The Flamingo Diaries
Lisa Jackson on friends she needs
Afriend once called me the ‘Mother Teresa of marathon running’ because after every race I’d return with tales of people I’d helped along the way. One was a young Liverpudlian who had hugely swollen feet and so feared she would not be able to finish her first marathon. I swept her up at the 10km mark, shared my Dairy Milk with her at 30km and held her hand aloft as we crossed the finish line. And then there was the woman I met at the Beachy Head Marathon, who’d sat on a camp stool sobbing because she just didn’t think she had it in her to run the remaining six miles. With the help of the awesome power of chat, she too earned her medal; last I heard, she was gunning for an Ironman.
Yes, it’s gratifying to get a PB or add another piece of bling to my collection, but the most satisfying thing about running, for me, is that it gives me a chance to help others who are struggling to achieve their dreams. I love the fact that some of the most watched clips on YouTube aren’t those showing the winners of races, but those who’ve reached out to a fellow runner. When Matthew Rees sacrificed his time to come to the aid of David Wyeth, who was on the verge of collapsing just 200m from the finish of the 2017 London Marathon, many hailed it as a demonstration of the true spirit of running.
But my ‘lifesaving’ attempts may have given the wrong impression, because every runner who’s been ‘rescued’ by me has also rescued my race. By allowing me to focus on something besides my aching hips or crampy calf, they’ve given me not only the gift of distraction, but also a race to remember. And while it’s true I’ve helped dozens of people over the line, many have done the same for me. Marshals who’ve shouted encouragement, aid-station volunteers doing the Mexican wave, spectators who’ve run alongside me – all of these people knew the kindness of strangers can be more energising than glucose sweets.
I witnessed one of the most humbling experiences of this kind at Devon’s Women Can Marathon. I entered the race injured and so volunteered to be the back marker. At first, I ran slightly ahead of the final few runners because I was concerned that once they’d passed me, I’d be on my own for the rest of the race. I’d heard their whooping long before I saw them and when the group caught up with me, I could see why they’d been so noisy: they were all in fancy dress and were determined to have a great day out.
The course was challenging; it involved clambering over stiles, negotiating muddy paths, trying not to trip over tree roots and sidestepping brambles and nettles. If that wasn’t tough enough, one of the group, Netty, was blind and still recovering from a fractured pelvis. For her, each obstacle was terrifying as well as tiring and she had to put her trust in her guide, Sheena. On the narrow coastal paths, she had to hold on to Sheena’s waist while another friend, Lesley, gripped her backpack from behind to stop her from falling. Netty told me that because running has given her so much, she gave back as much as she could by marshalling and staffing aid stations at races; being a parkrun event director, barcode scanner, pacer and tailwalker; and dishing out Netty Hugs.
Early on, we told stories and sang, but as the miles went by we became quieter, the time on our feet taking its toll. Then one of the group felt too ill to continue and we had to wait in the scorching heat for the ambulance to find us. After that, I managed to get the group lost, so we staggered into the race village 11 hours and 40 minutes after we’d started. The cheer we got was deafening and the warm glow afterwards was priceless. So was the knowledge that, although I was officially given the role of helping the group complete the race, they were the ones who’d got me to the finish.