.
THE FIRST HALF
At around seven miles it started getting a little bit pinchy.
Which isn’t ideal.
Seven miles is EARLY.
But my legs still felt good, so I decided to ignore it. This is an excellent strategy if you don’t want to acknowledge a problem. I then forgot about it. See. It works.
I spent most of the first 20 miles somewhere near someone called Stuart, completely unintentionally. Our pace just happened to match and we kept ending up alongside each other and I kept hearing people shouting his name.
There were supporters everywhere. Literally everywhere. People standing on bus stops. People holding ridiculous signs. People banging drums. People playing music.
The Rose of Denmark was absolutely rocking, with some brilliant tunes, incredible bass, ska, jazz and even bagpipes and drummers along the route.
I was smiling so much that by about mile seven my face actually hurt.
This was ridiculous and wonderful.
I could see the Shard in the distance which meant Tower Bridge was coming. One of my favourite bits.
There is something about running towards Tower Bridge that never gets old.
It is one of those London Marathon moments that makes you forget that you’ve been running for an hour and probably still have a couple of hours at least to go.
I completely missed the Tower of London.
Again.
FFS.
I did, however, see the elites coming back the other way around mile 12. I missed the front pack, which was strange because I normally see them. Of course, it turned out I was running faster this year.
So were they.
The elites coming past looked much further into their pain cave than I felt. They were much further into the race than I was. But it looked tough.
I knew I was working hard, but it felt controlled. Comfortable-ish. A little pinchy.
But nowhere near the absolute horror show I could see on some of the faces coming the other way. Hope that wasn't how I would feel at that point.
As usual, I broke the race down using my gels. I had eight Torq gels and took a salt tablet with each one. I’d put the salt tablets into a little paper teabag bag because I hadn’t brought a small container.
Not exactly sports science. But it worked. Who knew that teabags had other uses than being dunked in a cup of milky water?
I also had water at every aid station. The volunteers were handing out sports bottles rather than cups, which I absolutely loved because I could hold onto them and sip as I ran. I drank at every station. The weather was warm and I definitely needed it. But my fingers didn’t swell up, which is usually a problem for me on long runs.
So another win.
The mile markers, however, were another story.
Mile 16 didn’t look like a proper marker. Mile 17 marker seemed to have disappeared. Then we switched to kilometres for a bit.
Which is absolutely unacceptable.
Do not make me do maths during a marathon.
I’m already trying to multiply by three to work out when to take my gels. I don’t need kilometres too.
At around mile 18 I put my headphones in to get a boost although initially I wasn’t even sure they were working because the crowd noise was so loud.
That’s London.
You don’t need music. The crowd is the music.
THE SECOND HALF
At mile 19 my watch showed 7:50 min/miles.
I was genuinely surprised as the mile hadn't felt any slower and I'd been running nice 7:35 min/miles. I assumed the tall buildings were throwing the GPS off and tried not to stress about it.
At mile 20 I started to push a little. Carefully as I didn’t want to blow up. It was warm, I was going well and there was absolutely no need to get cocky.
Mile 21 brought me back alongside the runners heading out towards Canary Wharf. This is always one of my favourite points because suddenly I'm on the side heading towards the finish. Practically on the finishing line, right??
Everyone else is going the other way. They’re still full of hope.
I am full of determination, gels and mild existential dread. And all the farts that I dare not let loose in case it is NOT A FART.
Mile 22 was for Julian, as usual.
My watch was a long way off the course markers, so Julian got approximately a mile and a half just to make absolutely sure.
At around mile 23 my breathing went a bit weird. I decided it was probably anxiety rather than anything physical and tried to distract myself by looking for dogs.
There were no dogs which was incredibly unhelpful.
I then became distracted by the fact that there were no dogs.
Excellent work, brain.
I’d written a word on my hand in sharpie before the race: 'Courage.'
It was for Lily.
When things got hard, I looked at it and in the final two miles, I looked at it a lot because this was the point where everything started to hurt.
The legs ... The lungs ... The brain.
The little voice suggesting that perhaps walking would be a perfectly reasonable option. I didn't NEED to run it ALL. Just take a couple of easy steps. It will be fine to do that.
But I’d trained for this.
I’d put the BLOODY work in.
And I had someone to think about. I looked at my hand 'courage'.
So I kept going.
Every time it got a bit pinchy, I smiled a little more. Smiling makes it hurt less. Or so I tell myself. And if you smile, people smile back which makes it feel easier too.
And I moved towards the edge of the road so the supporters could see my name and shout it.
And every time someone yelled “GO SARAH!” I got another little boost.
The Embankment lasted forever.
AGES.
It was brilliantly supported, though, which helped. There was also no human poo after the tunnel this year which was nice.
And then came Birdcage Walk which, as usual, appeared to be approximately a million miles long. Although, to be fair, it wasn’t quite as long as last year.
Progress.
There wasn’t much of a sprint finish this time but I gave it what I had and crossed the line.
Done.
London Marathon 2026.
3:19:22.
A new PB.
And a negative split.
I’d wanted sub-3:20.
I’d run 3:19:22.
And somehow I’d managed to execute the race almost exactly how I’d hoped.
Controlled first half ... Faster second half.
No spectacular blow-up. No death march.
Just a long, steady squeeze of the pace until there was nothing left to squeeze.
And I still had 9.5 toenails. Whoop!
Chicken wings for dinner in a park. Perfection.
On the tube platform, an old man asked me if I’d won. I told him nope but two runners had broken two hours that day which was a new world record. I was absolutely nowhere near winning.
But I’d won my own little race.
I’d run a PB.
I’d broken 3:20.
I’d negative split a marathon.
I’d survived the toilets.
I’d survived the party hotel.
I’d survived the crowds.
I’d survived the maths.
And I’d survived with 9.5 toenails.
Most importantly, though, I loved it.
From the first shout of encouragement to the last few painful metres, London reminded me what an extraordinary thing the London Marathon can be.
Thousands of strangers shouting for me. Music everywhere. People holding signs for runners they’ve never met. Children holding their hands out for high fives. Complete strangers calling my name.
And 59,000 people all voluntarily doing something that is really quite hard.
My face hurt from smiling and my 9.5 toenails were complaining, but what a privilege. What a bloody privilege to run the London Marathon. AND to come away with a new PB.
3:19:22.
I’ll definitely take that.
Even if I did miss the Tower of London.
Again.
