Why I couldn’t finish the marathon, and why I’m going to try again

Running alongside my fiancé, we spurred each other on from the start line, and made each other laugh along the way. We managed a respectable 2hrs 29mins at 13 miles (halfway point), and we were still going strong. The peaks and troughs of pain were bearable, and having each other to run with made the world of difference, not to mention the unbelievable crowd support lining the full marathon trail. At mile 15 I started feeling slightly unwell; having gone through a bitterly cold tunnel, I was suddenly unable to warm myself up, and felt unnaturally cold, despite being in the middle of running the longest distance of my life.

But with sheer determination and a spurring on from my running partner, we kept going, and I managed to walk-run-walk-run the next 3 miles, until I got to mile 18 and felt like I was going to collapse. The shivering was severe and my skin felt freezing. I stumbled over, held up by my partner, to a paramedic who introduced himself as Joe. I sat on the kerb, explaining that I felt unbearably cold. He told me that I didn’t look great (fantastic, thanks, is what I thought!) and that he would need to walk me over to the nearest St. John’s Ambulance station, to be checked over by the doctor. At this point I just wanted a fluffy jumper to wear and I was happy to be on my way to finish the course, but when he said I needed medical attention, I felt panicked and looked at my fiancé, who was ready to quit to stay with me. So I pulled myself together, put on a brave face, and told him to finish it for us. He was reluctant, but gave me a big cuddle and said he would see me at the finish line, with a medal for both of us.

So, I got myself up, off the kerb, and walked to the nearest ambulance station with Joe, the paramedic, which was only a few yards away but felt like another mile of the course. The doctor walked towards us and signalled to Joe, by putting his thumbs up and then his thumbs down, as if he was asking, is this good or bad? Joe put his thumbs down. Then I got scared, because I realised this might be something worse than just needing a jumper, and that I was on my own. They lay me down, horizontal, but with my legs slightly raised (not the most comfortable of positions when you’ve been pounding the ground for 18 miles and not had a chance to stretch), and they wrapped me in 3 foil blankets, and 2 fabric ones. They took my temperature, looked worried, then took my pulse, blood pressure,  checked my blood-sugar levels, and gave me a huge bottle of disgusting stuff to drink to try and get my electrolytes up. I asked them what was wrong and they said I was hypothermic, with a temperature of 33.5. I said that sounded pretty warm and they laughed at me – “Your body temperature should measure at least 36.5” the doctor said. 3 degrees doesn’t sound like much in the grand scheme of things, but when it’s your body, it feels horrendous. I couldn’t stop shivering, and all the while I was feeling more and more sad, disappointed, and guilty for not being out there on the course, running the last 8 miles.

I was in the St. John’s Ambulance for over 2-and-a-half hours, while everybody else ran, walked, staggered past, on their way to the finish line. I was feeling sorry for myself, so the ambulance staff offered me a blueberry muffin to cheer me up. It was gladly received, but I still just wanted to finish the race. I thought I was a failure, told myself I was letting everybody down, especially the children supported by Save the Children, who I was raising money for. And I felt awful that I’d promised my fiancé we would start and finish it together, knowing that I was now stuck in the ambulance, unable to be where I said I would be. But after being picked up, and seeing my fiancé again knowing that he’d made it over the finish line, I felt a whole lot better (and teary). A big thank you goes to the St. John’s Ambulance staff, for all their efforts to get me better, and make me laugh! The atmosphere in London is one-of-a-kind and the people are what make it.

After making it home, cold and sore, I googled ‘hypothermia’ and was horrified by the severity of it. It was only at that point that I felt I’d done the right thing in finding a paramedic, rather than carrying on, as I could have made it a lot worse. Everybody has been so unbelievably kind and supportive, and the messages have meant a lot to me. I’m determined to keep my promise and give it another go next year: for me, for you, for charity, and why not?

Today is the day after the day I managed 18 miles of the 26.2 marathon distance, and I have the aches and pains to prove that I did my very best.

Politics. NB: not the House of Commons’ kind

Ever found yourself stood dangerously close to a half-naked gym-goer in the changing rooms?

Well, you’re not alone. I found myself in precisely that compromising position only last week.

Gym politics, especially those of the changing room, are one of a kind. I’m training for the London Marathon (because I don’t have enough to do between the day-job, furnishing a house, and planning a wedding), so I’m at the gym a few times a week to get my fitness up. I’m no expert, but I do consider myself a serious gym-goer, in that I actually go to exercise. The definition of exercise, that I live by, involves raising your heart rate, and breaking a sweat. So, I go to the gym as often as I can, and whenever I do, I go with no make-up on, my hair tied up in a ponytail so high on my head that I resemble a pineapple, and I go with full expectation to break a sweat, so I’m always well-equipped with a towel, and a huge bottle of water. Back to the naked gym-goers: they tend not to be serious about exercise, because, let’s be honest, a full face of make-up – and I mean FULL face: foundation, blusher, eye-shadow, mascara, the works – does not constitute the demeanour of someone expecting to work-out hard enough to see even a bead of sweat. Also, how is it possible to work-out with hair-down? And why is it always pristine?

There’s me, minding my own business, dowsing myself in cold water in the changing-rooms, only to find myself on the receiving end of judgemental looks from these half-naked girls, barging into me as they walk past barefoot in nothing but a thong. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for body-confidence, but when did it become acceptable to flash cheeks in public?

I don’t know if the same politics apply in the male changing rooms, nor do I want to know, but the level of cattiness in the women’s changing rooms is unbelievable. And for what? Maybe they didn’t like me because I was fully clothed? Or because I was sweaty-faced with no trace of make-up? I don’t know. But if I’m being judged for my fully-clothed, sweaty-faced, self, then so be it. Sweating should be cool, and totally expected, in the gym. That’s the point of exercise. So ignore gym politics and get your sweat on!

Yesterday I ran 10km

Although the title to this blog gives its subject away somewhat, there’s a lot more to this story than what first meets the eye. Yesterday I ran my first 10km race in 1hr 03mins 02secs but the real achievement wasn’t the literal running of the 10km but the symbolism it held for me in overcoming a really difficult part of my life. 

A 10km run is tough at some stage for almost every runner, but where it differs between individuals is the point at which it hits you. And by ‘it’ I mean ‘the wall’. For some people it’s actually the first few km that are the hardest, whereas for others it’s the last stretch of race or sometimes halfway through. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that the point at which you hit the running ‘wall’ is much like that blip in life; everybody is fighting a battle we know nothing about and everyone carries their personal rucksack of emotional baggage with them. We just cope differently. 

I’ve been coping with a 7-month-long blip in life and I turned to running to keep my mind healthy. I hit my running wall in yesterday’s race, ironically, at 7km. My calves were burning, my ankles were sore and my lungs, heaving. I was frightened of failing, of letting my self-conscious mind override and defeat my body. In the lead up to the race I was worried about other people: what they would think of me and where I would come in the leader board. But I realised that most of all what I needed to prove was to myself, that I’ve got through a tough time battling with anxiety but that I can get through the painful 10km and cross the finish line exhausted but ecstatic. I kept putting one foot in front of the other, trying desperately to ignore the pain in my body, and I was rewarded at the 8km mark by a beaming, handsome man clapping and waving, shouting, “Nearly there!” My fiancé had seen me off at the start line and had promised he would be there along the route but I hadn’t seen him so far and had almost given up hope of spotting him in the crowds. But it was exactly what I needed. My running boost. 

I powered through the last stretch of the race. I did what I could to push the doubt from my mind and put the finish line at the forefront of my mind (along with the prospect of a big hug from my other half). 

I found myself running past people that had been ahead of me the whole way. One by one, pace after pace. I felt as though I was watching myself. I sped up, pushed my body hard. Then I saw the ‘1km to go’ sign along the road, by which an elderly man was standing, clapping and saying “well done for getting this far.” I couldn’t help but think that this far wasn’t good enough. I wanted to get to 10km and I wanted to do it for me. My body was running and it was because my mind had allowed it to. I no longer felt self-conscious, tired or anxious. Just strong. 

Big strides. 

01hr 03mins 02secs.

I did it, for me.

Run for your mind

Running has become fashionable for all the right reasons in the past few years, but when I first started running I was a very unfashionable 14 year-old. Back in school I competed on the county athletics team as a sprinter for the 100m and 200m races. I found, though, that despite the initial rush of adrenaline from a sprint run, it didn’t last long enough. In fact, the further I ran the better I felt.

Having recently suffered with reactive anxiety, I felt as though I had lost my innate ability to function. I dreaded waking up in the mornings and struggled to face the outside world; I worried about everyone and everything and couldn’t find a way through. I was told I had to learn to “talk about it”, but that was too painful. Talking in the past had got me to a stage where I understood what happened but not how to fix it. So I ran.

I taught myself to cope by putting one foot in front of the other, persistently.

Tirelessly, I ran every day. I ran for all the times I’d been told “you can’t do that”; I ran for every moment I had been made to feel worthless; I ran for me. And you know what? It’s okay to do things for you. Running gave me time to think, it gave me time to process and it even gave me a chance to cry. And no, running to lose weight or get ‘beach-body ready’ (whatever that means) wasn’t my aim then and it never will be. I run to keep myself happy and healthy and that’s the most powerful motivator anyone needs. Because let’s face it, it’s not easy and it can be painful. I’ve now built up my strength to a stage where I’m training for my first 10k run on Sunday to raise money for Mind – a charity that does amazing work to support people living with mental health problems and to promote understanding and awareness of it too.

I won’t stop there, though. It’s not about running 10k once and then never running again; the more often you run and the more you build it into your routine, the better. I’ve become addicted to running for the space it gives me to breathe. Having a routine and more importantly something to look forward at the end of every day is what got me through a really dark and scary part of my life. That’s what I’ve learned, and if writing this convinces you to give it a go too, just run for the right reasons: run just for you.