I have a long history with running. My first memory of it, of the kind that wasn’t running around a football pitch or streaking across the playground with my friends, was when I volunteered to run cross country at senior school. I don’t recall why I volunteered, I wasn’t a regular runner nor part of the team. It was probably the arrogance of youth; how hard could it be? I soon found out. Thirty years later, I can still remember the cold whipping my heavy legs, my mud splattered socks, my heaving chest as I struggled to take in enough oxygen. Left behind by the pack, I felt a mixture of fear and failure. I didn’t wipe away the tears as they slid down my face; between the wind and the isolation, there was no need. It was years before I ran again.
A slow evolution
The next time I did, I was 16 and my dad had introduced me to a spit and sawdust boxing gym in a bid to make me more street wise. But, I can’t really call the 10-minutes I spent on a treadmill while I looked at myself in the mirror, real running.
I was probably in my 20s before I started to take running more seriously. Then, I’d do three to five miles most evenings after work. Sometimes I went out on my own, but I really enjoyed running with other people. Over the years I’ve had a number of partners: my aunt, my sisters, different friends. My husband even came with me once. He wasn’t a runner and I thought he’d struggle but he proved me wrong. He got around the 3-miles by sheer determination alone. At one stage though, he did tell me that if I didn’t stop talking he’d turn back and leave me to it. Apparently I was distracting him.
Running as therapy
That’s what running was for me, a chance to clear my head by either having time to think, or by putting the world to rights with my running partner. It was my form of therapy. I met one of my best friends because of running. By chance she walked out of her house, which was directly opposite mine, at the same time as I did. Both in our running gear, I invited myself along on her run and then she was stuck with me. You get to know somebody pretty fast and pretty deep when you spend that amount of uninterrupted time together.
Running became an important part of my life. On my wedding day, my sister and I went out for half an hour to settle my nerves. During pregnancy I continued until my bladder could take no more. I’ve run on cruise ships and foreign shores. I’ve run when I was happy and sad and especially when I was angry. I grew to love it.
I never really ran to race, although I have taken part in a few. My first half-marathon was probably my most successful at under 2-hours but it left me deflated. I ran most of the race with a work colleague, chatting together companionably until we got close to the end when she shouted “race ya,” and sprinted ahead of me. It really upset me, I thought we were bonding while she saw me as competition. My second (and last) half-marathon was a nicer experience. My friend and I trained well for it, it was a picturesque course and, as I remember, we ran a decent time.
The marathon
For runners, the marathon is often the ultimate goal. I ran my first, in Paris in 2006. My sister and I trained for months and while we did follow a schedule, we didn’t take it seriously enough. It was in a time before running navigation apps and so we tracked our mileage via an online route mapper for cars. Before the race we were secure (cocky) in the knowledge that we’d run 21 miles in a very good time and were looking at a sub 4-hour race.
Then I got plantar fasciitis and we weren’t sure if we would run at all. I ordered some support insoles and despite never training in them, decided to wear them for the race. My sister, for reasons incomprehensible to us both, decided to do the same.
We’d never been to Paris before and so we gaily walked the streets the day before the race, hopping on and off the metro, trying to remember our GCSE French. Our legs were tired before we even started to run and our brand new insoles, never worn charity t-shirt and un-tested creamy pasta the night before, meant we broke some pretty fundamental pre-race rules.
I did not love Paris
Needless to say, it was awful. Of course we ran past the Eiffel Tower, but I refused to look at it in protest. We cried pretty much throughout. We put such pressure on ourselves to achieve a good time that we set off too quickly and just couldn’t recover. Our lowest point was when we were overtaken by two older ladies. They were chatting and laughing and having a grand old time. They were also walking.
The only thing that kept up going was the fact that our loved ones were following our progress back home. “I can’t see the end, where is the end?” we cried to each other as we hit the 26 mile mark. Once over the line, we collapsed to the ground, a trip hazard to those coming in behind us but we didn’t care. My sister, traumatised, took off her trainers, put them in the nearest bin and walked back to the hotel in her socks.
In a bid to figure out where we went so wrong, I re-measured that 21-mile training run when I got home. Turns out it was only 16-miles. Our 4-hour goal ended up at 5 hours and 6 minutes. I was mortified.
It’s like child birth
Not put off by my first experience, I signed up for the Edinburgh marathon 6-years later. What started as a group effort, turned into a solo race, which was daunting; I couldn’t have gotten through Paris without my sister. This time I made sure that I was properly prepared. I mean, ish. I’m not keen on hills and sprints and I definitely didn’t do enough of those. And although I was more mindful not to put too much pressure on myself, I was still after that sub 4-hour finish time.
I’m no fair weather runner. I’ve run is rain and snow and sleet and ice. My favourite though, is running in the sun. But heat isn’t optimal when running a marathon. In Edinburgh on 27th May 2012, it was one of the hottest May days on record (this may not be factually correct). I started well. The Edinburgh route is beautiful and the breeze as we ran along the coast disguised the blistering heat. I was on track for that 4-hour goal, but by mile 17, the heat was getting to me. I walked, just for a minute, and that was it, I couldn’t regain my momentum. My finish time was 4 hours and 40 minutes. This time though, I didn’t cry, so that’s progress in more ways than one.
Running is not linear
You know that saying, it’s like riding a bike? Yeah, that doesn’t apply to running. It’s not, once a runner, always a runner. You can run a marathon one year and then struggle to run for a bus the next. The last couple of years, I’ve barely ran at all. I haven’t have the energy nor the inclination. Initially I thought I’d fallen out of love with it but now I know that it’s most likely due to the perimenopause.
I did force myself out a couple of times. Once, I tripped over my heavy legs, on a main road in rush hour traffic. Like on a trampoline, I bounced right back up and, hole in my leggings and blood running down my leg, I sprinted away. As soon as I rounded the corner I stopped, and inspecting my grazed hands, cried like a baby.
More recently when I’ve tried to run, I’ve ended up injured. In fact, even long walks are causing pain in my ankle.
I’m missing running now, especially as we approach the spring. When I see somebody out there pounding the pavement, I long to do the same. Annoyingly, I’m going to have to start from scratch. Couch to 5k, walk-run-walk. My ego doesn’t like it. And with my injury I’m going to have to be even more careful.
Will I ever run another marathon? Never say never. I’m 50 in 5-years. Might be a good time for a challenge? Maybe I’ll finally run that 4-hour race.
