RUNNING THE 1982 BIRMINGHAM MARATHON...

THE ORIGINAL PROGRAMME...

Birmingham Marathon 1982, Part 1:

NEWHALL STREET, THE START…

Fancy dress wasn’t uncommon

Amongst the milling crowds

In Newhall Street:

A seething mass of competitors

Which would begin behind the elite…

Athletics club vests weren’t uncommon

And black bin bags were worn like shrouds,

To keep in the heat

For the more experienced competitors,

Who were constantly moving their feet…

Nervousness too wasn’t uncommon,

As I tarried amongst the crowd,

Two-thirds of the way down the thriving street,

Behind the other, presumed faster competitors,

Whose distance running was considerably more fleet…

At the sound of a gun, frustration became common,

But slow walking eventually eased the crush

Amid such perspiration and heat,

As the barely moving competitors

Ached with exasperation and defeat…

It took three minutes for me to reach Colmore Row,

Where I could at least break into a slow, if obstructed run,

Past many applauding spectators with their smiles and cheers,

Though this Marathon would prove to be anything but fun…

Pete Ray

May 2018

SOME OF THE THE LISTINGS...

It was awful at the start in Newhall Street where I had done some summer casual work as a 16 year old many years before. It had been in a warehouse where my Auntie Ivy had worked as a comptometer (commercial calculator) operator.

Too many runners, too little space, no real chance to keep warmed up, except for stretching, etc. 

Then when starting the gun sounded, those of us way down the street didn’t start to move for a couple of minutes, then walked small steps, before finally, in Colmore Row, small running steps were possible, therefore falsifying our finishing times…  

GRIM...

Marathon Poem 2:

Leaving the City Centre…

The city’s centre teemed,

Indeed seethed

With rows of spectators,

Lining the streets as runners emerged

And surged, their welcoming applause to pass…

The rapt audience seemed

Somehow swathed

In awe and expectation,

Cheering anonymously as runners snaked

And raked their shifting course en masse…

Pete Ray

May 2018  

Finally able to get running, I was torn between stealing past slower entrants and not moving too quickly too soon.

The noise was terrific and in slalom style it was reminiscent of leaving a football ground in a crowd and jogging and veering past walking folks in order to reach my car first and get away, avoiding traffic…

I DIDN'T NEED THIS...

Marathon Poem 3:

The A452, Collector Road…

Mentally, this sparse section

Would come to demoralise runners

And I suffered;

The long Collector Road was to be negotiated

In each direction

With few spectators present to encourage

And thus it was disheartening

To see the better athletes race past, concentrated

Some miles ahead on the opposite carriageway,

Somehow designed to discourage…

Cruelly, I watched my thighs,

Puzzling at them,

For still they lifted, pushing me on

Against my will,

To bemuse my alarmed eyes;

Alone I trudged warily onward

And as I neared each mile marker

I became fixated upon a cup of tea to drink my fill,

Sucking at wet sponges along the carriageway,

As I hit the wall, my mind confused and untoward…

Pete Ray

May 2018

To make competitors run up one side of a dual carriageway and back down the opposite side was probably administratively acceptable but no spectators were able to assemble along that section of the A452, only maybe a few people were seen waving from footbridges and one’s resolve was sorely tested.

Those well ahead of course were passing me going in the other direction and I began to realise how far behind I was. 

Drinks were tough to consume whilst running and I resorted to sucking cold water from sponges.

I was amazed my legs were still pumping, for I was not telling them to.

The mile markers seemed so far apart by this point that I began to think I had missed them.

I hadn’t.

And I was desperate for a cup of tea… 

NEAR THE END...

Marathon Poem 4:

Chatting…

Grinding onwards, silently,

The gruelling, harsh roadside

Beneath my sweating feet

Would surely at a later time

Blister them to bleed, sore and raw…

Straining onwards, mindfully,

A leeching runner moved alongside,

Seeming fresh and upbeat,

Blustered, “Your first time?”

Adding annoyance to my mind’s furore…

Jogging onwards, purposefully,

The fellow’s quicker, longer stride

Soon left me behind, downbeat,

Keeping to his calculated time

But his flippancy had begun to gnaw…

Moving onwards, defiantly,

I later ran past him, walking kerbside,

Having accepted defeat;

I surged ahead, keeping my own time,

Encouraging him upon his reserves to draw… 

Pete Ray

May 2018

AFTERWARDS...

I had not spoken during the race, bar a greeting early on to a work colleague of my dad’s, dressed as a ballet dancer, which had been rather worrying…

The chap described in the poem above, caught me up, asked whether it was my first marathon, listed the ones he had run in, said I was slowing him down and then sped off.

I was upset by this encounter but during the latter stages of the race, I passed him as he walked, too tired to run.

I was shocked but kind of pleased too, as I drifted past him and offered him some encouragement. 

I didn’t see him again.

MY NUMBER...

Marathon Poem 5:

The Finish…

Thus my weary frame pressed on,

With strained, aching legs like automatons

And my wandering mind tiring;

Finally though, I saw the N.E.C.,

Maybe a mile or so left to go

And quite suddenly there were crowds again, urging me on…

Behind barriers, runners’ friends and relations

Were applauding, cheering, inspiring

And I reached a place where I could see

The finish, firing my adrenalin to glow…

And so I sprinted forth

To finish fast, despite the fatigue,

Overtaking slower runners, all gasping,

For I was on a mission, full of intrigue…

And then I leaned forth,

 ‘Taking the tape’ in my imagination,

Retched as I crossed the line and was handed

A small medal, for my misplaced gratification… 

Pete Ray

May 2018

THE MEDAL...

And finally, I came upon the N.E.C., where the finish was, despite having seen the buildings from two or three miles out, which had been galling.

I sprinted the final 150 metres or so, just because I thought I could, overtook some runners and as I crossed the finish line leaning, like in a sprint race, I heaved but nothing spewed from my hot mouth…

Cold drinks, a warm top, a medal and the pleasure of proving someone wrong brought a smile to my face…

MY MUM SEEMED PLEASED...

My feet were fine.

I had stopped playing football at Christmas 1981 and trained from then for September’s 1982 Birmingham Marathon.

I ran it.

I came 685th from more than 2,200 entrants.

My ‘official’ time was 3 hours, 30 minutes, 44 seconds but I hadn’t started for three minutes following the sound of the gun…

MY RESULT...

I never ran a marathon again.

The occasional ‘fun run’ was negotiated, as well as a couple of Royal Sutton Coldfield runs…

I played football on the following Sunday, had no power in my kicks and was forced to curl and clip long passes. 

I could have run all day though…