Going to that London

I remember planning for my first marathon – Edinburgh, 2013, with my mum, after missing out on the London ballot (of which more here). Lots of weight still to lose, lots of lists and logistics, lots still to learn about how to finish a marathon. Eventually you learn that nothing and nobody can teach you how to finish a marathon. You learn that what you really need to learn is how to listen to your own body.

When I crossed the line at Manchester last year in a little over 3:41 the first thing I thought was that I really hoped they didn’t change the Good For Age qualifying time for London, having just about squeezed in. I still didn’t quite believe I’d done it when I applied, still thought that something would change at the last minute or that I’d read my time wrong or they’d lose my application or something. I almost didn’t believe it even as I clutched the cheerful “Congratulations, you’re in!” magazine in my quivering hands. It didn’t really sink in until after my last marathon of 2015, when every time someone asked me what I was training for I had to amend my answer from “Oh nothing really, I’m always doing something or other,” to “London.” London with a full stop.

Perhaps it’s time to start training seriously for this marathon lark then – you know, training plans, strength and conditioning workouts, speedwork and pacing, eating real food and cutting back on pints of Honeydew. All those articles in Runner’s World I usually skip over to get to the stories of iconic races and Tonks’ column might actually come in useful. My goal is to get under 3:30, taking around twelve minutes off last year’s time – a tall order, but an achievable one. After trying one off the shelf plan and finding that it isn’t pushing me anywhere near enough, I ask my clubmates at Clapham Chasers and discover – almost too late – that many recommend the high-mileage Pfitzinger and Douglas (or P&D) training plan. I like running a lot, so this seems like a no-brainer. I do a few sums and work out that I can just about fit in the 12-week version between now and 24th April, since I already average 40 miles a week. So I draw up my calendar for the next 12 weeks and get stuck in.

Then I compare it with my work calendar. Ah. Three broadcast events in six weeks. Yes, that will be tricky. I’m used to squeezing runs in around work, but with this new job the broadcast days will rarely be less than 18 hours on my feet, and I’ll be learning my job as I go. It’s stressful both on my body and my brain – not to mention my digestive system, eating rancid Pret sandwiches for breakfast lunch and dinner – but I know if I’m going to do this it’s going to hurt occasionally so I suck it up. I stubbornly persist with the speedwork and tempo sessions whenever I can fit them in; then one Thursday, after a particularly stressful day at work I get halfway round before suffering a panic attack and need help from Cat to get my breathing back under control. Cutting one session short is not the end of the world, but the planned hours of speedwork I’m failing to make are slowly stacking up. Perhaps the panic attack is brought on by more than just work.

I get the first half of the project out of the way and hit the ground as soon as I get back. This is mid February now, a couple of weeks away from the small matter of my third attempt at the Moonlight Challenge. I’m in with half a chance of getting first lady if only I can finish all 33 miles and remember my bloody torch this time. I’m going around Battersea Park one freezing evening, not quite hitting tempo pace but not exactly struggling, when I feel a sharp pain develop behind my right kneecap, then it seizes up completely. I try to lollop along in the hope that it will loosen up but the camber and anti-clockwise loop isn’t helping, and I miss the last lap of the session again. This feels bad. This feels worse than the normal run-weariness I can shake off by, well, running. This feels like An Injury. And An Injury means Rest. I am not good at Rest. My metabolism is not good at Rest. I have gained almost a stone in weight since Christmas, and it feels like an actual stone tethered to my feet.

I’m superhuman, so these little setbacks don’t affect me, obviously. No, wait. The other one. Just a bog standard dickhead human who’s too stubborn to recognise something going wrong. I give the knee a few token gestures towards helping it heal – which is to say, continue to run into work once a week at the same intensity, hitting the pavements only slightly less hard than normal, occasionally give it a bit of a rub – but I never get more than 5 miles before it blows up again. I barely run at all in the week prior to the Moonlight Challenge, and unsurprisingly it starts to get better. But a week is not enough. 20 miles into the race, boom.

If I had a coach they would probably ask me which of the 8 marathons or ultras I’m already signed up to this year is actually my A race, then do something sensible like advise which of the others to drop; almost certainly that drop-list would have included Moonlight. The problem is that all my races are A races to me, for one reason or another. I just really love running marathons and ultras. And in a completely unscientific spirit that really only serves to enable this obsession, I am convinced that I run best when I’ve run lots, in as varied and exciting a range of ways as I can. Moonlight is important because of the people who run it; London because it’s the road marathon I always wanted to do; NDW100 is obvious; Giants Head is a party; Jurassic Quarter is Cat’s birthday and a big club weekend; the list goes on. I’m reminded of when I was 9, and we were planning to move to Cyprus: my mum asked me which of my toys were my favourites because we couldn’t take everything. I came up with infallible reasoning for every single thing. I don’t buy shit I don’t like. EVERYTHING IS MY FAVOURITE.

So if I’m not willing to choose my favourite toy, I have to look after them all equally well. Moonlight was a wake up call, not least because my bum knee was pretty much the only thing that stood between me and the first female finisher. I can’t go for sub-3:30 but at least I can do myself proud, and it’s one of only two races Andy will attend so I’m buggered if I’m going to be a tourist – when he sees me pass I want him to see me running like I’m about to win it. I finally knuckle down to a program of gradually building up long slow miles again, supported by cross training on the bike (subtitled: if I don’t have to pay TfL to travel to work I’m winning twice), yoga and strength exercises, a serious effort to lose the winter weight. If I can’t be faster I may as well be stronger, lither, tougher. Is it lither, or more lithe? Whatever. I channelled Caballo Blanco – easy, light, smooth, fast.

On a whim, I signed up to the Wimbledon Half Marathon (not to be confused with the Wimbledon Common Half Marathon) at the beginning of April to test my roadworthiness. I had no idea what sort of time I was capable of (and as usual did absolutely no research on the course profile beforehand) but I figured I would start off at 8 minute miles and see how far I could go before I naturally slowed down. Despite the hills it was further than I thought; I ended up finishing in 1:47.53, not exactly a PB or the equivalent pace for a 3:30 marathon, but not a stretch either. The figures by themselves aren’t much of an indication of anything, but coming away from that feeling like I could run again with no pain was a boost.

Since Lucozade Sport is supplied on the course at London I thought I’d try running Wimbledon on that alone rather than carrying a fistful of gels (which didn’t entirely agree with me at Manchester last year anyway) and road tested my shoes and kit, all with success. The only failure, it turned out, was my ability to stay on my feet. At the end of the first lap I’m crossing the road via a traffic island, over one of the flattest bits of the course when suddenly I’m doing a Superman impression and gliding along the road on my front, and I have no idea why. Pride might come before a fall but a huge rush of adrenalin usually comes directly after it, so I picked myself and my bottle up almost in one movement and carried on before the pain kicked in. The runner behind me reassured me that if I’d stayed on the floor he’d have stopped my watch for me, which is basically the most charitable thing anyone’s ever said to me during a race. Next time round I looked for the trip wire, huge tree root or bear trap that must have been responsible for me going flying. Nothing there. Just the road markings. And as I went over them for the second time my toe brushed the edge and it clicked: I, a person who runs in hills and trails for fun, had tripped over paint.

As I’m sitting on the grass afterwards waiting for my massage, I inspect the wounds on my elbows, hips and knees. Pissing blood and covered in dirt; luckily the only thing that hurts is my pride. I’m a little concerned about the delayed effect of the impact on my poor patellas, although only time will tell for those poor buggers. But what struck me most of all was how quickly and thoroughly I shook off the fear of falling over. The fact is, it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the tension gripping my whole body each time I’d been out for a run when I knew, deep down, that I wasn’t properly healed yet, that I was falling into a classic overtraining trap. And just like that, I felt as though I had begun to regain control of my body again.

OK, three weekends to go. Three weekends of balancing the desire to go straight back out and run ALL THE MILES with the memory of what it feels like not to be able to run even for a couple of days. It’s a pretty classic situation. As I read about other runners’ experiences with overuse injury a trend appears; those that listen to their body, give it a proper chance to recover, actually come back stronger. Whether that’s down to an increase in strength or some other physical improvement, heightened responses to the body’s signals that reduce the temptation to overtrain, a higher likelihood of practising effective conditioning work and “pre-hab”, or a consciousness of what happens if you don’t, is impossible to tell – you’d have to know their full medical background and training history. On top of which, there aren’t many people lining up to tell Runner’s World how running ruined their life. Still though, you get the idea.

Of course you can’t always tell someone how to avoid disaster; you have to let them experience it for themselves to be sure that the lesson really sticks, and hope they have a chance to recover. Have you ever tried to tell a kid not to jump off a wall because they’ll get hurt, only to find them them biting back tears a few minutes later because they found out the hard way that you were right? Sam Murphy‘s column on coming back from injury in May’s Runner’s World – worth a read if you’re in a similar position – references a quote by ballet dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov: “The more injuries you get, the smarter you get”. Now that I know what it feels like not to be able to run I’m more attuned to the signals telling me I’m about to push it too far, that I’m playing chicken too close to the cliff edge.

Lesson learned – hopefully, just in time. I’ve finished the course, I’ve fudged the homework, I’ve scraped through the mocks and there’s no amount of cramming that will help now. The big test will come on the 24th April 2016.

Moonlight Challenge 2016 – third time lucky?

Before I went into this race I had done – if you include each marathon length leg of multi-day events – 24 marathons or ultramarathons, most of which over the space of eighteen months. Not many of those are races I’ve done more than once; not a huge surprise considering the range of events available to the marathoner of 2016, but still an important point to me. I’m not, nor am ever likely to be, a racer in the sense of competing for a time, so returning to a course in search of a PB is pretty low on the criteria when looking for a race. As important figures as they are to athletics, Paula Radcliffe, Haile Gebreselassie and Mo Farah aren’t such heroes to me as the stoic, battle-scarred members of the 100 Marathon Club; the people who ran marathons for fun 30 years ago and who still run them every weekend. Gina Little is to me what rockstars are to teenage girls, although I’m pretty sure I’m never going to get my hands on a poster of her.

The Moonlight Challenge represents to me very much the kind of runner I think – I have discovered, over the last eighteen months – that I am. A lap race that will reward you with a time and a distance regardless of how much you do but never honours winners, this would be my third attempt at finishing all five laps. I originally found it when I was looking for an ultramarathon to complete before my thirtieth birthday, and relying entirely on timing and accessibility from my home without taking into account the course, its inherent challenges or the history behind it. I got to marathon distance on the last two attempts and called it quits there, and for the third time I’m coming back with the idea of finishing it. And still, this is one I think I will be doing over and over again, regardless of whether I ever do finish it.

The race – regular readers will know – consists of a 6.55 mile lap around two farms in north Kent, very close to the coast and a light year away from any public transport, run up to five times to make 33 miles in total. Father of ultrarunning (to me, anyway) Mike Inkster runs the event with help from friends, family, and the hardy souls from Thanet Roadrunners, and also hosts the 24 Hour Challenge and the 50 Mile Challenge on the same course. It’s difficult to explain what it is about this race that keeps drawing me back. It’s not breathtaking views necessarily, partly because it takes place overnight and partly because there’s only so much Kent countryside you can get excited about. The lap repeats are mentally challenging, but there aren’t any killer hills, suicidal terrain or obstacles to conquer on the course. You won’t get much kudos from your workmates because it’s not well known enough for them to be able to quantify what you’ve done, and even seasoned ultra and trail runners will wonder what’s so remarkable about 33 miles in the mud, in the dark, beside a motorway. For the third time now my vocabulary has fallen short of the descriptive powers needed to explain this race. I just know it’s the one I know will always be in my calendar, come what may.

The first time I attempted it poor preparation, lack of experience or trail shoes (or fitness) and a total failure to appreciate its difficulty were what eventually did me in, four laps and a marathon distance in. It stood as only my second ever marathon, first ever trail or overnight run, and the first time I ever even saw gaiters (now a staple of my trail running kit). It was also a year of particularly bad flooding in the area and the mud was halfway up my calves in many places. During that six hours and forty five minutes I learned how important it was to have lugs on your shoes, how moving faster means less likelihood of sinking into the porridgey mud, how far you can subsist on just a fragment of human interaction (for which read: conversation is better than headphones) and how little that timing actually matters when you get down to it. I also learned that however many excuses you find for giving up, ultimately, the only force that made you give up was you.

The second time I was around a stone and a half lighter, much fitter and seven marathons more experienced. I had trail shoes, determination and thighs of steel; what I didn’t have, however, was a headtorch. After just two laps I bottled it, and was on the point of packing it in altogether when another runner kindly offered me their spare. Nonetheless the loaner torch only got me round two more laps of an uncharacteristically moonless night and thick fog, and my nerves overpowered my legs. If I ever wanted to finish all five laps I’d have to come back for another go.

So this was it – attempt number three. Supposed to be lucky, although I’m long past relying on good luck charms and superstition. It was me that chose to quit a race I was perfectly fit and able to complete, it was my brain that short circuited in the face of profound darkness and hallucinations, and it would be my brain and my body that would get me to the end when – not if, when – I eventually did. What’s more, I was more aware of my capability this time, and with such a small field there was a strong chance not just of my getting to the end, but getting there as first lady. All I had to do was all I ever do – float on.

And then I told my body to try and follow a new, regulated training plan for the London Marathon in the hope of getting sub 3:30. Longer midweek runs, more roads, a new stressful job and less rest than I’ve ever subsisted on (with or without running in the equation). My awesome body, who just three months ago I was praising for its achievements at Druids and for the first time in thirty-one years showing a shred of appreciation for, my body was now cowed like an abused dog with its tail between its legs, accepting punishment from its odious master and still timidly wagging its tail in the hope of a pat instead of a wallop. Surprise surprise, two weeks before the race my right knee went boom and the training plan had to go in the bin.

So I’d dealt with my lack of fitness for the event, my psychological capacity, and now for the first time I was facing injury – a revolting list of excuses. There was no point in finding blame or beating myself up further though; I had to rest, give my legs as much TLC as I could afford and hope that they’d make it through. After all that, what a horribly ungrateful way to treat myself. I couldn’t even give the mangy old mutt a proper day off because of my work timetable, but I could at least treat it to a foam roller and a bath every now and again. The question was, would it be too little too late?

Uncharacteristically for me, the moment my knee went pop I let go of the anxiety about racing or winning and took a more fatalistic approach; I would crawl round the course if I had to, but anything I had no control over wasn’t worth worrying about. Then Andy reminded me of something else I relied on my right knee for, which is the two hour drive there and back. Ah. That would be a problem. I put it out of my mind to begin with, but the day drew closer and my knee showed no signs of loosening up. Stubbornly limping to the finish is one thing; driving into the central reservation of the M20 because my knee wouldn’t bend is quite another. And then 24 hours out my guardian angel swooped to the rescue in the form of Team Mum; at a loose end on a Saturday night, apparently quite happy to spend six hours sitting in a freezing cold barn in Kent, waiting to drive me home if my knee didn’t want to. What are mums for, eh?

So there we are, greeting the Challenge Hubs regulars and catching up over frozen fingers and hot coffee. It felt like a reunion, reminiscing on past challenges and filling in the gaps of the intervening year; we even bumped into one of Team Mum’s Petts Wood Runners clubmates Jerry, and took a moment to admire each other’s Dirty Girl gaiters. I was among familiars, in an environment that felt secure to me despite the Arctic winds and pitch blackness, and I couldn’t wait to get going. Then it hit me – this is why I come back to the same event every year. Bugger the result or the time; it’s more like a holiday camp than a race. OK, so the weather’s diabolical and there’s no running water and three layers still isn’t enough to ward off frostbite and you end up with either trenchfoot or blisters, but you also come back with stories, smiles, another bunch of people to look out for next year.

In fact I was gossiping so much I almost forgot to get changed and marched out towards the start still wearing joggers and a puffer jacket. Which would have been a shame, considering the efforts I went to to make sure every single element of my outfit clashed. The first time I ran it I was in head to toe black and hoping to slink into the background, until I begrudgingly accepted a loan of Mum’s neon yellow waterproof. Now I knew the importance of being seen as well as being able to see – from a practical point of view I’d rather know passing trains, marshals and emergency services can spot me among the waist high rushes, but there’s also a huge psychological advantage to peacocking. Also, bright pink compression socks rock.

The first lap passed comfortably; not just I’m-psyching-out-the-opposition-by-pretending-to-be-comfortable, actually comfortable. Taking a nice steady pace my knee was happy, my brain was reassured by the double torch approach and my legs were raring to get out after nearly two months since my last marathon. Had I finally cracked it? I certainly wasn’t going to crack it by getting all cocky about it so I tootled along merrily, chatting to anyone who passed me and trying not to push it too hard. Six and a half miles later I pulled into the barn as the first lady to finish the first lap. Not want to lose momentum or the lovely little rhythm I’d found I made sure my number was taken, got my good luck hug from Team Mum and went straight back out. I felt absolutely in control.

Second time out and I still felt pretty comfy, possibly a little too much so: let’s not give up an easy lead simply through laziness, I thought. About halfway through I came across two members of Rebel Runners in their black and bright green vests, one of whom was the only other lady who seemed to be running in the same lap as me. Eager by now for a bit of company I chatted to her for a bit, and discovered that she had only recently begun running to raise money for charity after her son contracted leukaemia, and today would be her first ever ultra and only her third ever marathon. She had a choppy but efficient and very natural stride for someone who hadn’t been running long, and towards the end of the lap I actually began to struggle to keep up with her. Preferring the controlled approach and constantly wary of my knee I hung back, drawing into the barn only a minute or so after her. I was a little cautious of her speed and of losing position, but more than that I was actually disappointed to lose my conversation buddy.

Again I avoided seizing up by stopping only to pick up a handful of sweet treats – possibly they were fig rolls, although they could have been beer mats dipped in sugar for all I knew – went to get my good luck hug from Team Mum, and off- wait. Where was Team Mum? Not by our seats, or outside the barn by the car, or sitting at one of the picnic tables. I looked around frantically. I’m not superstitious by any stretch of the imagination, but I didn’t much like the idea of going out without my good luck hug. I turned to Julie at the registration desk to ask if she’d seen my mum – she’s as well known at Challenge Hub events now as I am, if not more so – and as she raised her head from the list of entrants to reply I spotted a familiar pair of specs and Cheshire Cat grin.

“Right. You’re working the desk now.”

“Yeah! Thought I’d help out.”

Of course you did.

During the third lap I kept an eye out for the Rebel Runners, assuming they’d be only a little ahead of me, but there was no sign. Bollocks, I thought, they must have stolen a march. Oh well, I’m not meant to be racing anyway. I plodded along carefully, humming along to myself and resisting the urge to take out the iPod. By now my legs were tiring slightly but not so much that my form was dropping – all I had to do was keep the steady pace up. Then, about halfway through, I felt an odd sensation in my right knee – not pain, there was no explosion and seizing up like last time. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it; it just felt as though my knee had started to drift away from the rest of my body, as of no longer attached but simply floating away in an ever widening orbit. A little further along the feeling had passed, but it was pretty ominous.

The sound of a familiar chatter distracted me from any knee-induced panic attacks; just over my right shoulder, trotting resolutely along, the Rebels. No wonder I couldn’t see them up ahead of me; apparently they’d taken an extended stop after the second lap to take a group photo and were just catching up. I kept up with them until the end of the third lap, the increased pace at the time shaking out the instability in my knee and we entered the barn together. Maybe the tortoise would beat the hare after all?

I took a bit of a break this time, ate a bit more sugar coated sugar, chatted to Team Mum and stretched out my thigh. I was over halfway through now and making good time – I didn’t want to ruin it for the sake of a few minutes. Even with my break I still left the barn well before the Rebels and plunged on for lap four, rejuvenated but wary. The first section of the lap was the only real mudbath, but as mudbaths go it was a doozy. The mud was sticky like clay and at the same time had the foot-sucking properties of custard. I could dip and dive through it quite happily with the enormous lugs on my Fellraisers, but it meant that the lugs remained clogged for the rest of lap since no amount of stamping would loosen them. It was so bad that one of the marshal’s cars had to be towed out with one of the tractors from the barn. But, it was perfect dodgy-knee ground.

Still way ahead of the Rebels I ploughed on, keeping as even a pace as I could manage and making the best of the fact that I didn’t need to stop. Of course it would be too good to be true. About a third of the way in my kneecap came out of orbit and fell to earth with a bang. Pain I can deal with, but as I persevered with it the joint grew stiffer and stiffer until I could barely bend it at all, and that’s kind of its main job while running. Fuck it. The last four miles had to be taken at a walk, and an increasingly slow one at that, as my body temperature dropped and squally showers closed in. Which is why you always carry an extra layer, even on a short lap.

I called Andy, looking for a bit of moral support but knowing what I’d actually get was the dose of common sense I’d need before I persuaded myself “t’is but a flesh wound” and limped on. Even so, the Rebels didn’t catch me up until about two miles to go but once they shot past me, only getting stronger by the step, I had to admit defeat. With the London Marathon only a couple of months away there was no point in hobbling around another six and half miles and inflicting further damage on the knee. I wasn’t even that angry about not finishing for the third time – I was still almost an hour ahead of the next lady to finish a marathon distance and would probably have finished five laps at the same time as the two Rebel Runners even if I’d walked the rest of the way. I just accepted my certificate with a time of 5:30 for 26.5 miles, and started planning for next year. And bless Team Mum, she didn’t even bat an eyelid.

Since then my fatalistic outlook has taken something of a blow; nearly a month on, and I’m still gingerly trotting a maximum of ten miles on hard ground before that orbit feeling comes back and I need to rest again. I’ve put on about half a stone too because my appetite isn’t quite in step with my decreased activity levels yet. This is the bit I don’t find it so easy to talk about. Recovering from injury – especially a less serious one like this, one that came from overuse and can only be cured by rest – you can learn about from any number of sports science books, blogs and personal accounts, copies of Runner’s World, or better still with help from a professional physio. The psychological effects however, though more commonly confronted now than they ever used to be, are complex, varied and unique. Cross-training, keeping in touch with clubmates and getting involved in a non-running capacity all help keep me feeling in touch; the problem is I’ve started to reject this friendly interaction simply because I’m so pissed off with myself, which turns to envy and self-loathing, which festers and chafes and frets away at my self-esteem – what’s more, without the streak to keep up I’m at a loss for motivation to run even if I wasn’t crocked. I mean, it’s such a dumbass way to get injured. Every running magazine I have has an article on how to avoid injury and every single one – Every. Single. One. – says don’t increase intensity and mileage at the same time, or do one or the other too quickly. Basically, trying too hard to take control brought back that most classic of neuroses; my fear of losing control.

So I’ve had nearly a month to chew it over – in other words, nearly a month to procrastinate, to put off writing up this report, to rest and eat instead of refuel – and finally I’ve worked out what to take away from the experience. Feeling in control is so much more than the sum of its parts. It’s less to do with keeping my calorific intake regulated by attuning myself to the sensations of hunger and fullness, and more to do with not caring so much about the numbers that I feel compelled to cheat them. It’s less to do with rigidly following a training plan come what may and more to do with trusting your physiological responses. It’s less about doing what you’re told you ought to and more about doing what you feel is right. Because none of this is news to me; I got this far by listening to my body and never put a foot wrong. My body, which never let me down before, still hasn’t.

On a more positive note, the experience also gave me the vocabulary to really explain why I come back to the Challenge Hub races time and time again. You could point to the fact that there’s often a small field and no pressure, to the reasonable priced entry, unique challenges and friendly faces, but above all the familiarity of them has become a form of meditation to me. No matter where I race or what my goal is, the Moonlight Challenge represents to me now a sort of reset button. I’m ready to stop worrying about being in control, and start being in control.

Mince Pi Challenge 2015

I feel like half the races I enter these days are called challenges rather than races. I quite like that actually; since in my case I’m not actually racing against anyone else – in this case, it turned out to be literally true – the idea that I’m putting myself through a challenge or a test seems more appropriate. A challenge suggests a race against yourself, or against a version of yourself, rather than a head to head with another runner. Or, for instance, with a large pile of mince pies.

The Mince Pi Challenge is unfortunately not a challenge to eat as many mince pies as possible – didn’t stop me trying – but is actually a 3.14 (get it?) mile lap run up to 10 times around the trails of Guildford and the river Wey, crossing the North Downs Way trail and taking in some lovely runnable inclines plus one bastard steep, practically sheer 180 foot high sand dune. The start and finish point in Shalford Park gave runners the opportunity to decide to go for one more or call it quits at the end of each lap, and pick up much needed fuel in the form of Celebrations chocolates and mince pies. Rude not to. All we were missing was sherry.

We had taken a group of Chasers to the inaugural event the year before and dominated, getting fastest times for 5, 6, 7 and 10 laps – this time, we were back to defend our titles and hopefully pick up a few more on the way. Somewhere between trail running and cross country, the event lends itself well to team competition; at the same time, much like the Challenge Hub Moonlight Challenge and 50 Mile Challenge, there’s no obligation to aim for a specific distance so runners can finish as much or as little as they feel able to and still get an official time. There were many runners lining up for a single post-Christmas lap at pace, others looking for distance to test themselves on, many just there to enjoy a crisp winter’s day of running in the beautiful Surrey countryside.

The previous year I had only been able to fit in 4 laps before dashing off to a QPR game, but this year the race fell on a Sunday without a game and represented my December marathon in my marathon-a-month challenge, so I would have to do at least 9 laps to achieve that. I was actually aiming for 10, knowing that only a few people would even try it and for the satisfaction of finishing the whole course, but I knew I had to be prepared for the fact that my weary legs would only carry me so far, and that risking a DNF and ruining my own challenge was worse than playing it safe.

We started off in a group which quickly thinned out as those planning to run it hard took off. I tried to keep up with Cat and Lorraine for a while but I knew I wouldn’t be able to match them for pace even if I wasn’t going for the full distance, so I let them go ahead and trotted along. I remembered the sand dune in the middle from last time – with very little purchase and being so steep it really is a climb more than a walkable hill – but strangely I was actually looking forward to it even a few laps in. Somehow, it was much more satisfying to climb and psychologically less demanding than some of the more gradual slopes, since all you could do was dig in and go for it. Better still, once you reached the top you were greeted by the beautiful ruins of a medieval church, and a glorious vista across the Surrey hills. And then, my favourite thing – a downhill you need a parachute for, straight down to the river.

The rest of the course takes in much of the riverside, needing some careful footing along the boggy embankments but underscored by the peaceful sway of the water, only occasionally broken by the swish of oars from the local rowing club. It’s also a popular route for Sunday morning dogwalkers, cyclists and kids trying out their new scooters, all friendly faces that were happy to share the morning with us. My legs were already pretty leaden by about halfway, but I plugged on, smile pinned to my face, enjoying the soundtrack of the countryside.

Chasers trail queen Cat had the 10 lap title from last year as the only person to finish the whole course, but was coming back from a double whammy of injury and illness this time and wouldn’t be able to defend it. Most of the Chasers were going for 5, 6 or 7 laps and then planning to settle into the Weyside pub, which has a veranda looking out over the river about half a mile from the end of the lap, where they could cheer on other runners. Lorraine stayed back to cheer me through lap 4 even though she had finished almost an hour before but eventually had to get into the warm, and so being on my own for most of the race I didn’t really think too much about my time or my placing until after my stomach told me it was lunchtime.

As I got to the end of lap 7 I asked the RD how many people were left running. Only four, it turned out – and of those, only me and one other were going for the full 10 laps, and I was just in front. Even though I was struggling by now, I had to power on and try not to be distracted by the temptation to race; another mince pie down the gullet and I pushed on. As I turned right to take up the trail again, I looked behind me and saw Melissa, the other 10 lap runner, gaining on me. By the middle of lap 8 she caught me up, passed me comfortably and took off like a rocket. She was still bright and smiley, gaining in strength and going for it. Happy as I was for her I couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed, until I remembered that I didn’t even know I was in front for 8 laps – today was a challenge, not a race, I reminded myself. Always forward.

Moving forward on the flat was getting hard enough now, let alone the climbs, that once I started lap 9 I realised I had to decide whether to continue with all 10 or call it a day. Melissa was so far in front of me by now that she ended up finishing all 10 laps before I finished my 9, so strong was her finish. Partly because I had to concede that I didn’t have it in me, partly because I was conscious of being the only person left on the course and partly (although I hate to admit it) because it meant I was technically the fastest person over 9 laps, I finished the last 3.14 miles with a leap over the finish line, flanked by Chasers and full of mince pies. Just over 28 miles in 05:46:52 is not going to win me any medals but there’s nothing quite like the challenge of a lap race, where there’s so much temptation to give in and only the reward of knowing you did your best.

Which, in a funny sort of way, mirrored my own year-long challenge – not to win every single marathon I ran or even to improve my time, but to learn my limits and how much I could push them, and more importantly, when not to. I’d much rather be the sort of runner that can still grind out long distances with a soppy grin on my face when I’m seventy than go for broke in every race and trash my knees, and I’d much rather be eating mince pies and chocolates than energy gels along the way too. Stretching the definition of an athlete I might be, but you’ll never take away that memory of seeing my clubmates run across the line with me, the only remaining runner in a race that just 100 people started, which I entered just because the medal is shaped like a pie.

I have a feeling we’ll be back again next year.

The Big Fat Run of the Year 2015

I paused briefly on Barnes Bridge, halfway through a steady run on New Year’s Eve 2015, and looked east along the Thames on a bright, crisp and surprisingly mild day. The river was sparkling like a sapphire, mirroring the sky perfectly and leaving just a few treetops to pick out the horizon between them. I was halfway through my planned run for the day but very much at the end of a year-long streak challenge – a minimum of a mile a day, every day, for the whole of 2015. The iconic Thames Path had to be my final run of the year, no other option. All I had to do was bring it home.

It’s not much of a streak compared with Ron Hill’s, but considering I’m not – nor am ever likely to be – a professional athlete it’s quite enough for me. Actually it was part of a double header challenge I set myself on a whim on New Year’s Eve 2014, desperate to avoid aspirational clichés in my New Year’s resolution and improve myself as a runner: I wanted to run at least a mile a day every calendar day, and run at least a marathon or ultramarathon every calendar month. No reason. Like the best things in life, there was no reason.

The challenge wouldn’t be in the running itself so much as in the balancing running with real life. Running a mile a day when I had 6am starts and 11pm finishes at work, or a football awayday, or a family do, or a cold, is the difference between dedication and failure. To be perfectly honest, upholding a streak became the easiest thing in the world for me because between the habit formed and the determination not to break it there was next to no possibility of failure. Upholding it and still having a partner, a job and friends to come back to; that was the tricky bit.

I’ve done some daft things to keep this streak going to be honest. Oddly enough, for someone who normally gets every seasonal bug going at least twice, I’ve only succumbed to a cold once and still ran through it – it was horrible like I can’t even describe, impossible to breathe and I damn near lost my balance and toppled over like a house of cards, but I managed it. That was at the beginning of December, and it was only then that I realised it was the first proper illness I’d had all year. I’d finally found the tipping point between bolstering my immune system with consistent exercise and hounding it to the point of extinction. All day benders for QPR awaydays and the Eurovision song contest were the closest I came to death and even they couldn’t defeat the streak. Also, it turns out running is to hangovers what St George is to large fire breathing reptiles. You’re welcome.

I’d decided in advance of the North Downs Way 100 that that would count as my having run during each calendar day, as I would cross midnight between the two days and certainly be running more than a mile during both (unless some sort of course record and miracle were on the cards). In the event, I DNF’d the race at around 66 miles. At half past eleven on the Saturday. Still in the same calendar day as when I’d started. Probably the slowest mile of my life was that Sunday morning after dropping the hire car back, shuffling stiffly along Tooting High Street and being overtaken by OAPs, mobility scooters and wildlife.

Then there was the day I very nearly didn’t manage it because of time pressures. Part of my new job is organising filming for trailers and marketing material, and a particularly high profile evening shoot in an art gallery at late notice meant a full day of running back and forth to pull everything together. At five o’clock I was following the designer around the fashion retailers of Long Acre, having missed both breakfast and lunch, and I still had not run. At six o’clock I was in Boots buying toiletries for a Hollywood actor (surreal is not the word), and at a quarter to eight I was sprinting around the gallery trying to find the cabs full of cast who had pulled up at the wrong entrance. As big as the gallery was, it would not count. I covered about eight miles on foot that day, but I still had not done my official mile. Finally, as I drove the van full of kit back to base at twenty to midnight, and then to its parking spot, I decided to do the only thing I could. In jeans, t-shirt and running shoes, I ran back to my office on the Southbank via a few little detours to make up the distance. With literally minutes to go, the streak remained intact. Andy did not find this as funny as I did and you are only the second person I’ve told about it. Actually, running in normal clothes was surprisingly liberating. The next time you think you’d go for a run but are put off by the faff of getting changed, or you can’t because your favourite sports bra is still in the wash, I’m here to tell you that’s a false economy. Just get out there in your jeans and bugger the kit.

Work may have been tough to juggle but injuries – touch wood, touch all the wood – were not a problem for me. I’m not going to claim it was the highest quality 365 days of running I’ve ever done and I’ve pretty much redefined the term “junk miles”; on the other hand, I’ve been careful to go as easy as possible on post-race days and to mix up the distance and pace as much as possible – 7 minute miles and 12 minute miles, 1 mile shuffles and 50 milers are all in there. And I’m a strong believer in the power of recovery runs; I’ve still never come back from a run feeling worse than when I went out, and I definitely bounce back from marathons faster than I ever used to. Well, maybe not bounce back; maybe more like lollop. I tend to use my holiday days on the races themselves and get straight back to work on the Monday, rather than give myself the extra rest, put it that way. As long as I can have a powernap on the train in I’m pretty much set.

So what happens now? I’m going to purposely break the streak, rather than try to continue it – let’s be clear, this is both absolutely the right thing to do lest it take over my life, and absolutely not my idea. I would happily keep it up for fifty years or die trying, but I appreciate that to my loved ones it doesn’t exactly read as much of an epitaph. And I can’t deny there have been days where I wish I didn’t have to do the run, although as I say I’ve never come back from one wishing I hadn’t. It’s made me appreciate the joy of running for running’s sake; it’s also left me panicking so much about the prospect of a single day not running after only one year as to provide clear proof (if proof were needed) that mine is not a personality that needs encouragement towards excess.

I think now that it’s time for me to concentrate on the quality of the running, as much as the quantity. The one mile runs were becoming such a drag – I’d barely have warmed up before loosening the laces on my shoes again. I’ve learned to listen to my body more; the flipside is, now I know that it’s telling me to give it a bit of a break, that the niggles that used to pop up and go away when they were told again aren’t being fobbed off so easily. Next year’s challenge is not so quantifiable or discrete; I simply want to be able to take the lessons I learned this year and put them to good use. Rest, focused training, more enjoyment and appreciation, a few more marathons towards my 100 Club goal, bag a few PBs. And this year I’m going to finish that fucking NDW100 on my hands and knees if I have to.

The long and the short of it is, if I can run a mile a day for a year, so can you. Happy New Year all you shufflers, striders, chasers, midpackers, sprinters, plodders and Sunday morning joggers. Love your run and love yourself.

Enough waffle; here are the stats.

Monthly total miles:

January 184.3
February 201.0
March 162.2
April 175.4
May 184.4
June                      153.9
July 158.7
August 194.0
September         138.8
October               131.3
November          208.9
December           154.0
TOTAL 2046.9

Average mileage 170.6
Highest mileage November (including only 100 mile+ week)
Lowest mileage October

Official Marathons completed (not counting DNFs and marathon+ distance training runs):

January – Pilgrim Challenge (66 miles over 2 days)
February – Moonlight Challenge (26.2 miles)
March – Larmer Tree Marathon
April – Brighton Marathon & Manchester Marathon (PB)
May – Richmond Park Marathon
June – Giants Head Marathon
July – 50 Mile Challenge (closer to 53)
August – Vanguard Way Marathon
September – New Forest Marathon
October – Yorkshire Marathon
November – Druids Challenge (84 miles over 3 days)
December – Mince Pi Challenge (28 miles)

Yorkshire Marathon 2015

The best laid plans of mice and men and women (who don’t plan their races properly)…

Compared with the under-the-radar New Forest Marathon, Yorkshire has been my focus since I crapped out on the North Downs; being the last road marathon of the year, it was my last chance to consolidate a sub-4 (or ideally, a sub-3:45) time in 2015. In fact, it’s been in my diary longer than most other races, have been booked back in January. A fact which I only understood the significance of when I went to find my starting pen, then remembered that my expected finish time back in January was a lot more conservative than it is now. Note to self: next time, punch just a little bit above your weight.

Somehow I’ve avoided serious injury so far this year (touch wood, touch ALL the wood) and managed to strike the balance between keeping up my daily run streak while varying the effort, as a concession to my body’s need for rest. It is beginning to fall apart at the seams though, I can feel it. Like a well loved teddy bear, the stuffing is beginning to sprout from the joints, the covering is threadbare, the once sturdy posture is stooped and folded. I am cajoling it towards the finish line on 1st January 2016, when I will have run at least 1 mile per day for 365 consecutive days and at least 1 marathon per calendar month – or at least, that’s the plan. Between my body and the finish line stands the three-day Druid’s Challenge and the CTS Ultra in Dorset. I’m going to need extra stitches to keep all that stuffing in.

Then again, in many ways I was looking at Yorkshire in the same light as I saw Manchester back in April – again I would be toeing the start line less than fully rested, again I could be looking at anything between a PB and a bang average time, again I would be relying on northern hubris to give me a boost without succumbing to crowd-phobia along the way. I had a restlessly excited night’s sleep fuelled by more red wine, tiramisu and pasta than is really sensible for one person to consume, and set out the next morning while the sky was still gunmetal grey.

It was nice to be able to stretch my legs on the half hour walk from city centre hotel to race village, set in the impressive and picturesque University of York campus. The registration, baggage drop and starting pens were at far ends from each other necessitating a good old trek from one to the next, but since I made sure I was there nearly two hours early I could stroll about at leisure, taking photos of ducks and exploring the many bridges and waterways on site. It was an inspiring venue for a marathon start and must be a wonderful environment to study in.

When I had done all the procrastinating, Instagramming and Twittering I could reasonably do, I handed in my bag and walked back up to the starting pens along University Road. As they slowly filled I kept an eye out for the pacers and their flags, looking for 3:45; the pens looked to have been in order of expected finish time, but weren’t marked with anything other than a pen number. I saw the 4:00 pacer tuck into the back of the pen I had been assigned to, then realised my mistake – of course I hadn’t thought I’d be doing this kind of time when I booked up at the beginning of the year, so 3:45 was way ahead of me, about halfway up the pen in front. There was no possibility of jumping pens that I could see, with marshals posted at each one and staggered start times between them, so I shuffled to the very front of mine and hoped that I could make my way forward when the race started. Because everyone knows the best way to start a marathon is by sprinting.

I don’t know what possessed me to obsess over following a pacer when I have £200’s worth of GPS watch AND a pacing band on my wrist – especially when following a pacer only really works if you start at the same time – but obsess I did, using the first mile to carve my way through the field in pursuit of the bobbing flag. And so I missed pretty much the only stretch of the race with views worth looking out for; York Minster, the walls of the city, the winding river and friendly throng all melted by as I puffed and panted my way through the first couple of miles four minutes too fast for the ideal pace. On the plus side, my hot start went towards me breaking my 10k record. Never say I don’t do things by halves.

Having circled the city, the course took us on a dead straight line due north east, up Stockton Lane towards a right hand turn at the 7m point. Leaving York Minster behind meant that the rest of the route would be pretty much A-roads and country lanes, with regular as clockwork water stations every three miles. Good old Yorkshire obliged with perfect weather – clear and crisp to begin with, making way for sunshine later in the day. I was still feeling strong as I passed both the 10k and 20k timing mats, but I’ve got to know my body well over the last couple of years and I knew that my over-exuberance in the first half would come back to bite me. Holding on to a comfortable rhythm for as long as possible I allowed my average pace to slide gradually, first past 8:00, then 8:15, drifting second by second towards the eight and a half minute per mile marker that I would need to hit to get under 3:45 once more.

As predicted, the first I felt of a leaden drag in my feet was around halfway as we made the first of two switchbacks at Stamford Bridge. I allowed my pace to slacken slightly, hoping to recoup some of the energy I’d expended at the beginning and went for another salted caramel Gu to give me that extra oomph. As well as water every third mile there were also iPro energy drinks on offer at miles 6, 12 and 18 but having not been able to find that brand to try it out beforehand I didn’t want to risk drinking any in case it turned me into a pumpkin or something. Since then I’ve seen the bloody stuff advertised everywhere, obviously. Such is the law of sod.

By around mile 18 I knew I would have to let 3:45 go and try for sub 4 instead, and as soon as I made that decision I crashed headlong into The Wall. Hips seized up, legs rooted themselves to the ground, stomach started simultaneously refusing any input and grumbling loudly enough for the wildlife to hear. Facing that old familiar demon – whether to eat and risk throwing up or not eat and pass out – I flashed back to the North Downs and decided it was time to grow the hell up and force down another gel. If it didn’t actually make me go faster, it certainly seemed to stem the hunger pangs and nausea. I could have really done with a bit of Kendal mint cake to be honest. Or for that matter, a pie and a pint. I would finish the race, but I’d be walking more than running from here on in.

Pace and elevation

The support was lovely and encouraging when it appeared, but the crowds were few and far between, and for the first time I found myself wishing there was more people about. I was vaguely aware of Andy tracking me on the app, thinking that he would have seen my optimistic 10k and 20k splits and must have been wondering what the hell happened. In the hope of a boost I shuffled through playlists trying to find something cheerful, but the running playlist seemed to be mocking me and my old skool 90s dance album sounded a bit like a tryhard at a party, throwing their arms around and forcing everyone to have fun. And it really wasn’t the day for Haruki Murakami.

My slowest mile was the run up to the 24 marker at Osbaldwick, but I managed to pick up for the last couple of miles and was back up and running (sort of) as we made our way towards the 40k mat. By now there were more crowds, singing and music and barbecues and children holding out their hands for a high five; I’d lost my sense of humour a long way back, but at least I knew now that the sooner I got a move on the sooner I’d see University Road and the finish line again. I just wanted it to be over and done with.

It was’t a triumphant finish, or an enjoyable one, but when I crossed the line well inside the four hour mark I realised what a petulant dick I’d been. Any finish is a finish to celebrate, and I had to remember how privileged I am to be able to run at all. The good people of Yorkshire soon sorted out my sulk though, and I was quietly thankful to be walking all the way across the campus once more. So many happy and proud faces around me, glowing in the autumn sun, brandishing medals and finishers’ t-shirts and swapping stories. With a couple of hours before my train home was due, I stretched out on the grass for a while to let the atmosphere sink in. The bank was covered with people sprawled out like the fallout of a runner hand grenade, two little boys dancing between them and spraying crisps and juice everywhere. It was hard to stay grumpy for long.

I’m happy to be done with road marathons for the meantime; even as I write this I’m watching the Channel 4 broadcast of the race highlights and feeling the itch, but I know the itch will still be there in April and I’ll be in much better shape for having taken a break from the tarmac. As I watch there’s a touch of jealousy for all those past versions of runners, myself included, starting the race once more as if given a second chance to do it. Maybe this time I won’t race off at the start and wear myself out? Oh no, it doesn’t work like that.

So what have I learned? When you get that chance, treat it with respect. Trust your training, trust your body, trust the stupidly expensive watch you bought so you wouldn’t NEED a pacer. Most of all, trust yourself. You know what you’re doing.

With Druids and CTS Dorset still to come though, do I?

North Downs Way 100 2015

On the right day, in the right circumstances, 100 miles is nothing and yet 10 miles is the longest distance in the world.

An ex boss once gave me a piece of advice that didn’t quite sit right with me: “Never admit you don’t know what you’re doing; just wing it and pretend to be confident.” That’s not an unusual piece of advice to be fair, certainly not to anyone with ambition. I disagree with it though; I think ambition is defined by more than just bullshitting your way out of any situation, I think it’s judging your limits and then pushing as far beyond them as you can bear. Then having a bit of a rest and a slice of cake. Kind of like interval training.

Needless to say I didn’t take the career advice at face value, but I did carry on pushing myself out of my comfort zone, responding to setbacks with my usual cheerful candour, and never pretending I had something in control when I didn’t; sometimes, painfully obviously so. It’s not a tactic that always pans out well, and consequently I’m not scaling the great career heights that some of my contemporaries are, but I know that when I do succeed I’ll have done it on my own terms.

I know that my approach to management tends to put people on the back foot; they’re not expecting candour, they’re expecting absolute control. My job usually means coordinating a number of total strangers from different trades, none of which I excel in myself, to make sure an artistic vision is achieved on time, on budget, as safely as possible and exactly as designed. Many experienced production managers I know would agree with that piece of advice, because much of the job is PR rather than technicianship, and because no matter how good you are at your job you won’t get much chance to do it if the artistic team doesn’t have full confidence in you. You never say “I don’t know”; you say “I’ll find out” or “Yes, definitely.” That’s just the way it is.

It doesn’t stop me taking on challenges, mind you; I just don’t go into those challenges acting as though nothing could go wrong. On the contrary, I spend every waking minute thinking four or five steps ahead at every possibility, planning for the worst and hoping for the best, and every sleeping minute having horrific anxiety dreams. It’s a tiring, arse-backwards and entirely inefficient way to conduct my business, but I get it done. And, I now realise, it’s how I’ve conducted my running career so far as well.

It is the approach that lined up my calendar for July and August 2015 thus:

Sunday 19th July: Run 50 Mile Challenge; at closer to fifty-three, fourteen miles longer than any continuous run I’ve ever done before. Also my qualifying race for the NDW100, as rules state you must have completed a 50 miler before being allowed to compete.

Monday 20th July – Saturday 1st August: Thirteen straight days of work, each starting at 8am and finishing anywhere between 7pm and 1am the next day. Usually a fair bit of shouting. Not always me.

Sunday 2nd August: Run Vanguard Way Marathon, persuaded to sign up at the eleventh hour because no reason. Being out in the sunshine on my one day off from a dark room seemed like a good idea at the time.

Monday 3rd – Thursday 6th August: Back to work on normal hours. Possibly including a very messy press night party and a lot of espresso martinis.

Friday 7th August: Oh shit oh shit oh shit pack bags…

And so I found myself in Farnham, back at the same hotel Cat and I had stayed in for the Pilgrim’s Challenge, eating the same calzone at the same Pizza Express, and trying not to think about the alarm set for 4am on Saturday 8th August.

Becky and Russell, two other Chasers who were also preparing for their first 100 miler, were staying in the same hotel and I caught up with them as I left registration. We had fellow Chasers poised to join us at the 50 mile checkpoint and pace the rest of the way; for me that would be Alex (Albro) who gave up a Less Than Jake ticket to come and who had been learning songs to sing to me and keep me company. Solid gold.

I met Becky and Russell in the reception at 4.45am the next morning, ready for the mile long stomp to the race HQ. We were a vibrant, sparkling bundle of positive energy and happy thoughts- no, sorry, I couldn’t even finish that sentence. We were not that. We were three very bleary-eyed people, slightly mushy of brain and furry of tongue, and always on the lookout for a loo. So, average runners on raceday morning.

This was not the first attempt at a group selfie…

I’ll be honest, I wasn’t at all worried about the distance at this stage. I thought I was prepared, deep in the darkest recesses of my mind, for the possibility that I wouldn’t finish it, but as a thing I couldn’t affect in advance it was right down at the bottom of the list of things I was worried about. I was worried about the warm weather forecast, about the fact that I’d got it into my head to try for a 24 hour finish even though I knew that was a stupid idea, about hallucinating in the dark and about getting lost in Kent. But not about the distance. Just break it down to the chunks between checkpoints, and eat like a horse after a hunger strike.

It took a couple of miles over singletrack before the pack started to thin out; a blessing in disguise really, as it meant that I could stay with Becky and Russell for a bit longer and not be tempted to go too fast. It couldn’t last though; Becky was bouncing up the hills like an ibex even as everyone else was already taking the opportunity for a walk break, and Russell’s seven league strides were too much for me to keep up with so I let them go on and tried to resist the temptation to race. Besides, half the fun is finding new people to make friends with.

And so, the familiar stretch from Guildford through Box Hill and on to Merstham was given a whole new complexion through my chats with a runner called Ilsuk Han, a calm and kindly Centurion regular doing his second 100 miler and first North Downs Way. We had the same average pace for much of that section, but with his steady rhythm and my uphill plods and downhill cartwheels we crossed over here and there and mostly only stayed together on the flats. His running stories were encouraging and the Box Hill/Denbies rollercoaster passed almost without notice, compared with the vessel bursting effort on the same stretch back in February; although, to be fair, it’s a lot easier when the ground is solid rather than porridgey, glutinous mud. I think – I hope – my docker’s vernacular made him laugh more than it did blush, and I hope he knows that his patience and kindness made twenty miles feel like two. I’ve proselytised before about the inspiration I find in the strangers I run with, and I’m grateful for the stories I’m able to collect along the way.

So it was a shame that I eventually had to let him go too – he was on course for a comfortable sub-24 which he absolutely nailed, and I had started to feel time slip away from that target – and find a new stretch of trail to make friends with. The iPod stayed in my pocket, and my soundtrack was my thoughts. The first time I felt any sort of discomfort was the Caterham aid station, but a pause and a change of socks sorted that right out. It occurred to me that it was a little early to be feeling tight muscles and tired legs, but then I had enough experience under my belt to know that discomfort and pain comes in waves not a linear progression, and before long the niggles were shaken out and I was back into a happy rhythm.

From that point on the route recces I had done started to pay for themselves; unbelievably, given my track record, I didn’t get lost once. The section that hands over from Surrey to Kent is notable by the beautifully carved signpost, farmlands, and sudden absence of obvious signage (or, more accurately, sudden profligate overgrowth of the trees covering the fingerposts) but I found the familiar twists and turns with relative ease. By this stage I was doing my “old lady trot” as Katherine would put it, keeping a steady turnover with minimal impact, and taking tactical walk breaks any time I approached cows and baby cows, which was lots. I love animals, including cows, but being a thing that moves fast and is usually brightly coloured I’m very careful not to startle them and cause a stampede. A metric ton of stupid hurtling towards me would be a bollocks way to DNF.

The last few miles to Knockholt and the fifty-mile mark – the point where I could pick up some hot food, my pacer Alex and a change of shoes – seemed to take hours. ACTUAL hours. It was a section I had tested part of (except for the detour to the aid station which represented the only variation from the official North Downs Way) so I should have known exactly how long it was, but being full of handovers from field to identical field I found myself expecting to be at the end about twelve times over, and without my Garmin on to tell me my mileage my sense of scale was all out of whack. I’m sure it can’t have been as bad as I thought it was, but it made me realise how crucial the recces had been for me from a psychological rather than physical point of view. Finally, finding the road to the aid station and seeing Team Chasers hanging over the rail hoping to catch sight of me, I put on a sprint and basically dived into the hall.

When I got there Becky had very recently left, but Russell was still slumped in a chair despite having reached the checkpoint an hour earlier. He looked peaky, and had had a little nap already, notwithstanding the efforts of pacer Frankie and the exuberant marshal cajoling all the runners to get moving as soon as possible. Whether it was simply relief at reaching the aid station, joy at seeing my friends again or the prospect of hot food and cold shoes, I felt as strong as I’d felt all day, if not stronger. I charged up my phone with the block I left in my drop bag, changed into my QPR top and topped up with Lucozade. Between the marshal, the fear of cramping up and the desire to bloody finish, I wanted to get out of the door as soon as possible and on the way.

While I was sorting myself out Albro brought me a plate of cheesy pasta and bolognese; delicious, as far as my ruined tastebuds could tell, and the perfect antidote to energy bars. Or so I thought. In retrospect, taking a rest at the one aid station with a roof and facilities would have been the sensible long term plan, not to mention letting my dinner go down before getting back on the road. Bloody hell, my mum taught me to do that when I was two years old. And yet, at thirty one I somehow forgot that most basic piece of dietary advice, and jumped straight back on the road. And immediately suffered what Runners World delicately calls “gastric distress”.

I’m not going to get obscene on you here; “distress” is very much the operative word. The simple (obvious) mistake of failing to wait for my dinner to go down resulted in excruciating pain and nausea like I’ve never experienced. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure I’d have been fine had I waited fifteen more minutes at Knockholt, but not doing so meant an agonizingly slow ten miles to the next checkpoint, stopping every now and again to suppress the urge to throw up or pass out. Maybe throwing up would have sorted me out – it’s certainly not unknown for ultrarunners to metaphorically wake up after a technicolour yawn – but in my delirium I was terrified of the prospect of vomiting and resisted it with all my strength, to the detriment of my ability to run. The ten mile stretch to the next checkpoint took three hours.

Three hours, during which time I didn’t eat a single thing and barely managed to keep down even Lucozade. I know that pacers know what they’re letting themselves in for, but even so it must have been a miserable three hours for Albro and yet he kept a brave face and a bouncy step all the way, singing songs with me and patiently waiting for me to pick myself up every time I doubled over. How had I gone from strong and sprightly to barely able to move in such a short distance? I think my inability to rationalise it crushed me as much as the physical effect did. No blisters, no muscle or joint problems, no sunstroke, no broken bones. I just ran out of gas.

The worst of it was, I didn’t really understand what had happened to me until the Wrotham checkpoint by which time it was too late to recover. I tried vainly to send down a few pieces of fruit and half a cup of coffee, which picked me up enough for the next stretch; at just five and a half miles, I couldn’t not have a go. But it was too little, too late. I savoured the fruit and the milky coffee – even more so as the aid station’s portable stove caught fire just minutes after Alex brought me my cup and put paid to anyone else’s intentions on a hot drink – but their calories were spent before I reached the end of the road.

Maybe it was psychosomatic; maybe I just needed to give myself a talking to. We’d only just hit sundown, a watershed I hadn’t been looking forward to, but the fear of darkness was as nothing to me as my desire to rip out my stomach and be done with the troublesome bloody thing. I could manage five and half miles on my hands and knees, I told myself, and being mostly hill and scrub I pretty much had to. Albro kept my spirits up and my mind sharp by asking me riddles; I remember really clearly one being about a man in darkness which for some reason scared the crap out of me, and it was one of the few that totally stumped me. At least the views, lit by only a headtorch and a hint of moonlight, were unforgettable. I don’t think a photo can really do justice to how stunning the M25, enveloped by countryside, really looked that night.

I have no memory of approaching the checkpoint at Holly Hill; I do remember flumping into a fold out chair underneath a gazebo, allowing Albro to put a cup of coffee into my shaking hands, and realising then that I simply had nothing left to give. I bargained with myself for a bit: if I sit down for five or ten minutes I might feel better, then I can make a decision; if another runner comes in looking worse than me and still carries on then I have to as well; if I get Albro’s next riddle right… It was all bullshit though, I knew that. The next aid station was another ten miles away; had it been five or six again I told myself I would have tried to limp on, but deep down I knew there was no fuel in the tank. It’s a really demoralising way to crash out. No heroic injury to battle against, no disaster or calamity or defining moment to cling on to. It didn’t feel like hitting a brick wall; more like falling into warm marshmallow, sinking further and further and eventually suffocating to death.

Apparently I was slurring like a drunk and hypoglycaemic, although I remember being pretty lucid, which I hope was at least funny to watch. I gave my number to the marshal and waved my white flag… and then I had to do the really heartwrenching bit, forcing Andy out of our warm bed in the middle of the night to make the hour and a half drive and pick us up. The nausea and pain had started to abate by this stage, so we waited patiently (Albro) and miserably (me) for our lift, watching the other runners pass through the checkpoint. I wasn’t the only dropout at that station – by the end of the race there was around a forty percent DNF rate overall, which was both sort of comforting and incredibly depressing – so the kindly nurse had his hands full. After over an hour of waiting, during which time I’d been huddled up in my foil blanket and dry spare clothes (as prescribed by the mandatory checklist, thank fuck) the vague feeling of tiredness and gluey mouth gave way to a wave of intense nausea, nausea like being in a lurching taxi after five Jagerbombs, a spinning head and a loss of control in all my limbs. Everything went black. This was the moment I’d been dreading, fighting for nearly six hours. I’m terrified of being sick; I can’t deal with it at all, much less when there’s nothing there to be sick with. I started to panic, crawled over to one side – what I thought was one side, until the nurse caught me and steered me towards some bushes – and collapsed. Two cups of coffee and some bits of apple. And as if the last six hours hadn’t happened, I was absolutely fine again.

I started to pick up physically, but all that did was make me feel even more stupid for not allowing myself to be sick earlier and getting it over and done with, so I could eat and carry on. Albro was keeping up with the reports on Russell, who was also struggling to eat but after a tactical chunder kept himself going on sugary tea. Eventually he was able to overtake Becky and make his sub-24 hour target; an astonishing enough achievement for someone on their first 100 miler, never mind following that up with a 36 mile navigation race in the Lake District three weeks later. Becky herself had slowed down but ploughed doggedly on and completed in 28 hours, her sunny smile breaking through the morning fog. I was so happy for both of them, and at the same time completely crushed that I couldn’t share that triumph.

The drive home, the few hours’ sleep, the drive all the way to Wye and back the next day to pick up my finish line bag, all were conducted in a self-pitying, graceless torpor. All I could hear in my head was the voice of the marshal asking if I was sure about pulling out, telling me how much worse I’d feel if I didn’t try and carry on. It wasn’t even about feeling physically bad; it was feeling as though I’d let Alex and Andy down, two people who gave up their weekends to support me only for me to give up two-thirds of the way in, and as though I’d let the Chasers down, registering a DNF against the club’s otherwise stellar reputation. And then the car broke down.

I’m writing this four weeks on, and I still haven’t fully pulled myself together. Going out for social runs with Chasers and with other running friends is tough, because being reminded not just of the race but of running in general feels like being reminded of my failure. I force myself out of the door because indulging in Eeyore-y moping is both counter-productive and utterly selfish. Not to mention a kick in the teeth to anyone who would give their right leg to be able to run sixty six miles, as I was sharply reminded by my non-runner mates when I rebuffed their congratulations. They’re right; I am behaving like a petulant dickbag. I will snap out of it eventually. I will appreciate what I achieved; technically a distance PB, a pretty respectable 50 mile split, nearly two and a half marathons back to back. It’s not the achievement I set out to get, but as Mick Jagger once said, you don’t always get what you want.

I read a quote recently that goes “Success is measured by the difference between your goal and your performance.” By that metric, I have every right to be all maudlin and emo about my DNF. Then again, I have to confront the fact that either my goals were unrealistic or my performance was well below standard. One way or the other, there’s no chance of me redeeming myself without accepting my shortfalls and examining how to address them, applying the effort to do so and preparing myself for setbacks. In other words, I’ve been a hypocrite. I took on a challenge with my fake confidence and shit-eating grin and expected to brazen my way out of it. Doubling mileage in just three weeks? Trying to run 100 miles right after two straight weeks of no sleep? Sure, they’re excuses, but I should know better than that. I’m not superhuman.

Not yet, anyway. North Downs Way 100, I’ll be back for you next year.

50 Mile Challenge 2015

When I tackled the 50 Mile Challenge last year, it was my second attempt at completing an ultramarathon. I met a man who revived my love of running by teaching me to share the experience with your fellow runners, I discovered that rain won’t melt you, and that it’s always handy to keep a change of shoes, and why Jack Kerouac was such an inspiration to Jenn Shelton. And I made it round 39.3 triumphant miles of the course before throwing in the (very muddy) towel. I hadn’t run further than that in one go since.

Last year, mum and I had stayed in a Travelodge about 20 mins drive away from the race start, being as it is in the middle of nowhere, but when we drove down on the Saturday evening to register and pick up my race pack spotted a couple of tents and sleeping bags and realised just what a trick we’d missed. This time we came prepared for a campfire and a sing song, and it was absolutely the right decision; even more so when we discovered there was space in the dry, cosy barn for us to pitch our tents rather than the rocky ground outside. We planned down to the last detail, each of us with specific responsibilities to make sure we had dinner, entertainment and lodgings covered between us. Mum was in charge of cooking implements. She brought wine, but forgot cutlery. I knew then it would be an awesome evening.

It was comforting enough to know I’d be right there for the 6am start the next morning, but it also meant we got to have a good old chat and a game of cards with the other campers: Julie and Derren, both of whom are regular fixtures at Challenge Hub races; Mal, who was attempting to do the whole race dragging a tire behind him; and Emma, who had come all the way from Staffordshire for her first ultramarathon. We cooked up a huge pot of cheese and broccoli pasta on mum’s portable stove, which we ate with some scavenged plastic spoon and a bit of twig, then taught everyone how to play Shithead, fuelled by mum’s interminable supply of chocolate nuts and raisins, before retiring to the pitch darkness of our tents. Camping has never been high on my list of things that are fun, but for a low key race in a low key setting it was the perfect preparation. And at least it wasn’t a fucking Travelodge.

Sleeping in a pitch black barn, on a quick build campbed (bought after discovering how cold sleeping on the floor is during the Pilgrim’s Challenge), ended up being one of the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had pre-race. I’ve got to the point now where I just give up any hope of sleeping the night before either through nerves or circumstance, but I honestly couldn’t have got a more satisfying forty winks if I’d been sleeping on clouds and happy thoughts. And so obviously I was in a hideously good mood come 5am the following morning; and for once, on time.

Lovely Mike Inkster gave his legendary pre-race speech as we shuffled around excitably, starting with the phrase “Don’t worry about the distance,” which is pretty much the best piece of advice any ultrarunner will ever get, and off we went. I fell in step with Emma and another lady called Gillian, all three of us doing our first 50 miler, and we promised to stay together for as long as possible to make sure each of us got to the end.

One of the things I love most about ultra running – especially Challenge Hub races – is just how sociable it is. It’s a huge part of the reason why I go back to these races time and time again; these races that make no sense, that push your muscles to melting point and turn your feet to pools of mush, and yet leave me musing on the mental challenges more than the physical, worrying about how I will keep my mind from fraying long after I stopped caring about the effect of fifty miles on my body. I learned in past races how much easier it is to have someone else to run with, and how important it is to switch off the iPod just when you’d think you need it most. It definitely helps when the people you are running with happen to be among the most inspirational people you will ever meet, and it’s not coincidence that the people you meet during ultras often are.

Emma, a petite and cheerful young lady from Lichfield with nothing more high tech than her club vest and a pair of basic running shoes, was relatively new to running. She told us how she loved taking herself off for long runs with no idea of how far she was planning to go; just to keep going until she knew she was done. In fact, she couldn’t even say for certain how far her longest run had been prior to the 50 Mile Challenge, although it must have been in the region of thirty or so miles. Her kit was the barest minimum of what it needed to be, and her soundtrack was her thoughts. At the beginning she asked to run with us in order to make sure she kept her speed under control as she had no idea how to pace herself, but within a couple of laps it became obvious she had nothing to worry about, as she left us in the dust. All I saw of her from that point on was a beaming smile as we crossed over halfway through my lap 6 and her lap 7, a genuine smile which came from the bottom of her boots. She is someone to whom running is the most natural thing in the world.

Photo courtesy of Challenge Hub

My companion for the rest of the way was equally inspirational, but the polar opposite in technical terms. Gillian, also on her first 50 miler, was a 3.15 marathoner and wife of an ex-competitive triathlete, and she was a lady with a plan and a super-disciplined crew to back it up. Her husband, sister-in-law and brother-in-law were all on hand at roughly the halfway point of the course with an SUV stocked full of different kinds of food, plus a portable fridge freezer for cold drinks and ice pops and probably the kitchen sink too, and they even paced sections of the lap towards the end of the race. Having been her husband’s crew for years, she knew how to put them to good use and he, being an elite athlete, knew exactly what was needed before even we did. Crewing at that level is practically an art form.

I was prepared for the fact that we’d see all four seasons over the course of the next twelve hours, and we didn’t get much more than a couple of laps in before the heavens opened and the waterproofs came out. It didn’t matter really; it helped soften the sunbeaten ground, washed the sweat from my skin and the mud from my legs, and kept my body temperature under control for just a little longer than I had any right to hope. The rest of the day was forecast to be very hot with odd bursts of showers, which is actually quite a nice way to spend a whole day outdoors; just as you get sick of one extreme the other steps in with a reprieve. It wasn’t quite so nice for the supporters though and my poor Team Mum went from arctic survivalist to jungle explorer with a costume change and a different kind of drink at the end of each lap. Mike Inkster joked that he was considering changing the name to the Lobster Challenge: “First we drench you, then we boil you!”

I knew it was suicide to spend too much time comparing each stage of the race with how I felt last year – it’s suicide to compare how you feel at any one time with how you felt ten seconds ago – but every now and again a systems check told me I was still on course to finish and finish strong, which is all I needed to do, and maybe even keep in touch with Gillian until the end. The race was my qualifier for the North Downs Way 100, which would take place just three weeks later and on the other side of a high profile project at work. I’m pretty sure that when the NDW100 organisers stipulated all runners needed to have finished at least a 50 mile race before being allowed to compete they had something less ambitious than three weeks to double mileage in mind, but I couldn’t think about that. All I had to think about was getting to the end. And the best way to do that was not to think about it.

Chatting to Gillian, I’m even more certain in retrospect, got me through the race. I didn’t have time to register niggles or allow doubt to creep in or grow impatient or grumpy. We inadvertently started to mark parts of the course, finding bits we liked and bits we didn’t and breaking each lap down to manageable chunks. It was an unexpected advantage to lap racing, normally a form of psychological torture, and because we were chatting so much we even came across sections we didn’t recognise, despite having run them four or five times already. I liked going past the mummy swan with her nest of cygnets who hissed at us every time we ran by, and Gillian looked forward to the house with the windmill, partly because it signified the home stretch and partly because windmills are bloody cool. And obviously, we both looked forward to seeing her crew and their amazing stock of chilled goodies at the halfway point.

Photo courtesy of Challenge Hub

Having been a runner and cyclist for many years Gillian was clearly in excellent shape with radiant complexion and obvious reserves of mental and physical strength, and to me, that’s the definition of beauty. A working mother of two, she is a role model for women everywhere as far as I can see; not in a “How does she do it all?” Sarah Jessica Parker sort of way, all ostentatious modesty and thinly veiled bullshit, but a clear example of how to balance the needs of a family with the needs of an individual – or rather, how fulfilling the needs of the individual can be crucial to the wellbeing of the family. And yet, she told me stories of her experience as a working mother and athlete which horrified me; being attacked by other (female) athletes for competing in races while pregnant, and then being ostracised by other new mothers for running to and from baby yoga to keep fit, all against a background of conflicting, often plainly erroneous medical advice. Why are we so terrified by the idea of new and expectant mothers indulging in exercise, especially when a sedentary lifestyle carries just as many hazards with a far higher likelihood? The horror stories did nothing for my faith in humanity, but bloody hell did they make the laps fly by. And they reaffirmed to me that truly extraordinary people are simply people who make the extraordinary ordinary.

And speaking of inspirational people, a Challenge Hub race wouldn’t be complete without Team Mum there to back me up. Lap races are a special kind of tough not least because every time you get to the end you have to start again, but having her there to push food into my hands, record my splits, make a general fuss and give me my lap end hug made it feel like I was simply starting a new race each time, without giving her a logistical headache. And as is customary, she did her Wonderwoman costume change for lap six and joined me and Gillian for the 6.6 mile loop, despite it being her furthest run since Brighton Marathon by a long way, and with a smile plastered to her face all the way round.

Well, most of the way round. Towards the end of the lap she started to flag, and with a mile to go I knew I had to push on while I still had the momentum in my legs. I didn’t want to leave her behind but I was still feeling too fresh to slow down and walk, and I knew that once I did my legs would turn to treacle. She was struggling, pausing for a break after every few steps, getting frustrated and resisting my attempts to keep moving. Asking her to keep up wasn’t fair, and having been on the other side I knew how crap it feels to be pushing just above your comfort pace on such a long run. Then again, I also know mum, because I know myself, and just like me I know that she can do anything she puts her mind to, but force her to do anything and it’s fuck you society. Lo and behold, when I reached the HQ a mile later she was less than half a minute behind me. Because mum can do anything she puts her mind to, and because fuck you society. I love her so much.

I had planned to give myself something to look forward to each lap after halfway for a little psychological boost. 5 was a change of shoes, 6 was mum pacing, 7 was a fresh vest, 8 I was hoping would be a reward in itself. Then I felt the dreaded bonk crash into me like a wave on Reculver beach, on the crossover between lap 7 and lap 8. For the first time I started to feel hotspots forming on my toes and had to change my socks to avoid blistering, but it was almost too late. Gillian was feeling strong and needed to carry on, but her brother in law kindly stayed behind to pace me for the final lap and off we plodded, watching Gillian and her husband put more and more distance between us. I was a little disappointed not to be able to keep up, but so happy to see Gillian with her game face on, going for the strong finish she deserved. I knew I couldn’t catch her now, and Emma was long gone, so I had to content myself with third lady and remember what I came here for in the first place. All I had to do was finish, and I would do it crawling if I had to.

It was a long lap, and a slow one. We chatted about football (he was a Leicester fan), and when I didn’t have the energy to run or even speak we trudged patiently on. Despite chat being the force that drove me through the first seven laps, his patient and quiet demeanour was probably the perfect company for that last six miles, when my energy had run out and all I wanted to do was finish. Finally we passed the windmill for the last time and rounded the corner to the farm, where the end of the lap fiendishly required runners to go past the exit and the shortcut to the barn, circumnavigate the outhouses and turn back to reach the checkpoint. I did this last little loop on my own, the better to enjoy the rush down the slope and crash into Team Mum’s arms at the end. I had done it. 53 – or something like it – miles in 10 hours 43 minutes.

Emma – looking a bit hot but otherwise much the same as she did at the start – had clinched the first lady spot by miles, finishing in just over nine hours pretty much as I was coming in for my final lap. Gillian was about twenty minutes ahead of me, and she and her team were there waiting to cheer me in at the end. We hadn’t managed to stay together until the end, but we’d certainly kept each other going. Only thirty five runners finished any distance, and of those just twenty four completed all eight laps. Emma had her name engraved on the winners’ shield but as is customary in Challenge Hub challenges there’s no prize on offer, no difference between coming first or last. You’re all in it for the same reason. And I’ll be back there next year for the same reason.

I forget sometimes that what I’ve achieved over the last couple of years is actually a bit extraordinary. I think of myself as someone with reasonable standards, but I still take for granted the leaps and bounds I’ve made in my running career – in distance, speed and general fitness – since I was that chubby girl who couldn’t quite make a quarter of a mile without pausing for breath. That was four years and three stone ago. My overwhelming feeling as I crossed the finish line of the 50 Mile Challenge this year was not so much pride at finishing, but pleasure at feeling relatively strong at the end of it – maybe not like I could run another fifty miles straightaway, but at least not afraid of another hundred in three weeks time. Maybe I got cocky. Maybe that was my downfall…

Brighton Marathon 2015 – Wendimoo’s side of the story

You poor people hear plenty enough from me, and most of it is about my slightly bonkers and completely inspiring mum @wendimoo. I thought it was time you heard her voice too. Here’s mum’s response to my piece on the 2015 Brighton Marathon…

What is the most important part of your body to get fit for running a marathon? Your legs? Feet? Chest? Heart? Nope – YOUR BRAIN!

I found this out, to my cost, when I ran (and I use that in the loosest sense of the word) the Brighton Marathon in April this year.

I was supposed to do it last year with my daughter, Jaz, but I’d had a load of injuries and that kept me from running for ages, so she did it on her own and I supported. The idea was to raise money for CLIC Sargent in memory of her friend Stuart who died of cancer when he was just 25. We had already completed Edinburgh the year before for Macmillan. You can see our video blog about Edinburgh here.

So, Brighton. It had been a pretty rubbish year really with one thing and another, and my mum, for whom I had been caring for a couple of years, sadly died at home in February of this year, aged 92. (Good genes, thanks Mum!) So not really the best run-up.

Jaz has caught the running bug and runs marathons and ultras all over the place, so I didn’t see her to train with as much as we did for Edinburgh. However, my good friend and training buddy Donna Carroll managed to get a place in London, so we trained together quite a lot. If it hadn’t been for her I probably would not have even made to to the start line!

So here I am, summer has passed in a haze of bingeing on chocolate and cakes and I am fat, lazy, unmotivated and feeling like crap. Oh and my 57^th birthday is looming – joy. It’s October, I have 6 months to get myself into some kind of shape to do this bloody marathon next April.

I have been a member of the amazing Petts Wood Runners for a couple of years now, having joined in the run-up to Edinburgh, so first I need to go back to our Tuesday night runs. At this stage I am not even up to keeping up with Group 1, so Donna agrees to help me get back into shape.

We meet on Monday morning with another lady, Tracy, and start literally from scratch. Run for a minute, walk for five, repeat six times. I’ve set my mind to it now so I am also tracking my food on the My Fitness Pal app and watching what I eat. I then realize with joy that the more I run – the more I can eat and still lose weight! Heaven! I also find that now I am focused on what I am eating, I tend to eat more healthy anyway.

So back to the training. I manage to get in a few runs on my own during the week and soon I am feeling great again and chomping at the bit to get back to the running club. This is great – let me at ‘em.

‘NO,’ says Donna, ‘take it easy, don’t push yourself and get injured again.’ *pouty face*

She was absolutely right. That is exactly what I did before. Patience is not one of my virtues!

We carry on for a couple more weeks upping the running time and lowering the walking until we are running continuously for half an hour and I can start doing the park run again. Donna has also started Group 0 on a Tuesday night. It begins at 7pm and they do 2-2.5 miles at a very easy pace for those people who are returning from injury or are not quite ready for 3.5 miles in Group 1 yet.

Finally I am ‘allowed’ to do Group 0 – hurrah!! And I love it! By this time I am really back into the swing of it and improving every day. A couple of weeks later, I move back to Group 1. Things are going well, the weight is coming off, running is getting easier as there is less of me to drag around, I am getting fitter and all is hunky dory. I might even try Group 2 before next April! Unfortunately, Mum is getting worse and now needs 24 hour care and I am finding it hard to get out of the house. The St Christopher’s carers are coming in 3 times a day (they are awesome and mum is one of their faves as she is always ready with a joke or a cheeky quip!). So Jasmine lends me her treadmill so that I can still run even if I can’t get out of the house. I can just about manage Tuesday nights, some Thursday mornings and Saturday morning parkrun by now.

Christmas is a bittersweet time. We know it will be Mum’s last. In fact most people are surprised that she even made it to Christmas, but she wasn’t giving in – I wonder where I get it from? I managed Christmas Day parkrun (fastest time of the year!) and we had all the family over for dinner. I also managed New Year’s Day parkrun (even quicker than Christmas day!). All is good. And I’ve lost 1½ stone.

The rest is a bit of a blur to be honest. My focus was on Mum and trying to make her last weeks and days as comfortable, pain-free and stress-free as possible. On Tuesday 3^rd Feb, while she had a room full of carers and nurses (she loved an audience bless her) she slipped away.

After that it was a busy time helping my sister to organise the funeral, getting all the hospital equipment picked up, informing everyone who needed to know. Training and eating properly kind of went out of the window a bit, I couldn’t get my head around it. Outwardly it all seemed fine. I was able to run whenever I liked, and it helped get me through it all. I walked or ran whenever I needed to go to town, I ran Tuesday nights with the club, Thursday mornings with Donna and a few other PWRs, Saturday parkruns (on 14^th March I smashed my PB) and on Sundays Donna and I did our Long Runs. Some were great. Some really grim, cold wet and miserable but we kept each other going. It all got harder though. I kept telling myself, and anyone who would listen, “I’ve trained far more for this than I did for Edinburgh!”. Did I though? Thinking back I’m not so sure. Everything seemed like a big effort and a lot of the time I felt like I was carrying a great big weight around with me (which, actually, I was – a mental one!).

Jaz and I ran the Wimbledon Common half marathon in March and completed it in just over 3 hours. As it was all off road that was a good time for me, with very few walk breaks and I should have been really pleased. It was a nice course and I high-fived a Womble – what’s not to like? So why was my only thought when standing at the bus stop to go home “I’ve got to do TWICE THAT FAR in 3 weeks time – shit – I’m never going to manage it!”

From then on, my head dragged me down further and further. I was late in putting up my Just Giving page and donations were trickling in, but I couldn’t get motivated to really push it. I started eating chocolate and crap again and putting weight on when I should have been losing it. I got away with it mostly as I was putting a lot of miles in but it was getting harder. I was beating myself up about it, wanting to have been at least another half stone lighter by this time, and because I felt depressed I ate more chocolate (sound familiar?).

We had been late in booking our hotel for Brighton. Last year we managed to bag a B&B right on the finish line almost. This time we ended up in the Travelodge in Gatwick. Not ideal. Then we had the problem of logistics. Eventually we decided to drive to Brighton on Saturday, pick up our race packs from the expo, spend some time in Brighton, eat our dinner there (same place, same food and same waiter as last year), drive to the hotel and get to Brighton by train the next day for the marathon, leaving the car in Gatwick to pick up later. It all looks quite feasible on paper.

We had a race plan. Jaz was training for an ultra and wanted to get used to carrying a backpack, so she had all the supplies on her for both of us.

It was a lovely day on Saturday and we ate lunch, picked up our race packs and had a wander around the Expo. I spotted Jo Pavey on the way and was warned by Jaz ‘not to accost the poor woman in the street!’. Then we had a coffee on the seafront. This is when Jaz realized that my heart was not really in it. I had been making all the right noises and smiling and stuff, but inside I was thinking “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Wendi? You are not ready for this! Who are you trying to kid?” I burst into tears. Poor Jaz was dumbfounded. Not realizing what was going through my head – and why would she? Usually I am an open book, everything is written all over my face, but this time I did a good job of hiding it all. Why? Perhaps I was ashamed; OK so life wasn’t a bowl of cherries for me at the moment, so what? Boo hoo. Some people have much worse problems and they just get on with it without being a moany old baggage about it. Stop being a wimp and get the fuck on with it woman!

Marathon day.

It was a nice sunny day, but windy and a bit chilly. Perfect running weather. Jaz was bouncing around like a 6 year old at Christmas, bless her. I couldn’t manage to eat my porridge because of this big lump in my stomach. OK it’s here, just get it over with and stop worrying about stuff. We got a taxi to the station and got the train to Preston Park. I was really trying to feel excited but it just wasn’t there. I tried to keep up the pretense because Jaz was obviously loving every minute, as usual!

We high-fived Jo (legend) Pavey as we crossed the line and we were off!

It all started fine. Jaz was pacing me and we were aiming for about 6hrs 15mins. We were a bit ahead of our time and she suggested we dial it back a bit. I, however, in my infinite wisdom decided I was fine and comfortable at the pace, so we carried on. The plan was to run for the first 6 miles and then do a run/walk strategy. Up to 6 miles all was going well, and as we reached the 6-mile marker we decided to have a bit of a walk. We passed a drink station and had some water. This year they were giving it out in cups. This was ok but when you have a cup you tend to gulp it all down so you can get rid of the cup. First mistake. When you’re running in a marathon, the last thing you need is a load of water sloshing around in your belly. It’s very uncomfortable. We carried on and ran past Roedean school and then round the roundabout and up to Ovingdean. We decided to stop for the loo. Second mistake. We waited ages in the queue and lost our rhythm. 9 miles in and I’m starting to feel the big weight dragging me down again and that nasty little voice in my head saying “I can’t do this!”.

We soldiered on trying to get back into some kind of running but now I had a bellyache and my groin was hurting every time I put my foot down. Poor Jaz was trying her hardest to keep me upbeat but my bloody brain was having none of it. Then I felt really bad for putting her through this. If not for me she would have been well on the way towards the finish by now! (In fact, the following week she ran the Manchester marathon in 3:41 qualifying for a ‘good for age’ place in London next year. So proud of her!) So I felt even worse. I really think if David Cassidy (he was my idol back in the day) had appeared and asked me to elope with him I would have told him to fuck off. I was also worried about Jaz by now. It was really cold and she couldn’t feel her hands. She should have been running and keeping warm but she was stuck with me.

Then we were heading back into the crowds. Usually this is when I really come into my own. I love a crowd and I love to show off and have a bit of fun. Not this time. I was dreading it and just plodded along head down wanting it all to be over.

Then we saw Jo.

The PWRs had waited to cheer me on and I saw Jo at the side of the road and ran to her and gave her a big hug! That was a massive boost to my mood and I think I nearly cried. I didn’t realise at the time but the others were all on the other side of the road and I didn’t even see them! I was so wrapped up in my own pain and misery.

Things got a bit better for a while and we tried music to lift our mood. By this time the crowds were thinning out a bit but those who were about were great. One lady gave us some lovely oranges, which really hit the spot. Food and drink all in one. I found a song that lifted my spirits, and I actually danced a bit. Things were going to be ok.

Then we hit the power station.

We were prepared for it to be grim. We had a plan. Put music on, don’t chat, and get through those 3 miles as quick as possible. It was up hill going in (I’m told it’s not a hill but it felt like bloody Everest), it was cold, the wind was in our faces pushing us back, I was fed up, exhausted and crying like a stupid idiot. I could barely walk never mind run. That was my lowest point. I was dragging my sorry carcass plus another ton weight in my head around the wastelands of Mordor.

I think I might have given up then but I kept thinking of the people that had supported me and donated and I kept reminding myself why I was there – so we carried on.

Back onto the seafront. Much nicer but still windy and chilly. By this time the roads had been re-opened so we were dodging around holidaymakers and people on bikes and skateboards. Not too far to go now, I could almost see the finish line. It seemed to take forever but at last we got to the last couple of hundred yards, then one final push to the line. We had made it! SEVEN HOURS! I was gutted. Did I feel elated that I had managed another marathon? Nope. Was I proud of myself for completing the task even though it had been way tougher than I expected? Nope. I wanted to beat my last time and I was way slower. I sobbed like an imbecile and said “If anyone has a gun, please just shoot me now and put me out of my misery.” I am never, ever, ever, ever doing another marathon. EVER.

“That’s ok,” says Jaz to the sobbing wreck, “you don’t have to”.

When I got home I saw all the messages of support from friends and family I was humbled and touched and cried all over again!

Fast forward 2 weeks.

A group of us PWRs went to London to support my training pal Donna and many others from our running club who were running the London marathon. It was a great day and fab atmosphere. I sent a text to Jaz.

‘Just thinking – the New York marathon is in November and so is my birthday. Perhaps we should do it for my 60^th in a few years time.’

‘HA HA HA! Mrs never doing it again! You know I’d be all over that like a kid on cake!’ came the reply.

I slowly came to realise that I FINISHED!! It’s a massive achievement. It was awful but I got through it. And my family and friends are beyond awesome!

Another week went by and the ballot for London next year opened. You’ve guessed it. I’m in. I’ve learned a lot about myself in the last few months and I’ve decided that I have a whole year to lose this other 3 stone and get marathon ready. I’m going to do it properly this time. Weight loss plan has begun. Head is back in the right place. Never say never. Watch this space…

I am still a bit short of my fundraising total so any donations however small will be greatly appreciated. You can visit my page at:

www.justgiving.com/wendi-walker1

Or text WMOO57 £5 to 70070 to donate £5.

THANK YOU

A tale of two marathons – Brighton and Manchester 2015

I didn’t really plan to do a two in two weekends challenge; actually, mum and I had planned to run Brighton together for CLIC Sargent in 2014, but mum suffered a series of injuries which put her out of action for almost eighteen months, so she deferred and I did that one on my own. While picking up my number at the expo I was seduced by the early bird rates and signed up for 2015 there and then, so that we could still run together when she was fit again.

A few months down the line I was going through the Chasers race calendar – still hoping for the outside chance of a ballot spot at London – and noticed that the club’s target spring marathon this year was Manchester, and that there were around twenty Chasers already going. After checking the actual day of the event in my diary and noticing that it was free – because clicking on the weeks either side would have been TOO MUCH effort – I got all trigger happy with the application form and I was in. Then I noticed Brighton the week before, and London the week after. Ah, the trusty leap-first-look-later approach. Fuck it, I thought, I’m doing it now.

So there we are again, traipsing round the expo at the Brighton Centre, spending money we don’t have on kit we DEFINITELY need, and somehow managing to buttonhole Jo Pavey and her family (to mum’s delight and my horror). Creatures of habit that we are, we found the same Italian restaurant that we ate our pre-race dinner in last year, at the same time as we found it last year, sat at the same table and were served the same meal by the same waiter. Honestly, that is the very definition of happiness to me.

Disappointingly we couldn’t make it three for three by booking into the same hotel – by the time we were certain that mum could race everything had been booked up as far as Three Bridges – so instead we stayed at the Gatwick Airport Travelodge and took the train straight to Preston Park on race day morning. Gatwick Airport Travelodge: I challenge you to find a more depressing collection of words in the English language. This, dear readers, is the reason for booking first thinking later.

As we prepared I could see in mum what she must have seen in me a year before: excited but nervous, fidgeting and squeaking, freaking out about tiny details to avoid confronting the huge task. I remembered panicking about how I’d get hold of a coffee and had I chosen the right kit and where were all the toilets. With the benefit of the experience I’ve gained over the last twelve months I now know that, unless your margin of error is measured in seconds not minutes, nothing you do the night before makes a damn bit of difference anyway, but nobody could have persuaded me of that without me experiencing it for myself. And nothing I could tell mum would persuade her either. I just had to let her ride it out.

The last few months have been hard on us as a family; between ill health and upheaval and loss and more loss, there’s not been much time to draw breath. To me, running has been an invaluable diversion from this, but for mum – despite her low boredom threshold and voracious appetite for challenge – training for a marathon effectively from scratch was not the piece of straw the camel’s back needed. She’s borne it all with incredible good humour and if she ever felt that she wasn’t up to the challenge, she never let on. At least, not until we were sat on the seafront on Saturday afternoon, enjoying a coffee.

In the run up we’d talked a lot about tactics and how I would pace her, how much her preparation had improved on that of Edinburgh’s, how she had done so much more training. We had focused so intently on her physical preparation that we’d completely taken her mental readiness for granted, and as we sat stirring lattes she finally, tearfully, admitted she wasn’t sure if she was up to it. I knew she was more than capable – we’d run a comfortable Wimbledon Common Half together in the run up and barely broken sweat, and she runs at least four times a week – but in that moment she seemed powerless, broken. This is my mum. She’s not meant to be vulnerable. I was so, so scared.

The race day morning went off without a hitch, despite the awkward logistics, and we were even treated to a man with a leprechaun costume and a mobile PA system dancing a jig from Preston Park station all the way to the pens. Mum was smiley and chatty at the starting line and high-fived Jo Pavey on the way through, but something wasn’t right.

Still though, we managed the first 10k without pausing once and with a good pace – too good a pace actually, but trying to persuade her to slow down was like trying to tell the Saharan sun to tone it down a bit – and took a tactical decision to pause for the loo just after mile 9. We’d probably chosen the worst possible loo to stop at, as ten minutes passed and still we jigged about in the queue, but it had got to the point where waiting for the next one wasn’t an option. When we finally got going again it took forever to regain our rhythm, and the undulating seafront road hit mum like a ton of bricks.

The sun was warm and strong, but not strong enough for the brutal sea wind that followed us along the coast. Our pace slowed, the crowd thinned out, and every step felt like treacle. And then, just before mile 11, mum suffered an excruciating groin strain and burst into tears. Where’s that camel, I’ve still got a bundle of straw…

From that point on the race was an exercise in damage limitation. Even as early as mile 14 the thought of not finishing entered both our minds, but we put it straight out; with all the money mum had raised it simply wasn’t a viable option, and besides, I’ve never seen her give up on a race yet. Instead, we took it step by step. Just get to the next speed limit sign. Jog to the traffic lights. Walk as far as the pier. By the time we made it to the CLIC Sargent cheering point there were only a couple of people left, and no sign of her club, Petts Wood Runners. For someone who thrives on the atmosphere of a big race, it crushed mum.

Then, a brief ray of light as Jo from PWR called out to mum from the side of the road. Even I nearly cried a bit when I saw them go in for a hug, and for the first time all day mum smiled with her eyes as well as her mouth. We found out later that they had been there all along, waiting to video her coming through, but in her exhaustion mum couldn’t see or hear them calling her. Jo’s hug was enough to carry her as far as Hove, put the frustration and pain of yet another injury out of her mind and pull out the aeroplane arms again. There were only a few people around the residential streets but they were as warm and welcoming as anyone could hope and they offered an endless supply of orange slices which mum munched through gleefully. For a little while at least, we were back in kid mode.

Eventually though we had to get back to the seafront, and without the pace to keep me warm I felt my body temperature dropping drastically. Luckily I was carrying my new Salomon race vest stuffed full of spare clothes and food, as I was planning on using the hours on foot as training for August’s 100 miler, so I fished out an extra layer, but I could already feel my lips turning blue and my fingers were so frozen as to be useless. The sun’s rays were completely unfettered by clouds and I ended up with ridiculous tan lines, but it didn’t stop the windchill doing its thing. I could barely speak for the last six miles.

The boring power station section passed, the coloured huts left behind, we finally crossed the line in a little over seven hours. I felt shitty for failing my mum as a pacer, I felt shitty for being snappy with her, I felt shitty for not noticing sooner how much she had struggled with the last few months, and I felt shitty that she felt so shitty. As soon as we got home we ran ourselves the hottest baths we could stand, the better to wash away the day.

Six days later I was back in an Italian restaurant, this time in Piccadilly Gardens and at a table with seventeen other Chasers, fizzing with anticipation for Sunday’s Greater Manchester Marathon. There was cautious optimism, a party atmosphere, wine and beer flowing already. Everyone wanted to know everyone else’s target time. All I knew was, there was a homemade pacing band in my hotel room with a 3:44 target, a long time ambition to get a London Marathon good for age qualifying time, and I had absolutely no idea whether I’d be wearing a realistic goal or a really crap novelty bracelet. I answered conservatively that sub four would be nice but frankly I’d be happy to finish. If you don’t have a plan then things can’t fail to go to plan, right? Maths.

I’ve been running eight and a half minute miles comfortably for a while now, which would be enough to hit my target, and the Thames Riverside 20 had shown me that a little bit of discipline and steady pacing goes on a long way on a flat road race. In theory, that was all I had to do for mile after mile. But all week my feet had been heavy with the effort of seven hours’ plodding in them, my lower back was screaming and right up to bedtime on Saturday I was battling a niggly left ankle that couldn’t take my full weight. It was either going to happen, or it really wasn’t.

There’s a phenomenon in my industry known as Dr Theatre – no matter how ill or hungover or injured a performer is, they always mysteriously pull it out of the bag on the night. Seriously, I’ve worked with dancers who turned up to work ashen-faced with the Norovirus, floated gracefully onto stage, did five pirouettes, leapt into the wings and immediately threw up into a sand bucket, only to do it all over again two minutes later. No-one in front of the curtain is any the wiser. Dr Theatre was there, tapping on my shoulder as my alarm went off on Sunday morning. Up you get, you lazy moo. Your ankle’s fine, stop bitching about your back, and the quicker you go the less your feet will hurt.

I know I always say I’m not a city marathon person – and trust me when I say there are few places in the world I like visiting less than Old Trafford – but I fell in love with Manchester almost immediately. The weather was perfect, the route was entertaining if not exactly picturesque, the crowds were encouraging, and I could barely keep up with the number of kids holding out their hands for a high five. There’s a particular brand of understated Northern hubris about the event – a Bet Lynch lookalike called out “Come on love, chips for dinner” and at least three banners told me to run like I stole something – that made me feel like I was running through the set of Coronation Street. I can see why it won the award for Best Marathon yet again this year.

As excellent a turnout as it was for the runners, much respect goes to the Clapham Chasers support team who came all the way to Manchester with a blow-up doll just to cheer us on. It took a good few miles for me to notice that, between looking out for the faster Chasers on the switchbacks and looking out for Ingrid and the cheering squad, I’d barely had my music on for the first half of the race, something I usually rely heavily on. In fact, I’d barely noticed we were at halfway, and I was still really comfortable with the pace.

Cat – herself going for two in two weekends and a PB – had put up a Steve Prefontaine quote on the Facebook page earlier in the week: “The best pace is suicide pace, and today looks like a good day to die.” Grr. As I ran along, listening to party punk god Andrew W.K. and repeating the quote to myself, I drowned out that voice that barters with me to take it easy, that says finishing is a triumph in itself. Of course it is, but I’d come too far to give up the chance of a good for age place I now knew I was capable of, and I knew I should have had more faith from the beginning. I know it’s not exactly in keeping with the whole This Girl Can ethos, but I channelled that testosterone-filled chest-beating machismo and started reeling people in. Club vests disappeared in my wake. Every kid that high-fived me felt like a Super Mario 1-Up.

Andy puts up with enough from me without being dragged to every single race, so we have an understanding that he only comes to Big Races, like city marathons close to home or races with a big goal; since I’d be surrounded by Chasers at Manchester and had persuaded myself not to get too excited about the good for age time, it didn’t qualify as one of them, not to mention the fact that it was in bloody Manchester. But as I approached Stretford I desperately wished I could see his face in the crowd. It was the point at which I knew I was going to make it, and I wanted him to see me do it. What’s more, I wanted mum to see just how much fun running should be.

I crossed the line in front of the Old Trafford Holy Trinity statue with a chip time of 3:41:22, elated and mildly surprised. At least two-thirds of the Chasers running that day got PBs, and the party was nowhere near over. It would have been nice to stay in Manchester for one more night and celebrate with them, but frankly I was ready for home. For me, crossing that line wasn’t the end of three hours and forty one minutes, or the conclusion of a tiring eight days, or the culmination of a few months’ training. It was curtain down on a year-long performance that saw every extreme of tragedy and triumph, and a good deal of comedy for good measure. It’s not the final performance though, not by a long shot.

See you in London…

P.S. Mum spent seven hours insisting she would never do another marathon. Two weeks later, I got a text from her pointing out that her birthday falls in the same week as the New York Marathon. So…

Thames Riverside 20 – Race or Pace

For months I’ve been waxing lyrical about volunteer, marshals, pacers and race directors, all those good sorts who give up their day (and often a lot more besides) to make it possible for us selfish runners to do our thing, and making grand pronouncements about doing my stint one day. So when the call went out to the Clapham Chasers Facebook forum for people to help run our annual race, the Thames Riverside 20, I’d sort of run out of reasons not to.

Since my role at the Monday social runs has gone from struggling backmarker to regular pacer and novice group leader, it seemed like a natural progression to offering my services as a pacer for the 9:30 group. I’ve got to admit, this was another one of those things that I merrily signed up for with my worry-about-the-details later head, and felt fine about, until my details-and-doubt head started to ask questions. Like: Jaz, are you sure you can maintain a steady pace for twenty miles? Your Garmin readouts look like Pinocchio’s lie detector test, and other people are relying on you now. Can you even run twenty miles at 9:30mm? The last time you did that you couldn’t walk for a week. You’ve got a race every single weekend for five weeks. Are you sure you won’t crash at mile 16 like you usually do? It’s an 8am start, the day after QPR v Spurs. Since when have you been a morning person, let alone after a home game?

Thanks, doubt brain. The very definition of a self fulfilling prophecy, I got about four hours’ sleep on the Saturday night, and what little sleep I did get was punctuated with anxiety dreams about waking up late and missing the start or losing all my kit or fucking it all up. The one saving grace was that I would be paired with Cat, stalwart of the trail club and Monday night social run, a lady well used to picking up after me when I fell to pieces.

Mildly surprised to discover that there was more than one six o’clock on a Sunday, I got to Fulham Palace Park just as the birds were waking up and spent some of my nervous energy helping the HQ set-up team, until Sham told me off for getting underfoot and I had to find another way to amuse myself. Eventually we got our briefing – “Run at your pace. Run at exactly your pace. Don’t stop for anything.” – and lined up for the off. The pace groups were set at half minute intervals from sub 7:00mm to 10:00mm and would set off in ascending order with two minutes between each start, so Cat and I had a good twelve minutes to piss around dancing jigs and taking silly photos. Ok, not Cat. Just me.

I never get bored of the riverside, or how lucky I am to live so near the Thames path. When we finally got our starters orders the first half mile took us over Putney Bridge to the south bank, and we all marvelled at the sight of the tranquil river in the hazy spring morning. The first sign of the tireless support we would receive was just on the other side of the bridge, fellow Chasers Alex and Frankie cheering like loons as Sunday morning strollers and Saturday night walk-of-shamers looked wryly on. I’m sure everyone who passed us thought they and they alone were the sane ones.

Our group was only about twenty people to begin with, a mixture of experienced runners and first time marathoners on their last long run before London or Paris. For most people, today’s run was the long run in their training schedule and for some it would be the longest they’d ever run before. For all the pressure that piled on us as pacers, it was actually a huge privilege to be helping someone towards such a significant milestone. To me, the Thames path means spring and summer long runs and marathon prep with my mum, so it’s seen a lot of milestones passed in my running career already; I love that it now has a whole new layer of meaning to me. I loved hearing that mixture of trepidation and resolve in the first timers with us; they all joked that they didn’t know if they’d make the finish, but their eyes said quite the opposite.

Joking about the first timers making it to the end was something of a front for my own worries about being able to finish. I normally run to effort; I’ve never run at such a consistent pace before, not even on flat ground. Only eight days after another attempt at the Moonlight Challenge, my thighs were sore and hamstrings nowhere near loosening up as we saw the front runners pass us going the other way around mile 7 (or mile 13 to them). They looked so strong, and I still didn’t have a rhythm or another gear to move up to if I’d needed it. I mean, the whole point was I wasn’t meant to need it, but I’m not used to running with basically no margin for error. I concentrated on making sure the Garmin stayed happy and tried to pretend I didn’t want to stop and stick my face in a bowl of ice cream.

Then I saw something that was both heartbreaking and which spurred me on. At the third water station in Richmond, just before the 10 mile turnaround point, there was Diana – trail club regular, tough as nails diminutive Latvian lightning streak who has gone from strength to strength this last year – folded up in a sorry looking little bundle on the ground. Having been cruising along in the 8mm pacing group and feeling fresh as a daisy, apparently she had felt her hamstring go twang (luckily not too far from the aid station) and that was that. It was gutting to see her like that, grimacing not so much with pain but with frustration. I had to resist the temptation to dart out and give her a hug, check she was ok, but of course she was already in the safest hands possible. Besides, this was not my race – the most useful thing we could do at this point was keep our group at a steady pace and make sure there weren’t any other blowouts.

Thankfully the next sign of life we saw was the turnaround point, with an exuberant Naomi dancing and singing at the hairpin bend. Seeing her meant that we were past halfway, that there was always less left than we’d already done, and that we were technically on the home straight. Being the second to last group it occurred to me that she must have been keeping up her energetic little jig for AGES. I’d definitely rather run for three hours than dance and be cheerful for three hours. What a ledge.

One thing I always forget about the towpath is just how stony it is in places, even though I think of it as a relatively low impact surface compared with road running or flat compared with trails. It’s hardly time for the Hokas, but around Kew Gardens on the return journey I was starting to feel real soreness in my toe joints and became aware of just how hard I was having to work not to turn an ankle. It’s brilliant for training on, but not as fast a racing course as you might think. I realised that for the first time since Istanbul I was seriously pushing myself just to maintain the pace. I have so much fun when I’m out on trails – no weight of expectation, no sense of chore or effort, beautiful scenery to drift off into – there’s a distinct possibility that I’ve become a lazy bastard.

We had started to lose a couple of our group by now, some because they were gently ramping up the pace and leaving us behind, others unable to keep up. The closer we got to the rowing clubs at Putney, the fewer in number we became. It’s hard to resist the temptation to drop back and keep the stragglers company – as hard as it is not to open up the throttle as Putney Bridge loomed into view – but the reward for consistency soon became obvious as two of the group, first timers who had only ever done eighteen miles before, celebrated their furthest distance at mile 19, high fived us, then asked permission to go on ahead. I’ve never heard anything so charming in a race; someone asking permission to go faster. And as Cat and I reached the bridge, we found ourselves totally alone.

I couldn’t resist challenging her to a sprint finish at the entrance of the park, since it didn’t matter any more, just so I could do my Mo Farah impression. I hit my Garmin as I crossed the line, but I already knew what my time was and straightaway went to find Diana for the hug I’d been saving for her. It felt weird not to have to check for my chip time or placing. It felt weirder still not to have my hear bursting from my ribcage at the end of a race. Is this what consistent pacing feels like?

I learned new metrics for judging success that day: it came in the form of pride in a stranger’s achievements; in joy at seeing our average pace over the twenty miles was 9:29 minutes per mile, bang on target, not too fast; in finishing twenty miles without succumbing once to the temptation to walk, and still feeling like I had a strong final 10k in me; and in knowing I did my best without letting anyone down. It wasn’t a PB, or a podium finish – I didn’t even get a bloody medal. It was just a job well done.

Medal Magpie

A blog about running and middle distance wind chimes

race