by Mel (Thu Sep 03, 2009)
What is it that
drives women of a certain age to embark on crazy challenges? Have you got
friends that have pledged to hike the Annapurnas in aid of a hospice? Or acquaintances
that are having liposuction to help starving orphans in Venezuela? I have. And
not so long ago, I had my own bout of insanity which involved agreeing to run a
half-marathon.
I confess that one
reason for doing it was vanity and that I might lose some weight. I knew that
training for a half-marathon involved running for miles and miles, week in,
week out so I reasoned that it must also equate to weight loss. Unfortunately,
when you run for miles, you get really hungry. So you eat pizza and ice-cream
and drink a bottle of wine. You deserve it and you need it, because
tomorrow you have to run another 5 miles. So the whole weight loss thing never
really happens. The most you can hope for is improved definition in your legs.
You may still be unable to do up your jeans, but you can start wearing really
short kaftans instead.
I used to be good
at running (when I was 13) and I was convinced I still had the old magic.
But ‘running' no longer involves just running. Each week in half-marathon prep
you should be doing different types of running. ‘Long runs', ‘recovery runs',
‘short runs' and ‘fartleks.' Fartlek is a silly name for running very fast,
then slow, then fast again. I tried one at the start of my training. Legs
pumping, arms driving, face puce. Let's just say that after four children the
fartlek is not a friend to the pelvic floor. In the interests of public
dignity, fartleks were omitted from my training routine.
I agreed to run
13.1 miles because I felt I needed a challenge, other than housework and
raising children. Only two of my children were in full-time education, one was
in pre-school and one in a special running pram. I would drop off three
children, then run 6 miles around a lake, trying not to wake the baby. I once
ran in the driving wind and rain, pushing the running pram whilst holding the
rain cover in place so as not to wet my poppet. I was about halfway round when
I realised that housework wasn't really so bad and infinitely preferable to
what I was doing.
I thought it a
good idea to run for charity, thus making myself feel worthy and, at the same
time, benevolent. I started a page on JustGiving.co.uk with a flattering photo
of myself, and sent out an email to all my friends, begging for money. As my
friends dug deep it became rather addictive. There was a thermometer icon on my JustGiving page, and the mercury was rising as the money came in. People left
kindly messages like, ‘Wooh! Go girl!', ‘I think you're amazing!' that kind of
thing. It was a therapeutic exercise in self-esteem building, even though it
had nothing to do with my chosen charity.
And what of the
day itself? Well, for a start, don't believe the myth of ‘race lift;' that idea
that you will be swept along in the atmosphere of adrenaline and excitement,
and will do effortless, perfect running. It's completely false. Don't believe
that eating the oranges provided will give you a massive sugar rush and
reserves of sprinting energy. Again, not true. Do believe that it is a long
hard slog from mile 1 right through to mile 13.1, with every soul-destroying
mile clearly marked so that you know just how far you still have to go. Do be
prepared to spend 13.1 miles debating whether you need to wee or not. I was one
of the lucky ones. I made it through without having to pee behind a parked car.
Others were not so fortunate.
What makes a half-marathon
worth it, is the final 500 metres. I suddenly knew I could do it, and I started
a slow sprint to the line. Then, about 10 metres out, right where all the
photographers take your picture, I burst into tears. I think it was something
to do with exhaustion, the overwhelming sense of achievement, and the fact that
my long-dead Mum wasn't there to see me finish.
Whatever the
reason, the official photo of my half-marathon is of me snivelling like a very
red, very sweaty, slightly lumpy woman. I think I'm rather proud of that woman,
and perhaps that is the best justification for embarking on a crazy challenge
somewhere around middle age. Although next time I might just choose the
liposuction.
