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.