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Dan at Runner's Forum has kindly said I can post extracts from my book, Running on Empty here. I hope you all enjoy them. They are meant to reflect the rather nutty life I led while I was training. For me as a total beginner it was a steep learning curve, and I felt a fraud most of the way through. But fraud or not, I did manage to run a marathon and I hope it won't be the last I run!
It's also not to late to join my competition, for which entries are coming in hot and fast. Suggestions so far include: Keep on Running, Ready to Run, and my particular favourite: Highway to Hell. So go on, send me an email at [email protected]... you know it makes sense!
I've had to cut this in half, so here's Part One
Running on Empty: Diary of a Marathon Mum
Introduction
Let's get one thing straight. I am not a runner and I have never regarded myself as exceptionally sporty. In fact, apart from one glorious summer when I discovered I was quite good at the high jump, I don't think I have ever spent much time in my youth doing anything athletic. Think of the geeky kid with the National Health specs, who was always chosen last for the rounders team, and that pretty much sums up my sporting career while I was at school. I hated PE and did my damnedest to avoid it. So what turned me - a serial non-runner - into the kind of idiot who thinks she can run a marathon? Here is my story of how I - the unlikeliest marathon runner in the world - managed to do it, which I hope will inspire you to take up a similar challenge of your own.
Having said I was unsporty, my teens were dominated by tennis, which I played endlessly with my brother, and swimming, which I still love. Neither of which, though, felt remotely as if it had anything to do with organized sport - they were pastimes for home which I enjoyed, that was all.
As I left home and went to university, tennis fell by the wayside, though I continued with the swimming, and I cycled everywhere (a pragmatic choice, as it was cheaper then the bus). Both activities kept me fit, and thin, without it seemed to me at the time, a lot of effort. It was once I started work that the rot set in. My job was pretty sedentary, I was living in London so used the tube, and then I got married, and after a year of married life found that sheer contentment had rendered me a stone over my normal weight.
It was time to take some action, so sporadically throughout my twenties, I used to find myself in high-impact aerobics class- you know the sort, full of beautiful people who don't have a hair out of place, are impossibly thin and never seem to sweat. The classes used to make me feel unfit and inadequate, but I persevered. I still had no interest in running whatsoever. Running to me meant jogging: a boring and dull pastime, remembered chiefly from school in terms of me and my classmates being sent on a run by our PE teacher (who no doubt wanted to put her feet up in the common room while we were out) on cold wintry days. We would trot down to the local boys school in our deeply inadequate flat white plimsolls (this was the days before Nike), and our skimpy little PE tops and shorts. Said boys must have thought all their Christmases had come at once, but we naively had no idea of the effect our scrawny pubescent bodies would have on the average teen male, which may have been just as well. The lucky few with boyfriends would hive off behind the bushes whilst the rest would stand gawkily about hoping that whoever the favoured boy of the week was, might take notice of us. I was under no illusions about my luck in this enterprise (as I said I was geeky and wore glasses) - but youth is ever-hopeful and whispering in the depths of my being was always that little voice that treacherously offered hope saying, This week it could be you…. Hmm some chance.
But I digress. As my running experiences had involved precious all running and maximum embarrassment, it wasn't an activity I was particularly keen to turn to. Until one sunny afternoon about twelve years ago, I found myself in a discussion about running at my sister's birthday party. Everyone was talking about taking part in a women's Fun Run. To me at the time the thought of putting Fun and Run in the same sentence was complete anathema, but full of wine and bonhomie, I was conned by my sisters into taking part in a Flora 10k. I only agreed because I thought they were all going to do it. Sisters are doing it for themselves and all that. I have four sisters, one of whom was abroad, but the other three had been keen as mustard. I felt I couldn't let the side down. So like the fool I am, I duly applied to take part in this great event. Roll on a few weeks, and to my chagrin, I discovered they had all pulled out bar one - my twin sister. I would have done the same, but somehow she persuaded me to have a go.
I should say at this point, that despite being my twin, Ginia had long held the passion for running which I lacked. So she very enthusiastically took me on a training run. The first time out we ran a mile. Or rather attempted to. I found myself stopping pathetically about four times on the way round, and developed a stitch within seconds of setting off. I was in despair - there was no way I was ever going to be capable of going the distance. But my twin is a good partner to have on these occasions and she geed me up sufficiently so that I found I could manage the mile without stopping. Was I enjoying it? Not in the slightest, and after a couple of weeks, was panicking about what on earth I had let myself in for. The closer to the day of the race, the more I felt it was something I just couldn't do. I had neither the strength the stamina, nor the mental discipline to finish the race. I had to face it - running wasn't my thing.
But then a miracle happened. We went on holiday to Crete, and I found myself running by the beach in the evenings. One of the friends we went with was a keen runner, and she encouraged me. And to my amazement, I discovered that not only could I go and run steadily for 40 minutes without stopping, but that I actually enjoyed it. This was a revelation. I came back home and went to the race with my sister with a renewed vigour. It was hard work, and I felt tired, and fairly demoralized when Ginia disappeared ahead into the crowd, but coming home on the finishing strait, I caught and overtook her, and romped home in, a reasonably respectable time of 1:03. It was great. I was on a huge high, and decided maybe running was going to be my thing after all.
Well - not quite. Real life being what it is, it got in the way rather. The winter was coming up, and I didn't fancy going out running at night on my own. There are a couple of running groups where I live, but they met too early in the evening for me to get there after work. After a time I forgot about running, and went back to my sporadic bursts of swimming and aerobics. And then my children arrived in fairly swift succession, and all thoughts of any kind of sensible exercise regime were squashed firmly to the background.
Until now. A year ago, my twin sister mentioned to me that she wanted to run the marathon. I was really keen to raise money for The Children's Trust, and had already discounted the idea of going on a trek up Kilimanjarro as wildly impractical for a mother of four. The marathon might just be doable though, I thought. Well, maybe. There was the teeny little fact that I had only ever run that 10k race, and I was starting completely from scratch. And the rather bigger hurdle of actually getting your head round the distance. I mean - twenty-six miles - twenty-six miles? Was I mad? I don't think I've even ever walked twenty-six miles, let alone run it. Best not to dwell too much on the distance, I decided eventually, and just start off small and see what I could do.
But while I didn't run, I had spent a great part of the last seven years pounding the streets of Epsom, mainly pushing a buggy. My base levels of fitness are probably better then they have ever been in my life. Added to which nine years of motherhood has given me a much huge capacity for dealing with boredom, and mentally I felt much more able to cope with the tedium of long-distance running. So I tried to run the mile to school. With the memories of how useless I had been on my first training run all those years ago, I wasn't expecting much, but to my surprise found it relatively easy. Next time I ran two miles, and within weeks I found I could manage three. And the added bonus was that it was refreshing time away from the demands of my family life. It felt gloriously liberating. Not only did the marathon suddenly seem doable - it suddenly seemed essential I gave it a go.
Like I said, I wasn't a runner. But I have become one. If I can run a marathon anyone can. Take it from me - you don't have to be super-fit to begin with, but you do need dedication, guts and determination. I have watched friends running the marathon, never thinking in a million years it was something I could do. But I did, and it was one of the most amazing experiences of my adult life. And if a serial non-runner like me can do it, so can you.
Julia Williams
It's also not to late to join my competition, for which entries are coming in hot and fast. Suggestions so far include: Keep on Running, Ready to Run, and my particular favourite: Highway to Hell. So go on, send me an email at [email protected]... you know it makes sense!
I've had to cut this in half, so here's Part One
Running on Empty: Diary of a Marathon Mum
Introduction
Let's get one thing straight. I am not a runner and I have never regarded myself as exceptionally sporty. In fact, apart from one glorious summer when I discovered I was quite good at the high jump, I don't think I have ever spent much time in my youth doing anything athletic. Think of the geeky kid with the National Health specs, who was always chosen last for the rounders team, and that pretty much sums up my sporting career while I was at school. I hated PE and did my damnedest to avoid it. So what turned me - a serial non-runner - into the kind of idiot who thinks she can run a marathon? Here is my story of how I - the unlikeliest marathon runner in the world - managed to do it, which I hope will inspire you to take up a similar challenge of your own.
Having said I was unsporty, my teens were dominated by tennis, which I played endlessly with my brother, and swimming, which I still love. Neither of which, though, felt remotely as if it had anything to do with organized sport - they were pastimes for home which I enjoyed, that was all.
As I left home and went to university, tennis fell by the wayside, though I continued with the swimming, and I cycled everywhere (a pragmatic choice, as it was cheaper then the bus). Both activities kept me fit, and thin, without it seemed to me at the time, a lot of effort. It was once I started work that the rot set in. My job was pretty sedentary, I was living in London so used the tube, and then I got married, and after a year of married life found that sheer contentment had rendered me a stone over my normal weight.
It was time to take some action, so sporadically throughout my twenties, I used to find myself in high-impact aerobics class- you know the sort, full of beautiful people who don't have a hair out of place, are impossibly thin and never seem to sweat. The classes used to make me feel unfit and inadequate, but I persevered. I still had no interest in running whatsoever. Running to me meant jogging: a boring and dull pastime, remembered chiefly from school in terms of me and my classmates being sent on a run by our PE teacher (who no doubt wanted to put her feet up in the common room while we were out) on cold wintry days. We would trot down to the local boys school in our deeply inadequate flat white plimsolls (this was the days before Nike), and our skimpy little PE tops and shorts. Said boys must have thought all their Christmases had come at once, but we naively had no idea of the effect our scrawny pubescent bodies would have on the average teen male, which may have been just as well. The lucky few with boyfriends would hive off behind the bushes whilst the rest would stand gawkily about hoping that whoever the favoured boy of the week was, might take notice of us. I was under no illusions about my luck in this enterprise (as I said I was geeky and wore glasses) - but youth is ever-hopeful and whispering in the depths of my being was always that little voice that treacherously offered hope saying, This week it could be you…. Hmm some chance.
But I digress. As my running experiences had involved precious all running and maximum embarrassment, it wasn't an activity I was particularly keen to turn to. Until one sunny afternoon about twelve years ago, I found myself in a discussion about running at my sister's birthday party. Everyone was talking about taking part in a women's Fun Run. To me at the time the thought of putting Fun and Run in the same sentence was complete anathema, but full of wine and bonhomie, I was conned by my sisters into taking part in a Flora 10k. I only agreed because I thought they were all going to do it. Sisters are doing it for themselves and all that. I have four sisters, one of whom was abroad, but the other three had been keen as mustard. I felt I couldn't let the side down. So like the fool I am, I duly applied to take part in this great event. Roll on a few weeks, and to my chagrin, I discovered they had all pulled out bar one - my twin sister. I would have done the same, but somehow she persuaded me to have a go.
I should say at this point, that despite being my twin, Ginia had long held the passion for running which I lacked. So she very enthusiastically took me on a training run. The first time out we ran a mile. Or rather attempted to. I found myself stopping pathetically about four times on the way round, and developed a stitch within seconds of setting off. I was in despair - there was no way I was ever going to be capable of going the distance. But my twin is a good partner to have on these occasions and she geed me up sufficiently so that I found I could manage the mile without stopping. Was I enjoying it? Not in the slightest, and after a couple of weeks, was panicking about what on earth I had let myself in for. The closer to the day of the race, the more I felt it was something I just couldn't do. I had neither the strength the stamina, nor the mental discipline to finish the race. I had to face it - running wasn't my thing.
But then a miracle happened. We went on holiday to Crete, and I found myself running by the beach in the evenings. One of the friends we went with was a keen runner, and she encouraged me. And to my amazement, I discovered that not only could I go and run steadily for 40 minutes without stopping, but that I actually enjoyed it. This was a revelation. I came back home and went to the race with my sister with a renewed vigour. It was hard work, and I felt tired, and fairly demoralized when Ginia disappeared ahead into the crowd, but coming home on the finishing strait, I caught and overtook her, and romped home in, a reasonably respectable time of 1:03. It was great. I was on a huge high, and decided maybe running was going to be my thing after all.
Well - not quite. Real life being what it is, it got in the way rather. The winter was coming up, and I didn't fancy going out running at night on my own. There are a couple of running groups where I live, but they met too early in the evening for me to get there after work. After a time I forgot about running, and went back to my sporadic bursts of swimming and aerobics. And then my children arrived in fairly swift succession, and all thoughts of any kind of sensible exercise regime were squashed firmly to the background.
Until now. A year ago, my twin sister mentioned to me that she wanted to run the marathon. I was really keen to raise money for The Children's Trust, and had already discounted the idea of going on a trek up Kilimanjarro as wildly impractical for a mother of four. The marathon might just be doable though, I thought. Well, maybe. There was the teeny little fact that I had only ever run that 10k race, and I was starting completely from scratch. And the rather bigger hurdle of actually getting your head round the distance. I mean - twenty-six miles - twenty-six miles? Was I mad? I don't think I've even ever walked twenty-six miles, let alone run it. Best not to dwell too much on the distance, I decided eventually, and just start off small and see what I could do.
But while I didn't run, I had spent a great part of the last seven years pounding the streets of Epsom, mainly pushing a buggy. My base levels of fitness are probably better then they have ever been in my life. Added to which nine years of motherhood has given me a much huge capacity for dealing with boredom, and mentally I felt much more able to cope with the tedium of long-distance running. So I tried to run the mile to school. With the memories of how useless I had been on my first training run all those years ago, I wasn't expecting much, but to my surprise found it relatively easy. Next time I ran two miles, and within weeks I found I could manage three. And the added bonus was that it was refreshing time away from the demands of my family life. It felt gloriously liberating. Not only did the marathon suddenly seem doable - it suddenly seemed essential I gave it a go.
Like I said, I wasn't a runner. But I have become one. If I can run a marathon anyone can. Take it from me - you don't have to be super-fit to begin with, but you do need dedication, guts and determination. I have watched friends running the marathon, never thinking in a million years it was something I could do. But I did, and it was one of the most amazing experiences of my adult life. And if a serial non-runner like me can do it, so can you.
Julia Williams
