In April 2014 Commando was running his second marathon, in Manchester. We’d travelled up on the train the day before and checked into the Premier Inn at Deansgate Lock, an area bursting with bars and nightlife on the surface with the Rochdale Canal hidden away below street level. After a little rest we went out to stretch our legs and have a look around.
7 April 2014
Deansgate is one of the oldest roads in the city of Manchester dating back to Roman times. Back then it passed the Roman fort of Mamucium from a ford across the River Medlock to the road to Deva, now Chester. Running north to south and almost dead straight it’s the longest road in the city centre, being more than a mile long. The name Deansgate comes from the lost river Dene, which is believed to have once connected the rivers Irk and Irwell, and the Norse word gata, meaning way. The area around our hotel seems to be made up of layers. The tall buildings and the viaducts of the Great Northern and Manchester South Junction Railways above us and, down in a gully, the river Medlock and the canals. Outside the beautifully curved front of Deansgate Station, a large bicycle sculpture stopped me in my tracks. What it is all about is anyone’s guess.
The skyline is dominated by the Beetham Tower, Manchester’s tallest building and England’s tallest residential tower. It also houses the Manchester Hilton, somewhere I’m very familiar with. Many years ago I went there for a swish Travel Awards event with my reps. From the bar and restaurant, halfway up the tower, you can stand on a glass floor and look down at the ground below. It gave me vertigo and I didn’t stand there long.
We found the half hidden canal and wandered along, passing under bridges holding the road above. My favourite had wrought iron musical note railings. These paths seemed like a hidden gem, bordered by apartments and tall buildings they were an oasis of calm in the bustle of the city. Here there were working locks, unlike those on the Navigation where the gates are long gone. Our steps were accompanied by the sound of water trickling through the gaps.
We were up at six today with marathon bags packed all ready for breakfast when the hotel restaurant opened at seven. A bit of granola and a croissant for me, a lot of granola, toast and fruit for Commando and we were in a taxi on the way to Old Trafford before eight. As the roads were closed for the race we had to walk the last bit, along by the Trafford arch to the race village but at least it wasn’t raining. The sky looked threatening though. The chances of getting through the day without a soaking looked slim.
We stopped for a moment outside The Trafford pub for a quick photo opportunity. I loved the way the light shone on the building behind, an office block called City Point, turning the glass into burnished copper. Pretty soon we were walking towards Old Trafford looking up at the banks of green glass surrounded today by runners rather than the usual football crowds.
After dropping off Commmando’s bag, a long toilet queue and a quick water stop at the Macmillan Cancer Care tent, we made for the start pens. Commando got in place. He seemed in good spirits for someone about to run twenty six point two miles. It wasn’t long before they were off and I watched him running towards the a Trafford arch. Who knew when I would see him next? Would his knee hold up? Would he make his four and a half hour target? All these things were running through my mind as I walked alongside the throng of runners and called my friend Yas.
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