Elite runners miss the point of the London Marathon. Just ask Daddy Pig

In London, last Sunday, the Kenyan Sabastian Sawe became the first person to officially run a marathon in less than two hours. Photographs of him holding one of his £450-a-pair Adidas trainers with “1:59.30” hastily scribbled on the side were everywhere. Meanwhile, Yomif Kejelcha, of Ethiopia, finishing just 11 seconds behind Sawe, also broke the two-hour barrier, but no one, it seems, thought it was worth passing him a Sharpie. I’ve always had a soft spot for those who come second – I named my son after Buzz Aldrin – but, in the context of the London Marathon, I’m less interested in those two high achievers than I am in Clair Roberts, who finished last with a time of 12.16, or Simon Fannon, who broke the record for the longest scarf knitted while running a marathon – just over 18 feet – or, my particular favourite, Matt Batchelor, who ran the fastest ever marathon while dressed as a 3D toy.

Obviously, I respect Sawe and Kejelcha but the whole elite athlete thing has never really grabbed me. In the context of the London Marathon, that level of focused excellence seems slightly inappropriate, like when a brilliant singer turns up on a pub karaoke night. They sound amazing but they’ve missed the point.

When I was growing up in the 60s, marathon runners were seen as a tiny group of obsessive, oddball supermen who, by some random freak of nature, could do that which human beings were simply not meant to do, a bit like those pearl divers who don’t get the bends. The legendary Abebe Bikila won the Olympics marathon in 1960. He did it in two-and-a-quarter hours and ran the whole race barefoot. I didn’t know any adults that could go that long without a cigarette. And I knew he couldn’t have grabbed a quick mid-race ciggie because how would he have put it out?

The men’s marathon has been an Olympics event since the birth of the modern games in 1896. The first women’s Olympics marathon was in 1984. Last Sunday, the competitors included Eileen Noble, running her 19th marathon. She’s 84. This is just one example of how much the whole concept of the marathon has changed. You don’t have to be a superman, after all. It’s like the people took that tired old adage “it’s not the winning but the competing that counts” and transformed it into a radical manifesto. We, too, can do it – and some of us will do it carrying a tumble dryer. Doing the marathon dressed as a pantomime horse or the Big Ben tower hammers home the idea that just running it as fast as you can is so basic. It’s hard to think of another revolution so heavily reliant on fancy dress. I doubt anyone’s diving for pearls dressed as Daddy Pig.

As we saw last Sunday, the supermen still exist but they’re just another subset, like those competitors who appear to be riding an ostrich. It costs £79.99 for a UK resident to enter the marathon. If you’re an overseas entrant it’s £225. This is another victory for the non-elite because at the end of the day, which is pretty much when she finished, Clair Roberts got a lot more bang for her buck than Sabastian Sawe. I feel there might be some sort of socialist lesson involved in all this but, unfortunately, I can’t quite remember what socialism looks like.

I suppose I should say there’s room for everyone in the London Marathon but, considering the fact that more than a million applicants for last week’s race weren’t accepted, it would be slightly misleading. Those of you who watched it on television and, truly inspired, declared “I’m definitely going to do it next year” might as well make a firm resolution to win the lottery. You’ve also just missed the closing date for applications.

The subversive influence of the new marathon mindset might lie behind other elites being questioned. I used to think I had to pay for an eye test from a highly trained professional before I could get spectacles, but now I can stroll into, say, a motorway services and just grab a pair of glasses off the rack. Again, it seems, someone questioned the accepted truth. Now the lonely optometrist sits among the deserted eye charts and retinoscopes, like the Wizard of Oz, finally rumbled. Loneliness is not the elite marathon runner’s problem. His uniqueness was questioned and now, instead of treading the long, exclusive road of specialness – the silence broken only by the sound of trainer against tarmac – he is pursued by what looks like like a cross between student rag week and World Book Day. Not to mention those weirdos running the race in, well, running gear. Honestly, some people…

Photograph by Avpics / Alamy