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.

And now, the end is near...

I opened my race pack properly today. I didn’t get it today, as you know. I got it weeks ago but I couldn’t open it completely then, it frightened me too much so I just peeked in. I was right not to open it. It’s terrifying. Unlike the 10k race I did which was organised, you may remember, by two idiots in a basement, the Royal Parks Half Marathon (RPHM) is right proper. It’s beautifully branded with autumnal leaves, it sends you useful, well-written information and it gets a decent, well-explained race pack to you in good time for your race.

That said, in common with almost everyone else in the running “community” RPHM is also really fucking annoying in a number of ways.

1. Clothing sizes. I’m so tired of trying on running clothes marked “large” which should say “What we think a large person could be if they'd just get of their fat arses and run a bit more.” It seems that running manufacturers don’t have the imagination to believe that a woman anything over a size 12 might decide that she wants to run. In running clothes. Furious and pink faced, I have marched out of dozens of sports shops having failed to force a ‘large’ running top over my chest, or grappling with a zip up top won’t do up round my arse while material is billowing round my puny shoulders. My RPHM top is EXTRA LARGE and it kind of fits. It certainly isn’t too big anywhere and in places it's a bit snug. This makes me feel a bit down, if I’m honest.


2. Speed. I know, I know, I shouldn’t worry about how slow I am because it’s really great that I’m able to run at all and I should be really proud. Well, mostly I am. And then I look at the timing chart RPHM has included in my pack which looks at the times the “fastest runner” and the “slowest runner” are likely to achieve. By my calculations, if I run my absolute best (plus a bit better) then I will be approximately 13 minutes slower than the “slowest runner” time. If I have a bad day – or even just an average one – I could be as much as half an hour slower. 30 minutes slower than the person that RPHM imagines in their wildest dreams will be the slowest runner in their poxy fucking race. (And as you know, I’ve looked obsessively at last year’s results and I know that there are lots (well, handfuls) of people who run as slowly as me.)


3. Smiling. <puts on chirpy voice barely covering a snarl> “Remember to smile for our official race photographers who are plotted at various locations along the route” Oh do fuck off.

So, now, you see, rather than going into this stupid race with a positive mental attitude and a bit of self-belief, I’m imagining that I am going to be miles behind, waddling along in my yellow tent while everyone laughs and points and some wanker takes photos. Oh, except that by then everyone will have gone home anyway. There you go – silver lining. Eternally cheery, that’s me.

On top of it all, because I have a complicated medical history which might need telling to an ambulance person, I have to put a big red cross on my running number. So now I feel a little bit like someone with plague (though, if I’m honest, I also quite like the ‘me me’ drama of needing a red cross “Yes, yes, I have been terribly ill but…<bravely bites lip, tearful>…I’m fine now”). Also, and this has just occurred to me now that I write it, perhaps if I have a red cross people will think I’m running slowly in a badly fitting top because I am gravely ill. It can be my excuse. Excellent. That’s good then, not bad. I tell you, my cup is always at least half full.

That said, I think I have surprised many of you by how sustainable my hatred of running is. I know that people thought that after a few weeks of proper training something would kick in and I’d find it fun. But I don’t. Every single run is a slog. Every now and again, I have 10 or 15 minutes during a run where I’m not wishing it was over (usually if I’m listening to a particularly good episode of the Archers). My “good” runs are the ones where I am mostly able to ignore the fact that I’m running and feel glad that I’ve done it at the end but I have never, ever had even a moment where I have enjoyed my run.

Recently, I’ve discovered that lots of other people also hate running, they just don’t like to say it in case people think they’re just lazy or unfit. One friend thanked me for laying to bed the myth that everyone loves running if you just try hard enough. Several people have said they’ve been inspired not by my running (which is not, let’s face it, particularly inspirational), but by my sheer determination and bloody-mindedness. It is true that I – usually a traveller of the path of least resistance - have spent a vast amount of the last six months doing something hard work and horrible. During this summer of amazing sport and truly inspirational men and women, I’m quite pleased to be impressing people with how straightforwardly fucking dreadful I am at running. It’s like I embody the phrase “It’s not the winning, it’s the taking part really grudgingly and with a lot of sweary complaining that counts”. Ohhh, good epitaph. Better pop that next to my red cross.

So, I have just a few days to go. Two, perhaps three, short runs before Sunday depending on how my disconcertingly ever-present thigh injury holds up. And just so you know, when I say “short” I mean a minimum of 40 minutes. And this week, I’m saving the Archers for Sunday so I’m struggling to find things to keep me occupied during my runs. I know. My bravery is almost beyond belief.

Thanks to everyone who’s sponsored me (not too late - here's the link) and who's helped me do this – and lots of you have helped. You've helped by teasing me, encouraging me, pointing out improvements, agreeing that running sucks and telling me it'll all be over soon. You've emailed, texted, commented on my blog, put stuff on Twitter and Facebook, and generally been a friendly, supportive lovely bunch of friends and family. Lots of people seem to be popping down to London to cheer me on too, which is both delightful and embarrassing. Stand near the back, it’ll be your best chance of seeing me.