Back in 1972, when I was 12, 132 pairs of Marc Bolan’s glittery eyes smouldered sexily at me from my walls. I counted them once. Five years later it was all over. My bedroom was pale lilac. I had a real boyfriend. And Marc had died in a car crash, just two weeks before his 30th birthday. Gone but never forgotten - as I discovered on Saturday when I visited his memorial.
The memorial is in Barnes, where the car his girlfriend was driving hit a tree, and is only 7 miles from where I now live. I’ve been meaning to go for a while. And today, it turns out, is the day. In preparation for my outing, I download Electric Warrior, one of the first albums I ever bought. The teen me loved his music every bit as much as his corkscrew hair, satin suits, feather boas and sexy eyes. “Life’s a gas” was and is my favourite track.
I like the idea of my run having a destination. I’ve no idea what to expect of the memorial. But I do know that “TRextasy” didn’t die with Marc. Forty years on, he still has a cult following. There’s an annual convention where fans and T Rex tribute bands gather. Along with tattoo artists, t-shirt designers and other purveyors of Marc Bolan paraphernalia. The top T Rex tribute band (called T Rextasy) has been around since 1992, they’ve toured Europe and the Far East and have even played BBC proms night in Hyde Park.
There’s another purpose to today’s outing. To experience running with a backpack ahead of an approaching South Downs adventure. Half a mile in, I realise it’s nowhere near as hardcore as it looks. As long as your backpack fits properly. Which mine does thanks to the meticulous sales guy in Ellis Brigham Outdoor (you’d have thought he was fitting me for a wedding dress). And as long as it’s not weighed down with bricks. Mine contains a rainproof jacket, a long-sleeved running top, a water bottle, a credit card, a senior citizens travel card, a pair of glasses and a Kindle (I have had a premonition that I will stop at a coffee shop before this run is over).
The idea is to alternate between running and walking, which is just as well because the pain in my left leg is back. Some days it’s there and others, it’s as if it’s never existed. Last week, after Matt's (not-for-the-faint-hearted) trigger point therapy, it disappeared completely. But Matt and his thumbs are now halfway up a Welsh mountain, so I’ve been treating it myself with a foam roller, a lacrosse ball and a packet of ibuprofen. I run the first 2 miles (downhill). The pain is there but only faintly. I walk for a while. It evaporates.
Unlike the thick mist that obscures the river – the Thames is barely visible from the bank even. There’s a wonderful eeriness to it. Like a Whistler painting. You’re running along and, without warning, an island or a bridge emerges from the depths of the mist.
Along the riverbank I meet a little boy. He is learning to jump. His mum and I demonstrate. He masters the knee bend, going so low you’d think he was about to propel himself into space. But he doesn’t quite get the hang of leaving the ground.
I reach Barnes Bridge and leave the river for a street unrun (by me at least). The memorial should be about 20 minutes away. Within a few hundred yards I don’t know which road to take (even though I checked the map several times before I left). I decide to keep my glasses and my phone in my hand until I know where I am (which turns out to be a considerable time later, when I finally reach the memorial).
A couple of miles on, I pass Barnes Station, which is very near my destination. Or would be if I could only find my destination. I run backwards and forwards across Barnes Common stopping frequently to consult my phone. “Well she ain't no witch and I love the way she twitch - a ha ha,” sings Marc, unhelpfully. “I'm a labourer of love in my Persian gloves - a ha ha”.
Suddenly, I spot what could be the back of the memorial. It looks like it might be nothing more than a small stone surrounded by a few long dead bouquets. I drop down onto the path below and approach it from the front. There’s more to it than I thought.
A set of gravel steps leads up to a statue of Marc courtesy of someone called Fee Warner. Internet research later reveals her to be Marc's most devout fan (even breaking up with a partner as a result of her - now 40+ year - devotion to the cause). Fee has donated the statue to TAG (T Rex Action Group, it turns out, of which she is secretary). There are fresh flowers, rain (or tear) stained notes, small bears and heartfelt poems. A pinboard displays pictures of the man himself (a couple of which are from Jackie magazine and adorned my walls all those years ago). And, of course, there’s a bevy of white china swans (some chained to a railing).
One woman still “aches for” Marc (the note is dated 2021). I don’t. But, looking at the pictures, I do still see why this gorgeous glitzy god of glam rock captivated me so much as a teenager. After several unsuccessful attempts to get a selfie with the statue, I resume my run. “Life’s a gas,” sings Marc as I hit the road, “And I hope it’s gonna last”.
