There are cities you visit and then there are cities you feel. London for me has always been both. This April, my partner and I boarded a flight bound for the English capital, returning for the first time in 34 years. Thirty-four years is a lifetime really, enough time for careers, mortgages, children, marriages ending, adventures and entirely different versions of ourselves to exist between visits.
Back then London had been a stop of the great Aussie pilgrimage. In the late 80’s and early 90’s, it felt as though every second Australian under 25 lived between Earls Court and Shepherds Bush, pulling pints in pubs, working in a backpacker’s hostel or somehow finding themselves employed by Buckingham Palace or Harrods. There were said to be over 100,00 Aussies living in London at that that time and honestly I believed it.
But my memories of that London were not particularly romantic. It was post-Thatcher Britain. The city felt grey and hard-edged. Recession lingered in the air. Homelessness was visible everywhere along the major roads. The Thames seemed dark and intimidating rather than glamorous and alive. There was this feeling that “greed is good” had all come a little unstuck. And blaring from every shop doorway, every nightclub and every dodgy pub speaker was the unmistakable hedonistic soundtrack of Black Box.
London then felt gritty, tired and a little soulless to me.
Fast forward 34 years and my goodness, what a transformation.
This time, we arrived not as backpackers or wide-eyed twenty-somethings but as Gen X travellers who had spent weeks tumbling down the TikTok rabbit hole beforehand. We consumed London through every lens possible — locals sharing hidden pubs, expats explaining neighbourhoods, influencers finding aesthetic corners of Notting Hill, runners mapping marathon routes and fellow Gen X travellers reminding us that London is still one of the greatest cities on earth if you let yourself roam properly.
There is also something deeply comforting for me about England. My mother is English, so perhaps there is a genetic pull toward a proper cup of tea, a Sunday pub roast, royal gossip, high street shopping and the sight of a corgi trotting confidently down a footpath like it owns the kingdom.
Landing at Heathrow Airport genuinely felt like arriving somewhere familiar. Not home exactly, but adjacent to it. Even navigating the London Underground felt like reconnecting with an old friend. Efficient. Slightly chaotic. Straightforward once you remember the rules.
And London itself? Alive. Loud, energetic, multicultural and unapologetically busy.
This city no longer revolves solely around Big Ben, red buses and palace gates. London today feels dynamic and global in the best possible way. The food scene alone could sustain a month-long trip. The neighbourhoods pulse with personality. The river that once felt dark and foreboding now sparkles with bars, galleries, walkers and life.
I could not get enough of it. I walked fast. Ate constantly. Talked to strangers. Wandered without plans. Sat in parks people-watching. Dove headfirst into the energy of the city and let it carry me along.
But this trip was not just about tourism.
This time, London belonged to the marathon.
I like to roam.
My partner likes to run.
So naturally, the London Marathon became the perfect excuse for both.
Now, full disclosure: I genuinely love marathons. I love watching them on television. I love the stories behind them. I do some work with the Melbourne Marathon, so I understand the scale, emotion and logistics involved in delivering an event of this magnitude. I was not attending under sufferance as “the supportive partner.” I was there willingly, enthusiastically and emotionally invested.
And what a year to attend.
We stood there on a historic day as two men broke the two-hour barrier in the elite race — one of those sporting moments that lodges itself permanently into your memory. London delivered spectacle in every possible way.
But what is it actually like being a supporter at one of the world’s biggest marathons?
Exhilarating. Emotional. Completely exhausting. And absolutely worth it.
One of the surprising things about the London Marathon is that the day does not begin painfully early for supporters. The elite race starts around 9am and my partner’s wave was not due to begin until 10am, so there was space for a slower morning.
Well, slower for me.
My partner was a bundle of nerves and excitement. Marathon morning carries a very particular energy. Runners become intensely focused, emotional and strangely quiet all at once. He left early with a group from our hotel heading toward Blackheath, the starting area of the race, clutching gels and nervous optimism.
I, meanwhile, embraced the supporter lifestyle.
I had a leisurely breakfast, wandered through a nearby park and even squeezed in some yoga. Looking back, that calm start was essential because once the supporter day begins, it becomes absolute organised chaos. At around 9.30am, a group of family members and supporters gathered to begin our mission: seeing our runners at multiple points along the course.
And this, my friends, is where marathon spectating becomes a military operation.
There are road closures everywhere. Tube stations operating one-way systems. Entire sections of the city inaccessible. Two million spectators moving around simultaneously trying to locate one runner among nearly 60,000 participants.
It is part strategy, part luck and part cardio workout.
After navigating two tube rides and a sea of people, we made it to a halfway viewing point where runners loop past twice. It was busy but electric. Loud music blasted from speakers. Crowds lined every barrier shoulder to shoulder. Volunteers directed human traffic with endless patience. Strangers chatted like old friends.
And everywhere — everywhere — there was joy.
That is the thing about marathons. They create temporary communities.
The group I had attached myself to included parents with adult children running, sisters supporting siblings, husbands cheering wives and lifelong friends waving handmade signs. We stood there draped in Australian flags yelling ourselves hoarse whenever we spotted someone from home.
Between cheers, we exchanged stories. Why was your person running? For charity. For grief. For survival. For awareness. For recovery. For someone they lost. Or simply because they wanted to become part of the tiny percentage of humans who can say they completed a marathon.
That collective humanity is what makes these events so powerful. Beneath the elite athletes, the sponsorships and the finish-line medals are thousands upon thousands of ordinary people attempting something difficult.
And for one day, an entire city gets behind them.
London truly shone that day. Not just the landmarks or the pageantry, but the people themselves. Helpful. Funny. Encouraging. Patient despite the crowds. Proud of their city and eager for everyone else to love it too.
Eventually my partner came past our section.
Well… sort of. I saw his back. My new friends saw his face. I somehow missed the crucial frontal moment entirely. For one tiny split second I felt disappointed. After all that navigating and waiting, I wanted the cinematic movie moment of eye contact and emotional cheering.
But almost immediately that feeling disappeared. Because this race is so much bigger than one person. The London Marathon belongs to everyone simultaneously.
After spending time at the halfway point, our little supporter group decided to attempt the impossible: repositioning ourselves closer to the finish line near The Mall.
That journey alone deserves its own medal.
Crowds surged everywhere. Tube stations closed unexpectedly. We attempted to cross Tower Bridge alongside thousands of others while bands played, announcers shouted updates and spectators spilled into every available space. It was chaotic, noisy and strangely exhilarating.
And somehow, eventually, we made it.
Near the finish area, getting a perfect viewing position was nearly impossible. But the extraordinary thing about London Marathon day is that you do not actually need to see everything to feel everything.
The emotion is everywhere. You feel it in exhausted runners limping proudly through the recovery zones. In volunteers smiling despite standing on their feet for endless hours. In police officers calmly directing confused tourists. In families scanning crowds desperately for familiar faces. In spectators screaming encouragement for complete strangers. You feel the collective energy of human effort all around you. For me, this was mass participation at its absolute finest.
For one day, London gathers for something fundamentally hopeful. I saw Israeli flags and Palestinian flags, boxing kangaroos and Union Jacks. People from every age group, race, religion and background imaginable all standing side by side cheering for human endurance.
That matters. Particularly now.
And then finally, after hours of crowds, noise, logistics and anticipation, my partner and I found each other near the finish precinct. He was exhausted. Sore. Emotional. Completely spent. And utterly happy. We hugged and cried right there in the middle of London amongst thousands of strangers doing exactly the same thing. Not simply because he finished, but because we had experienced something unforgettable together.
Because on one extraordinary Sunday each year, this enormous global city stops everything so nearly 60,000 people can run through some of the world’s most iconic streets while two million spectators stand in awe encouraging them forward.
And somewhere amongst all that noise and humanity, all of us — runners and supporters alike — quietly wonder the same thing: Could we, one day, become one-percenters too?