Happy Birthday, D(e)ad

Happy 78th birthday, Dad. This blog is your birthday present. I know that your birthday isn't until tomorrow. And I know that you're dead. But still.

My brother ran his third London Marathon today (1997, 2001, 2007). All I know is that he finished in 4:20. His personal best is 3:40 so I imagine he'll be a bit disappointed. I'm not very close to my brother, which is why we tend to communicate sporadically via SMS and not much besides. 5 hours after my brother finished, I went for an 18-mile run (2:32) that took in big chunks of the London Marathon route but in reverse.

I suppose that's an analogue of our relationship: two people travelling in opposite directions, at different speeds, for different reasons, but with some overlap. An analyst might want to explore my unconscious motivations. Especially as I'd just stepped off a Tylenol-PM-and-red-wine-fuelled flight from Los Angeles. Hmm.

I ran the London Marathon in 2003 (3:27). It was overcrowded and anticlimactic. I'm not one for being sardined with fun-runners dressed as superheroes and bananas. I much prefer sucking in the aftermath when most people have gone home. (I've done this several times in the past.)

The people who hadn't gone home were the all-day drinkers clustering and swaying outside the favoured Isle of Dogs marathon boozers (City Pride, The Ship, The Hope and Anchor). Pastel polo shirts, Reebok Classics, bad tattoos, plastic pints, rumbling unrest. One of the benefits of listening to music while you run is that you can't hear the slurred shouts of "You're too late! It finished hours ago, blood!" and "You're going the wrong way, bruv!" You can still see the shouts, though. Reaching the cool sanctuary of the Greenwich Foot Tunnel was a blessing.

I finished up at Moorgate Underground station.

My Dad travelled to and from this station every weekday for 35 years. Happy 78th Birthday, Dad.