Oh, Snickers.

I squinted at the early afternoon reflections shimmying their way across the Thames.

“London City looks very pretty in the sunshine,” I hummed in my head to the tune of something I’d once forgotten.

Despite being packaged up like a mule as I trudged through the Embankment underpass (which could have been mistaken for a passageway through the Andes if I’d cocked my head correctly), I was feeling pretty darn content with the world. Sweaty, yes, even ever-so-slightly smelly, but predominately content.

“Do you want me to take one of those?” Stu asked, because, fundamentally, he’s a nice guy.

“Nah, you’re alright,” I replied because, fundamentally, I’m a self-righteous git with a semi-martyr complex, but (hey) at least I’ve started to recognise that.

“You sure?” and on we went.

London buzzed with a near carnival exuberance: Whoops and cheers and rattling guitars and cockney geezahs standing on their front porches fag in one hand, can of Fosters in the other, dead pig spittling on the barbecue and endless, endless rotations of Eye of the Tiger, Keep on Running and (rather cruelly) Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide.

It was, of course, the London Marathon and, for once, I was caught up in the melee on purpose.

A combination of young and old thudded their way up the dual carriageway, under bridges, through purpose erected showers as the city adapted to their needs. Ramps that had been designed and built to allow access to other, higher/lower roads became vantage points for much needed support. Lampposts intended to provide light were adorned with mileage announcements.

Some ran with the suggestion of unbearable agony rooted into their hips, a stagger here, a grimace there, but they all kept on moving. Male or female, attached to a fake emu or wearing a neon orange wig it didn’t matter. Everyone was at least marginally fucked, but they kept running.

London finally seemed alive to me again. It might just have been the nice weather lightening my mood, but the city once again seemed to whisper sweet, sultry secrets into my ear.

It wasn’t so long ago that I walked from Brockley to Hampstead Heath and halfway back. On a grey February day, with the roads empty, with the buzz of televisions from behind closed windows being the most overbearing noise, when Regent’s Park and Primrose Hill were both dusted with unbroken white, it felt as though I was saying goodbye. I walked past old haunts, or places that resonated with moments of mine and London’s shared history, and I wondered if it might just be time to try my hand
elsewhere.

After trudging on past various body parts, Stu and I eventually came to pause just East of Blackfriar’s Bridge. There we elbowed and politely excused our overburdened way to the roadside. Runner after runner wobbled or resolutely pushed their way past. A mass of sweaty bodies, burning heartrates, shouts, yells and pukes alongside the constant chit-chit-chit of a rapid fire telescopic digital cameras. Every neon white cap hurt my eyes, every red, blotchy face for a moment was familiar.

Eventually I said: “Hey, look! Here he comes!”

“Michael!” we yelled. “Hey! Yo! Michael! Mike! Yay! Go on, Michael! You can do it! Michael! For God’s sake, over here!”

From under the brim of his cap his eyes appeared to roll slightly, he raised an arm of acknowledgment and steadily pounded on.

I look at Stu. Stu looked at me. I gave a half-hearted shrug.

“We done now?” I asked.

“I reckon we’re done,” Stu concurred and we resumed our walk to St James’ Park and the finish line, because that’s all we had to do, in the end.