London Marathon: Stepping Into the Impossible

Level of Challenge

★★★★★

Very challenging

I still struggle to believe that I ran the London Marathon in 2024. Two years earlier, the idea of completing even a 5 km parkrun felt impossible. A marathon — and one of the World Majors — belonged in somebody else’s world entirely. I’ve always thought of myself as more of a jogger than a runner, but somewhere along the way I realised that the moment you lace up your shoes and choose to cover the distance… you are a runner.

What surprised me most was that the marathon itself wasn’t the hardest part. The real work happened in the months before: the early mornings, aching legs, diet changes, and that relentless mental battle whispering, ‘Why are you doing this? You can’t do this.’ Over time, I learned a truth I won’t forget: a marathon is conquered in your head long before it’s conquered on the road.

Preparing for Race Weekend

A few days before the marathon, every runner has to visit the ExCeL Running Show to collect their race pack. It’s a busy and sprawling venue, but I found the support reassuring. Staff guided me through the crowds, helped me locate the correct desk, and placed my race number, timing chip, and kit bag into my hands. It set the tone for the weekend: even in the chaos, help is always there if you ask.

Race morning itself started with the Tube and DLR to Greenwich. Volunteers were already on the platforms, calling out directions and keeping everyone moving. The volume of people was overwhelming at times, but once inside the start area everything felt more organised — clear signage, colour-coded trucks for bag drop, and volunteers everywhere.

If I ran it again, I’d give myself more time to find my start pen. And I’d definitely check accessible toilet locations beforehand — the queues were long and I couldn’t confirm where fully accessible units were positioned on the day.

Training as a Blind Runner

My training relied heavily on familiarity. I used the same route again and again, sometimes to the point of boredom, because it gave me a feeling of safety and predictability. That consistency meant I could focus on pace, intensity, and heart rate without worrying what was coming next underfoot.

Zone 2 running became my anchor. It’s slower, steadier, and it builds remarkable endurance — and it suits my visual impairment perfectly. I didn’t need to rush; I just needed to keep going.

I’d also encourage blind and visually impaired runners to do some shorter events beforehand: parkruns, local 10Ks, or even the London Landmarks Half Marathon. They teach you how to move among crowds and, if you’re running with a guide, give you both the chance to practise communication and rhythm together.

Running for Charity

I ran on a charity place for the Guide Dogs Association, a cause deeply close to my heart. Fundraising brought its own pressure — the fear of letting the charity down sat heavily with me — but it also gave the challenge purpose. Even though I didn’t quite reach my target, I raised a meaningful amount and felt proud of that.

After the race, the charity hosted a small celebration with snacks, drinks, and post-race massages. Stepping into that space of warmth and encouragement after such an enormous physical effort was a gift.

Choosing to Run Without a Guide

For my first marathon, I decided to run without a guide — a symbolic choice to highlight what it can be like for people who don’t have access to a guide dog. I finished safely, and there was a deep sense of pride in that, but I can now say honestly that it added an unnecessary layer of difficulty.

With experience behind me, I’ve learned that accepting support doesn’t diminish the challenge — it strengthens it. Next year, I’ll be running with a guide.

Out on the Course

The moment the race began, the crowds carried me. Londoners lined every inch of the route, cheering, calling names, banging pots, waving signs, handing out sweets and fruit. Because the crowds are set behind barriers, I found the atmosphere more grounding than disorientating — the noise became a guide in itself.

There were moments of real magic. Running past the Cutty Sark, over Tower Bridge, and later down Birdcage Walk towards Buckingham Palace felt almost surreal. I’ve seen those landmarks countless times, but I’ve never experienced them with thousands of strangers shouting encouragement as I passed.

Crossing the Finish Line

Running under the finish arch felt oddly anticlimactic at first. After months of training and hours of running, stopping suddenly felt strange. But the moment the medal went over my neck, everything landed — pride, disbelief, and a quiet sense of awe.

The finish funnel was brilliantly organised: foil blankets, water, bag collection, and clearly marked meeting areas. As a visually impaired runner, I found the layout intuitive and easy to follow.

A Gentle Challenge

A marathon is a great equaliser. Whether you finish in two hours or eight, whether you run, jog, or walk, you cross the same finish line and earn the same title: finisher.

If you’re wondering whether you could take on something like this, start smaller than you think, slower than you think — but start anyway.

And if you’ve run the London Marathon, or if you’re dreaming about it, I’d love to hear your experience and what surprised you along the way.

All accessibility details in this article were verified against the London Marathon’s official guidance at the time of writing. The experiences described here reflect my personal journey and may differ for others. Please check the organisers’ official information and accessibility pages for the latest guidance.