London Marathon 2025: The Final Chapter

Morning Light and Marathon Dreams

Today was the day I had been building towards for months. Every cold morning, every soaked pair of socks, every long, lonely run came down to this — London Marathon day.

The alarm clock chirped far too early, but I was already half-awake, running through the plan for the day in my head. After polishing off two cinnamon and raisin bagels (because clearly one was not going to be enough) and a strong coffee, I packed up my bag of gels, SaltStick chews, and hope and we set off.

The drive up to Blackheath was filled with that strange, electric mix of excitement and anxiety. My parents did their best to drop me as close to the start as they could and I waved them off with a grin that hid the fluttering nerves underneath. I made my way to the starting area, ticking off the necessary pre-race rituals — most importantly, joining the epic pilgrimage to the toilets, where I was reminded once again that there are few places in life where dignity is checked at the door quite like a marathon start line.

With just over an hour to wait, I lay back on the grass, letting the early sun warm my face. For a few precious minutes, I wasn’t a man about to run 26.2 miles. I was just someone enjoying a peaceful morning, pretending, if only briefly, that I was on a beach somewhere.

But holidays don't usually involve thousands of people in lycra or nerves that hum under the skin. I dropped off my bag, made my way to my wave's starting area and gave myself one final nod: this was it. No more wondering if I could do it. It was time.

Those First Few Miles

Crossing the start line is a funny thing. You spend so long preparing, worrying, imagining it — and then suddenly, you’re moving, caught up in a great tide of legs, smiles, and adrenaline.

Your carefully trained pace suddenly feels almost laughably slow when the excitement hits — the sensible part of your brain, the one that knows how long a marathon actually is, has to wrestle with the part that thinks, "This feels easy! I should run faster!" Fortunately, the sensible part won the day and I settled into a rhythm.

The crowds were immense from the very first mile — lining the streets, waving signs, cheering like you were the only runner that mattered. It's hard to describe how much that lifts you. I found my stride, even after a brief second toilet stop at mile three.

One thing I hadn't counted on, though, was the early return of the back pain that had plagued some of my training. By mile one, it was there — a dull, unwelcome guest at the party. It numbed my right leg slightly, and I had to consciously adjust my running, shifting forward onto my calves. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to keep me moving — proof that sometimes sheer bloody-mindedness can substitute for medical advice, at least for a while.

London at its Loudest

Running through London during the marathon is like seeing a city you thought you knew suddenly come to life.

The Cutty Sark appeared first, surrounded by walls of roaring supporters, six or seven deep. It felt like running through the heart of a living, breathing organism. I even managed to spot my parents twice before the halfway mark — no small feat considering my mum is practically built for stealth missions in a crowd.

Crossing Tower Bridge brought the first real surge of emotion. It’s such an iconic part of the course that you can’t help but feel a lump rise in your throat, even if you're trying to save energy. You feel it — the weight of the journey so far, the shared humanity of the day, and the deep, aching belief that you can do this.

Then came the financial district and Canary Wharf, which turned out to be a different kind of challenge. The skyscrapers reflected the midday sun down onto the runners like malevolent mirrors, and the heat wrapped itself around you, heavy and unrelenting.

It was here that my calves began their protest, slowly transforming into small, angry rocks. But the marathon has its ways of distracting you. I passed rhinos, carrots, bottles of Radox, and — in an image forever seared into my brain — a very determined giant pair of testicles. It’s hard to take yourself too seriously when you’re being overtaken by someone who looks like they’ve raided the biology section of a GCSE textbook.

Grit and Heart

At mile 21, the race changed. It wasn’t a wall exactly — more a slow, grinding battle between my willpower and my body’s increasingly insistent requests to just sit down somewhere and have a little cry. My calves gave up first, and the pain shifted back towards my lower back as I moved my stride again.

The crowds, though — they were relentless in the best way. People you had never met were willing you onwards, lifting you with every step. It’s hard to overstate what that does for you when every muscle is screaming to stop.

I kept running. I didn’t walk — not even once. That mattered to me, for reasons that go deeper than pride. Every freezing winter run. Every early morning when it would have been easier to stay in bed. Every single step had been building to this. I wasn't going to stop now.

At mile 25, I took on my last gels and SaltStick chews with what could only be described as religious reverence. The Elizabeth Tower appeared and with it, the knowledge that the finish was close.

The final mile up Birdcage Walk felt like time had forgotten how to move properly. The road stretched out impossibly long ahead of me and the turn towards Buckingham Palace felt like a mirage. But eventually, it came. I turned my head to look at the Palace — properly, deliberately — and drank it in. A memory sealed forever.

Finishing and Coming Home

Crossing the finish line was overwhelming. Relief, pride, exhaustion, and something else too — the sense of a story, long in the writing, finally reaching its final full stop.

The medal went around my neck — heavy and cool against my sweaty, salt-streaked skin — and I finally let myself stop running. The simple act of walking felt luxurious, absurd and slightly dangerous.

I picked up my bag, visited the volunteers from my school working the lorries, and then started the slow, smiling trek to the station, medal swinging with every step.

When I got home, there was one more surprise waiting for me. The girls had stayed up late, horns blaring, banners waving, shouting and cheering like their lives depended on it. It was everything I needed. Pizza and beer waited in the kitchen — the marathon runner's true feast — and for the first time all day, I let myself properly, completely relax.

Thank You

Thank you to everyone who has read along with this blog over the last 121 days. You’ve shared in the highs, the lows, the cold mornings, and the daft musings along the way. I hope it’s brought something different to your day, just as it has to mine.

I don’t think I’ll be tackling another marathon for a little while — my calves and back have formed a small union and are currently drafting strongly worded letters — but what an adventure it’s been.

Until the next challenge: keep chasing your dreams, keep laughing at the strange turns along the way, and never underestimate the power of stubbornness, snacks, and a little bit of magic on a sunny morning in London.