You can not see the actual start line when you’re in the pen. It’s hidden around a corner, behind a screen of trees and flapping banners. You hear the roar of the crowd, but you don’t see the arch until you’re on it. That’s the magic. One second you’re a person with a chip on your shoe, the next you’re a marathon runner, three miles in before you even remember to breathe. It’s disorienting, but in the best way.
If you’re spectating (you lucky soul), forget trying to find your runner at the start. It’s a logistical nightmare. Hide at Cutty Sark around mile 6—that’s where you’ll see them, still smiling, still ignorant of the Wall that waits. The start lines are for runners only. And for a few thousand portaloos. Oh, the portaloos. There’s a line for those, too. Always a line.
So, where is the London Marathon start line? It’s here, there, and everywhere. It’s three points on a map that converge into one shared experience of terror and excitement. It’s the Greenwich Park you’ll never see the same way again. And if you’re running it this year? Good luck. Don’t forget the bin bag. You’ll need it.
