I didn’t realise at the time, but I was starting my last marathon attempt. It was not my first long run. It was not my first marathon. But it was the last time I purposefully went running.
My previous marathon had been through my birth town. There were crowds, familiar scenery, and reasonable weather despite being on the coast. At the end I cried, some enthusiastic folks gave me my medal and a banana, and they ushered me towards a spot where someone took my photo. (The photo turned out to be very expensive, and I looked terrible in it.) But photography aside, I liked it enough to sign up for another marathon 3 years later.
And now we’re up to date for this story.
Thirteen years ago I started a marathon in my home town. I was excited, and I had trained reasonably well. I was never going to be a fast marathon runner, or in the top percentiles for any age bracket. I wasn’t chasing bling, it was always just a personal thing. Less than 1% of the population complete a marathon. It’s the only 1% I’ll ever qualify for.
But on the day, the weather was horrible. It shouldn’t have been surprising really. The location was once known as “the wettest city in England.” The drizzle was despicable, cold and unending. In stark contrast to my previous marathon, through a city, filled with people, this one fairly quickly went out of town and into the countryside.
The Lancashire countryside is vast and beautiful, but the sheep did not care for the 1650 folks who were foolish enough to want to run long distances on a wet day. The cows were not interested if this was a difficult run or not.
There are, I think, different types of folk who run marathons. There are those who are there to compete, either against people around them, or themselves. The time, the pace is important. It is a race after all.
And then there are those who are there for the experience. They have trained, just like the other folks, but there is less concern about time, and more about completion. I am one of these people. The overall experience for me was misery.
I think it was somewhere around mile twenty one where the first aiders pulled up beside me. I must have looked terrible. Worse even than the expensive finishers photo from my last marathon. I must have sounded terrible too, because I couldn’t even remember my date of birth, or my age.
So that was it. My last marathon. My heroic finale: shuffled off the course by first aiders, wrapped in tin foil like leftovers, and chauffeured across the finish line in a van. Not quite the epic tale of endurance I’d imagined.
And honestly? I let that day kill running and writing in one go. I failed at one hobby, so obviously my brain decided I wasn’t allowed to enjoy the other. Very rational. Top-tier coping strategies.
Thirteen years later, I haven’t run a single marathon. No half marathons, 10k or parkruns. No running anywhere unless it was across a convention center with XLR leads. But here I am, writing again. Because apparently I needed over a decade to recover from typing about exercise. Olympic-level procrastination.
So no, this isn’t some grand running comeback. There’s no training plan. No redemption arc, or even an inspiring 80s montage. It’s just me, finally admitting that one bad day doesn’t have to be the last word.
And if it took me thirteen years to figure that out… well, at least I’m consistent.