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Facebook has reminded me that this day in 2012, I was carb loading in a hotel by Green Park, ahead of the London Marathon. It was my second ever marathon. My first was the Edinburgh Marathon a year or two before, a race so scenic but ultimately so boring when you’re slow that...
...I had a wee sit down by the side of the road at 16 miles and contemplated dropping out. The absence of landmarks to aim for was hard. But I realised that if I dropped out there, I’d still have to make it the 10 or so miles back to the finish at Musselburgh...
...so I kept going, because if I had to drag my sorry arse a further 8 miles, it might as well be towards the end. I was sunburned to within an inch of my life since, despite the sea breeze, the sun was beating down on the deserted country roads of East Lothian. Indeed, I was...
...so burned that when I went into work the next day, I squealed out loud when @realfantasybob put a hand on my shoulder (sorry Bob). But more spectacular were my blisters. Approaching the final 400m, I reached for my kick...
...I always have a kick. ALWAYS. No matter what I’m doing. Anyhoo, at Musselburgh racecourse, I lifted my knees, went up on my toes and transitioned into a full blown sprint, passing dozens in the last 100m (I was a decent sprinter in my yoof)...
...20 minutes or so later, I was enjoying my free banana and caramel wafer and trying to take my shoes off. Turns out that my sprint had caused the blister on the ball of my right foot to shear off and the skin slid back and came up over my toes.
...but I don’t remember the pain. What I DO remember is that another girl latched onto me with about a mile to go and we ran together, keeping each other going. As we came around the roundabout, some bloke shouted RUN FASTER GIRLS and we both - total strangers - simultaneously...
...shouted at him to F*** OFF, which was very pleasing. Less pleasing was trying to get back to Leith from Musselburgh without a car - just a few miles as the crow flies, but a veritable Crystal Maze of transport options. That...
...was my first marathon. Would have been under 5 hours if I hadn’t had to wait 15 minutes to pee in Musselburgh. Anyway, my second was London 2012. After years of trying, I got in in Olympic year. I trained better, and was much fitter.
...problem was that the week before, I ended up being in Japan and South Korea on a trip with the (now) Deputy First Minister. We were due to fly back on the Saturday, but I came back from Seoul a day early straight to London. How jetset!
...I was really nervous, but got started ok. I enjoyed the first few miles in my wave, which went through Woolwich Arsenal (I think) and were delightfully peaceful. Then the waves merged, and the crowds started. And I hated every bloody minute.
Guys who fancied themselves as somehow elite and weaving impatiently through slower runners, barging. Crowds shouting, compete and utter visual and aural overstimulation. It was awful (I appreciate others love this). I couldn’t settle into rhythm and go to the place inside...
...my head where I went on my training. I couldn’t tune out and focus. I thought back to my best ever 10k run. It was in Edinburgh, and started outside SAH. I was bursting for a pee at the start, and not fancying the portaloo, I nipped into my gym 5 minutes away. When I...
...came out, Regent Road was deserted. I had missed the start! But I started anyway. I ran the first few miles entirely on my own in solitude. On entering Holyrood Park, I saw someone ahead of me. It was an octogenarian. I passed him, and then slowly picked off people...
...spaced out and providing milestones in the distance. Always one for negative splits, I recorded my best 10k ever. In a mass participation race with no people (or as few as possible) 
...
...
...anyway, back to London. I got to Cutty Sark, barely sweating. Shortly afterwards, I felt a pain in my left foot. Then in my right foot. My plantars had gone. Both of them. I tried to run through the pain (we’ve all done that) but this was different. After another mile...
...I could barely hobble. This was at 8 miles. I might have managed another 2 if it was near the end. But another 18 miles? No way. I had to drop out. At 8 miles. Having trained for months, knocked out 20 milers and fit as a fiddle. Of course...
...I had no money on me. My husband was at a viewing point much further on. But transport was free with the bib and so I just aimed for the next tube station. I wasn’t too upset, just glad that I didn’t have to run another step in the awful, crowded din....
...the tube wasn’t busy. I sat down, in my kit, next to a mum and 2 kids. The kids were leaping around, clearly excited by the events. The little boy landed square on my feet. I screamed in pain. The whole carriage clearly thought I was having some sort of episode. I burst...
...into tears. The mum gave me a tissue (which I remember had mascara on it). I made it off at Green Park and back to my hotel, and iced my feet like giant blocks of vienetta. The injury had a massive impact on my mental health. For the...
...best part of a decade I couldn’t run. I didn’t miss the running as such, more the mental state of flow that came with it. While not the cause, it’s no coincidence that these coincided with a number of years of depression. Podiatrists fitted me with...
...weird-shaped orthotics, but the relief was limited. And then it was gone. The first run I managed was 10 minutes, albeit downhill, on a cliff top path in Piran in Slovenia in 2018. I dipped my toes in the Adriatic when I was done. Bliss!
...and now I can run again. The lessons from this?
1) Running is such a fecking drama but God it’s worth it;
2) Accidentally missing the start for a pee is my secret tactic for a PB;
3) Don’t be the guy at the roundabout telling pissed-off looking women to run faster.
1) Running is such a fecking drama but God it’s worth it;
2) Accidentally missing the start for a pee is my secret tactic for a PB;
3) Don’t be the guy at the roundabout telling pissed-off looking women to run faster.
