Guest post by Jon Wood; runner, architect and writer. 
As I cycled up to Hackney Marshes I started to realise the enormity of this half marathon event. I was overwhelmed by its scale: 12,000 runners, some say 12,500. It was here, about 6 years ago I ran my first half marathon. That was a much more local affair, run by local volunteers with a nominal entrance fee. On that occasion there were about 300 of us and I clocked 1.43 something. Since then Hackney’s gone global! It felt like a festival. Unfortunately running isn’t rock and roll,  its going to hurt with or without the drugs. (Yes I thought about it).
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Soon after we set off my early nerves turned to agitation then transmuted into the negative: Something tells me, as I run past the Pembury Estates, which witnessed some heavy rioting not so long ago, that this enormous club of runners that I’m reluctantly and demographically affiliated to won’t stamp out discontent. What difference am I really making? I soon tell myself to shut up, these are churlish thoughts. Embrace the positive! This is life affirming, its to be grasped, celebrated and enjoyed! We’re only 4 miles in for God’s sake, feel the collective energy, run with them not against them. The pep talk worked for quite a while- I passed the 10k mark at 47 mins and felt good.

For quite a while we ran through tree lined streets flanked by a standard housing stock of stained yellow brick that seemed to sigh, content and settled. I could hear the gentle echoing steps of my fellow runners, the sound of our breath, the occasional cheer from a supporter. It occurred to me that we had reclaimed the streets after all, not from the disaffected but from the more everyday hostility of traffic. To run along the roads free from the plague of the car was a glorious feeling. My sense of benevolence remained well past the half way mark, my running demons were at bay, I could feel my natural animal rhythm, my worn trainers were holding up well as I flew over the Lea Navigation at Hackney Wick.

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At this point there were two signs one indicting the 10 mile mark and another 12 miles for the runners returning from the Olympic Park. I can’t remember detecting on the faces of the returning runners any sign that they’d been to hell. The landscape had changed dramatically. Moments ago I was a demi god pounding the dappled road by the side of Victoria park now I was a carcass following other carcasses up a smooth black road towards a burning orb in a shadeless, godless, limitless expanse. Around us a heartless collection of out of scale forms, dropped casually from a giants hand, bullied our senses.

Behind me, in front of me, in the distance coming from the right and the left there was an even, endless stream of runners. On each turn a similar vista opened up, sickeningly mesmeric, like a real, life size, Esher. I couldn’t see an end, I still can’t see an end but it must have ended because I’m here, writing this.

I kept on asking myself why am I conforming to this? It occurred to me at one stage that I could cheat and cross the reservation, break the code, cut a mile off and probably win the over 55’s category to boot! I could take home 100 quid. I delighted in my subversion but you need strength to sustain that level of deceit and I was done. My demons had upgraded to elite, they were ruthless SAS interrogators fisting my resolve. Friendly cheering faces had turned to jeers, my now pointless life was evaporating on the shimmering unreal edge of Hackney. Did I take those drugs?

Despite having Post Olympic Park stress disorder I’m glad I did the run and it does show that Hackney is making fantastic progress in so many ways. I got 1.43 and a bit, at least some things remain the same!

By Jon Wood. Read more of his writing on his website.