Seriously,
how much could go wrong? Running a marathon is never easy, but the barriers in front of contributor, Jenny-Anne were almost enough to put her off the final step of running an inspiring marathon.

I started running very much
against my will, after my boxing trainer suggested I do something to address my
inability to keep up with the heavyweights on a group run. In fact, I couldn’t
get around a single football field without stopping. That was seven years ago. But
it was only after completing 200 parkruns, several half marathons
and 750 miles in a single year that I was comfortable calling myself a runner
at all.

But throughout those years of jogging
and slogging, the 26.2 mile marathon distance remained a terrifying prospect.
Twice a half. Five hours or more of running. That’s for proper runners.

Or… Wasn’t it true that I knew ordinary
people twice my age or three times my weight that had run a marathon. I had grown
up next door to a man that ran London Marathon every year until his mid-eighties.
In fact, most people I know seem to have run at least one marathon. Time to get
it done, methinks. No more procrastination. This is the year I’m going to run a
marathon.

Getting in the training

I researched intensively, even
considering overseas events before finally settling on Richmond Marathon. Nice
and flat, plenty to see along the route and I could wear my headphones to drown
out the doubts. Scheduled for early September it was an odd choice for a winter
runner, but if anything went wrong, I needed time to find another race before
the year was out.

I also needed a challenge to
start me off so my run buddy and I booked a 20-miler for late March. I trained
hard, I felt great and I was ready, but I fell ill the day before, and my buddy
went for it alone. She smashed out an outstanding time and I spent the week on
the couch, unable to even catch my breath. I was miserable. But I got over it
and once I was back on my feet, the training started all over again.

The nightmare begins

Then, twelve weeks out, just as the training was ramping up, Dad died. It wasn’t entirely unexpected but its impact was overwhelming. Over the last few years, his condition had progressively worsened, and I’d taken to bringing home every race medal specifically to show him. A sportsman throughout his life, he took pride in sharing my experiences. On New Year’s Day I’d promised to show him a marathon medal at last.

Naturally, training took a back seat for several weeks. It was difficult to run at all without welling up and (I have to be honest,) out came my old friends, the Marlboro Lights. Only a couple a day, but it wasn’t getting me into the peak physical shape I needed in just a couple of months’ time.

Sun’s out, flaking out

And then began the hottest
summer of my life.

I’m recognisable year-round as ‘the
one in the bra’. It’s never cold enough for me to contemplate more clothing
than absolutely necessary for decency’s sake. I exude heat. All my races have taken
place between October and April, when I’m at my peak (though mainly still in just
my bra).

I struggle through early
morning runs, when the temperature is often still above 20c. Long runs are hard
to come by and I only manage two half marathon distances and a smattering of
above 10k runs. I’ve never sweated near this much before, often for up to an
hour afterward. I’m disgusting, but I’m doing it.

The lonely road

My run buddy has been
struggling with an ankle niggle. It’s gotten worse and I discover, via Strava,
that she isn’t going to run the marathon any more. She’d been consistently
faster than me recently anyway, and I had feared I’d be running alone as she
powered herself to a much faster time. But the cold reality of running alone
mortifies me. The race is just three weeks away.

Only a week later, our event
support buddy casually drops into conversation that she isn’t going to come any
more either. Now I’m bereft. I was counting on her friendly face at the halfway
stage, where she could replenish my electrolytes bottle and give me some
experienced advice to keep me going until the painful end. This is getting too
much.

She can, she WILL

At this stage I’m pressing
ahead with angry belligerence. Sod all these disappointments. I’m doing it. I
won’t do it as well as maybe I could’ve, but I’m bloody doing it. My new boyfriend
has stepped up to support me. He joins me on one training run and, would you
believe it, I have to dive into a bush and evacuate my bowels with very little
notice. Never before IN MY LIFE has that happened. Surely there is no god.

Two days before race day and
there is definitely no god. A remarkable seventy year reign is over and the
country mourns the Queen’s passing. The race is off. The route straddles two
royal parks, and access has been rescinded in favour of providing space for
well-wishers to lay their tributes. This is the only race to be called off. What
are the chances?

She still WILL!

At this point, there isn’t even
a marathon to run. So, am I doing it? Yes I am. I’ve done (some of) the
training, I’ve told everyone I’m doing it (several times) and all my kit is expectantly
laid out before me on the kitchen table. At this point, after all I’ve worked
through, I’d run through gunfire to get me that (now non-existent) longed-for medal.

With less than 48 hours to go, there’s
not a lot of time to arrange a new route, plan solo pacing, research potential
toilet opportunities and get my mind focussed.

And it’s on(e)…

At 8am on Sunday 11 September as
originally scheduled, I’m on the start line, aka my front door in Crawley. Thankfully
the weather is overcast and likely to stay that way for at least the first two
hours. My boyfriend is on his bike by my side and we’re headed up the A217 to
Reigate – an invigorating blend of dual carriageways, business parks and concrete
overpasses.

It all feels very surreal. This
is not how it was supposed to be at all. But I’m doing it and I’m so, so proud
of myself. The boyfriend is on hand with jelly babies, wipes, electrolytes and
all the encouragement I need. He’s having to play the part of thousands of
runners, marshals and spectators all in one. I’m so grateful I’m not alone,
because I would’ve quit for sure.

No royal parks today

My revised route takes me
through the centre of town and via Gatwick Airport, past congregations of tired
travellers heading home to sleep off their own adventures. By 10am, lorries are
flying past without respite and I’m reduced to running up and down tiny traffic
islands as I wait for lights to change. Then the pavement disappears into the
undergrowth, as do I for several miles.

On the return, I look forward
to the final 10k, which is my normal friday morning loop. It’s a huge boost to
see the familiar faces of the security guards stationed at their tiny cabins in
the hotel car park, who always offer me a smile and a cheer. I make sure I jog
past them and out of sight before I take a few minutes to walk off the extreme
exhaustion I’m feeling. Then it’s on again, finally homeward bound.

It’s been emotional

The tears nearly kick in at mile 25, as I’m passing my local parkrun venue. I know exactly how far it is now and every step is heavier and heavier. At this point, the boyfriend needs to briefly abandon me to rescue a dog from a culvert. He’s everybody’s hero today ♡. He sprints back to me just in time to see me pass my doorstep and pause my Garmin. The distance was spot on.

Almost immediately I well up. I can barely breath. I’ve been fighting back the tears all along the way as I imagine how much it would have meant to be able to call Dad and share my odyssey tales with him. (Minus the bit about having to wee behind a bin at Gatwick South…)

Postscript

After writhing dramatically all over the living room carpet, crawling up the stairs on all fours and sitting in a cold shower until I could climb out unaided, I’m feeling good. I have just one blister and a slightly awkward gait, but otherwise it might be difficult to tell that I’d just run for four hours and fifty minutes. But I’ll be telling everyone I meet for the next few days, of course. I’m proper proud of this. I’m finally a proper runner. And a marathon runner at that, medal or no medal.