When I was at primary school, I remember 'achieving' a certificate for 'Good Sportsmanship' when I came last in a race on sports day. Even then, though my mum put it on my bedroom wall alongside evidence of my more academic prowess, I regarded it with disdain, being firmly of the opinion that it was simply what they issued in an attempt to placate you in your failure. I think, today, if I put aside my ego, which is currently feeling just as battered and bruised as my poor, tortured iliotibial band, I may have finally learned the value of that accolade. So last night, I felt calm, strong and optimistic. I knew that I was not as fit as I was for my last (first) marathon but I genuinely felt it could go either way. To be honest, I was even secretly predicting Good Things. As you may have guessed, it didn't really pan out that way.
 Meeting Joe from UKRunChat at the Green Start! | Although Saturday was happily ITB pain free, it started hurting this morning, even as I queued at the bag drop. From mile 0, I was in pain. "Ah well" I mentally coached myself "not unexpected and pain is only temporary!" I held that state of mind up pretty well for 20 miles. I overtook the 3:45 pacer and kept up a reasonably consistent pace despite the pain, remaining on target to achieve a second GFA time. I swung past landmarks... Where I used to live... Where I used to catch the bus... Where I used to work... I kept it up, despite the pain and despite the emotional twinging of running past all these places and more, which reminded me of the friend I was running for. "That's where we played Frisbee in Greenwich Park" "That's the bar where we got smashed on sugary cocktails and danced to Tiffany" "That's the restaurant where we had that curry the night I ate all the lime pickle for a bet and nearly had An Accident" "That's his old block of flats..." I don't know if it was the mental exhaustion of ignoring the pain combined with the emotional baggage that undid me or if it was a genuinely physical thing but by mile 20 every muscle in my right leg and most of them in my left were screaming in a way I have genuinely never experienced before. |
| And I know pain. I know the pain of Rheumatoid Arthritis, the kind that puts you in a wheelchair for 18 months of your adolescence. I am not afraid of a few synapses firing here and there in the old grey matter, the same grey matter simultaneously yelling at me to keep going... but I eventually popped, staggering into the first aiders who massaged me and dosed me with ibuprofen (to my eternal gratitude). To save face, I jogged away from the tent but was quickly limping again, with the tears of pain, frustration and loss freely streaming. 6 miles has never seemed so far. Wrapped in a space blanket, I bitterly hobbled on, angrily sneering at those who overtook me just a touch too close, silently channelling the anger I felt at myself towards towards those around me. Yeah. I don't feel so great about that admission. I was feeling so washed up that when I rounded the corner on the loop and saw the mile 14 marker, I temporarily forgot I already came past that on the other side 7 miles ago and almost chucked it in. I watched the 3:45 pacer vanish off onto the horizon. Then I looked at all the runners who still had almost half a marathon to go... some walking, some running, but 90% of them still grinning. Still grinning and so much stronger than me. Proud of participating, proud to be a part of it and certainly not hung up on how long it would take them to get round the next 13 miles. All kudos to these guys. I really need to learn that. |  Mile 23. Sprint finish anyone?! |
Run Stats! Can you spot where it all went wrong!?
| Seeing this, I kept going. At mile 22, I tried a little jog. The pain shot through my leg, I stumbled, I carried on walking. At mile 23, I heard my name called. Some friends, also out to support another runner had spotted me. Waving excitedly, full of beans and clearly delighted just to have caught a glimpse of me. Whether it was a morale boost or the shame of being caught in tears that got the better of me I don't know but I got it into my legs one way or the other and picked up to a little trot. Tired, sore legs and poor form due to my continued clinging to the space blanket took their toll however and I somehow caught my toe in an uneven bit of tarmac. The inevitable happened and I flew forward, hitting the deck to the sound of the crowd gasping as I went. I rolled over and gazed up at the grey clouds, as runners dodged past me, every bit the dying beetle until something buried even deeper than the bit that wanted to give up finally found it's voice. "This is NOT how this story ends! Get the heck up!" So I did. I got up, the gasps turned to cheers, the only ones I feel I really earned, and I ran. I threw down the space blanket and I managed the last three miles at a sub ten minute mile pace. Not great and not as fast as I can run but better than walking. So I think, after 3 decades, I might have finally earned that Good Sportsmanship certificate. And while I can't share the epitaph Haruki Murakami plans for his grave stone, I can't say 'I never walked', I can say I damn well got up and kept going and in my opinion that's more important because, you see, it doesn't actually matter how many times you fall down, as long as you get up just one time more than that. |  I shall now devour ALL the SAWSIGIS! |
Appendix:
Glittermousie's 3 stage plan of recovery for bruised London Marathon ego:
1) Get over yourself.
2) Register for Manchester Marathon 2016, achieve new GFA.
3) Run London 2017 and kick it in the pavements.
