The Finish Line

Oh my god that was AWESOME! The adrenaline and the crowd and the atmosphere simply carried me through as though I was running on air and I loved every minute of it. I can’t wait to do the next one.

No, not really. It was shit. Don’t worry. There was no Damascene conversion here.

I have been bitching here about running for 6 months now. I have run many miles in that time and, as you know, have failed to be bewitched by the charms of the sport. But even I, even at my most furious, sweary and miserable about running, had underestimated just how fucking horrible it is to run 13.2 miles.

Now, I watched the Olympics and Paralympics and I know that the crowd wants to know what goes through the mind of an athlete. So, as though Sharon Davies has just stuck a huge microphone under my nose and said “Jules, that was a pretty dreadful run, you must be feeling shit. Tell us exactly how awful you feel”, here is what I was thinking during the race:

Start – Mile 6 “I hate running. There’s Lucy and Anna! They’ve got pompoms in Brook blue and white. Cool. Oh, Big Ben looks good. I hate running. At least my thigh stopped hurting. I hate running. Archers is good. At least I’m going faster than that woman in a Care Bear suit. There’s Mum and Simon and Sarah. Nobody’s seen Dave. I wonder if he got out of bed. Oh! There’s Huw that was a lucky spot. Think I’ll have a jelly baby.”

Halfway point “I hate running. Hmmm. My foot feels a bit sore, that’s new. I hate running. Jeez, only halfway? Don’t try and cross the race with a buggy you stupid cow. I hate running. News Quiz is funny. I hate running. I bet Steve’s nearly done now.”

Mile 8 – Mile 10 “Oh my fucking eye, am I running on broken glass?! Fuck, I think I’ve broken my foot! Ow ow ow. Wow, Andy’s tall and loud.  Oh why am I doing this? Fucking stupid idea. Jelly baby. For fucking fuck’s sake, what is wrong with my foot?! There’s Lucy waving pompoms. Clever girl, I can see her for miles in those red jeans. And there’s Anna and mum and Huw again (he must know a shortcut). I mustn’t cry. Who’s that with them? Oh my word it’s Anna Jordan! Hurrah! OW, MY FUCKING FOOT. I mustn’t cry. THE FUCKING CARE BEAR JUST OVERTOOK ME. I hate running. Jelly baby. I don’t want to do this anymore. Wow, Andy’s tall and loud. THE BALL OF MY FOOT MUST BE BROKEN. I hate running.”

About 10.5 miles in, I stopped, took off my shoe and moulded the lump of cramped flesh at the bottom of my leg back into a shape that vaguely resembled a foot. Then I started again.

10.5 – 11 miles “I think that helped. I think my foot’s less sore. That’s good. Maybe I can cope with thi…MY THIGHS! MY FUCKING THIGHS! Owowowowowowowowowowowowowow. How long can I run with cramp like this? AAAAAAAAAAW. Water and two jelly babies. Oh. That’s better.”

11 – 13.2 miles “OK. Keep going. Just two more miles and it’s over and you’ll never have to do anything like this again. I hate running. Loathe it. What was I thinking? Lisa, if you take that picture I’ll kill you. HA! In your face Care Bear, eat my dust! 800metres to go. This race is measured in miles, how irritating to start talking in metres at this stage. Anyway, 800m, that’s not far. This must be nearly over. Jeez how long can 800m possibly take? For fuck’s sake where’s the finish? Oh, there it is MILES away. I hate running. Just keep going. Keep going. Oh thank fuck, the end. Oh look, there’s everyone and pompoms and everything I think I might cry. I hate running.”

And there we have it. It was awfully, humiliatingly slow. More than 3 hours. I can tell you that 38 men and a care bear ran slower than me (but I can’t tell you about women, because my chip was registered as a male runner by mistake) so I really was properly bringing up the rear which feels worse than I thought it would after all that miserable tedious training.

On the other hand, there was a brilliant after-race party where I got to spend time with some of my favourite people, including my surprise cheerleader Anna Jordan. Thanks to all my friends, family, colleagues, friends of friends and people who haven’t even met me, I've raised more than £1200 for Brook. For both of those things, I’m enormously grateful. And those of you who haven’t given because you didn’t think I’d get round, you can still chuck your tenner on the heap here.

Of course, the other thing about which I’m pretty happy is to look at where I’ve come from. I have had times in my life where I couldn’t yawn properly because my lungs were so broken. Other times when Steve had to wheel me round in a wheelchair because I couldn't even walk. I have been in some dark, miserable, frightening places that didn’t even have anything to do with running and lots of you have been there with me and helped me through it. And now, after a bit of grudging hard work and a lot of sweary complaining, I can get round a half marathon and my lungs hold up and my legs keep going. Not too shabby really, when you think about it.

That's it now, though. From now on, I shall continue to do a few short crappy runs a week to stay healthy, though I have no intention of ever running another race – they are the most fucking dreadful things. And anyway, I’m not sure if I mentioned it, but I hate running.