ni.chol.as

I must admit I had higher hopes for photographing the marathon. Ostensibly, it’s a gathering of eccentrics and mentalists who, in this case, were willing to train for months and then run 26 miles in temperatures that I was sweating in just by standing around St. James’ Park. The opportunities for photography should be great, 36,000 people in various states of exotic dress and exhaustion, colourful characters and outfits abound. Yet upon starting to take photos, I was stopped in my tracks by the obvious discomfort that the finishers exuded. Their pain was palpable. It was as if my asking for a quick snap would be the last straw, they’d collapse in front of me and all the other spectators would shout, “He took a photo and now they’re unconscious! Get him!” Thankfully this didn’t happen. Instead, the universal cry when I asked for a picture was, “Oh god, but I look awful!” or words to that effect. I think they looked pretty bloody good, all things considered. Even the paras who ran the whole thing in combat fatigues, leather boots and with giant backpacks on and finished looking like they’d just had to jog to catch a bus and no more.

Despite my fears of finishing the poor buggers off, I did take a few pictures in between frequent diversions to the Red Lion on Whitehall to top up Eamon and my dwindling liquid reserves. Sadly, I’ve been horribly infected with the idea that if these people can run a marathon, for charity, for themselves or for whatever reason, then so can I. Thankfully, there’s another 9 months for that idea to get out of my system before I’d ever need to contemplate training or entering. I think I’ll be cured by then.