The official number hovers around 40,000 to 50,000 finishers each year. That’s roughly the population of a small city—like Windsor—all running, walking, and crying at the same time. Imagine every single person in your office building suddenly deciding to sprint past Buckingham Palace. Multiply that by ten, and you’re still not close.
But here’s the thing: that number doesn’t include the 40,000 more who apply and get rejected because the ballot is harder than getting concert tickets. It’s like the universe saying, “You want to run 26.2 miles? First, win the lottery.”
Where Do They All Come From?
It feels like half of them are your mum’s friend, Dave, who “just did it for charity.” And yes, charity runners make up a huge chunk—about two-thirds of the field. The other third are the elites who look like they’re out for a casual jog while you’re still tying your shoes.
Last year, a bloke next to me at the start line told me he’d trained by chasing his dog. That dog probably ran more miles than I did in my entire year. But that’s the beauty: it’s a mix of Olympic hopefuls and people in banana costumes. It’s a glorious democracy of discomfort.
