My boyfriend and I have been together for around a year and a half, so it’s fair to say that we’ve slipped into a steady pattern. This has been further exacerbated by lockdown, where routines never felt so pronounced and, dare I say it, mundane. I felt like I needed something new – a challenge, that is, not another boyfriend.
We’re both feeling the negative effects of lockdown; for him, the busy workload and multitude of projects he’s juggling leave him exhausted and burnt out, and for me, the temptation to seek adventure trumps the desire to sit in the same spot where I sleep and study, reading through long, dry academic journals. Whilst my boyfriend loves the course he studies and the opportunities it presents, I find myself seeking purpose elsewhere, outside of the rigid realm of university.
I’m passionate about writing with flexibility and freedom to generate my own ideas. Academic work, on the other hand, is structured, restrictive, and enforced, which is an instant turn off for me, but, ultimately, I live by the adage that everything happens for a reason. Thus, I truly believe that I’m exactly where I need to be at this current moment in time.
Yet, that doesn’t stop me yearning for something else, something more; adventure, memories, and experiences, all of which I could document or use as inspiration for my very own articles, journals, or works of fiction.
So, when I saw the advertisement for a chance to bag myself a sparkly medal for the mere pittance of £11.99 and a reasonable thirteen miles of cardiovascular effort, that’s when I knew the “adventure” I was desperately searching for had, coincidentally, arrived. The plump cherub which adorned the rose-gold memento stared back at me hypnotizingly, enticing me with its glitter and sheen.
Ever the magpie, I signed up for my first half marathon: the “virtual” valentine’s day half marathon, to be precise. I decided to document snippets of the week prior to “race day”, which you can read at your own pace (no pun intended).
Wednesday – Four Days Before the Race
Today I decided it was about time I took to the internet to conduct a spot of research on the dos and don’ts for first time half marathon runners. They say ignorance is bliss and when it comes to running 13 miles (by the way, has anyone ever noticed that the length of a half marathon is the unluckiest number in the world?), I think it’s best, in this scenario at least, to avoid overthinking it, despite the advice professional athletes were giving me through the blaring pixels of my computer screen.
One running coach advised avoiding strength training at least a week before – I’d completed a short HIIT session just two days ago. Another advised staying off my feet, or at least doing no more than two twenty-minute runs in the week prior to race day – yesterday, I walked for five miles.
It seems that so far, I’ve been doing it all wrong. This week was technically supposed to be my rest week, having just completed a forty-six mile virtual challenge over the course of thirty-five days, my reward being unsufferable shin splints, and a nice new medal.
The medal makes the pain worth it, I think.
Thursday – Three Days Before the Race
I only set out to walk three miles, but the thought of Marx waiting for me in the form of an essay title motivated me to push on, aiming to put as much distance between me and my laptop screen as physically possible. My nose dripped sticky fluid, pinched by the bitter cold. Little did I know that in my lacklustre attempt to keep my body agile and fit for the upcoming “race”, I would encounter a serial killer.
Not long in to the first mile of my walk I noticed a strange man, a tall guy in his twenties, walking a little ahead of me. I tried to avoid his path but with each road I crossed and each corner I took, he followed in succession, like a shadow.
I’d instantly noticed there was something a little peculiar about this man, something a little off. His walk was erratic, his laces untied, his arms swung loosely, a little too loosely, I remember thinking. Loose as in, loose cannon. At one point, he took off, just as a loose cannon would. The atmosphere was a little strange; perhaps the moon or the stars had something to do with that (I’m not particularly superstitious when it comes to astrology, but sometimes I like to brag about being a Leo), or maybe I was just beginning to notice the sombre, dystopian shift as we trudged on through yet another national lockdown.
I continued on, noticing a string of people like marching ants lining the left-hand side of the sprawling path, a six-foot gap between each person. The strange man flew off into the distance, quickly becoming the leader of the colony. He looked back; his eyes bolted towards me, shooting me an invasive glance.
Around five minutes later, he turned his head again, and I began to grow nervous. We parted ways at around a quarter to four. At the end of the road, he turned left and I veered right. To be entirely honest, I didn’t feel particularly safe venturing down a quiet, rural track by myself, but I like to walk, and I had a certain mileage I wanted to hit in preparation for my half marathon on Sunday.
I plodded on and soon stumbled upon a couple and their heavy-set dog. I’m a huge animal lover, but for some reason, I was nervous. The serial killer guy had set me on edge. It’s safe to say a year of isolation has given me a severe case of the heebee jeebies.
I turned around after about two miles and popped a podcast on called Real Life Ghost Stories. I often listened to podcasts on my adventures, although I hardly ever fully absorb the contents, as my attention span has depleted considerably since the beginning of lockdown. I did catch the end of one spooky tale, however. These stories always happen in rural, isolated country roads, the presenter had said.
Interesting, I thought, as I looked around me, a long stretch of isolated country road staring back at me.
I made it back to the house in one piece. Evidently, I lived to tell the tale. In the end, I walked six miles – so much for staying off my feet. Before I set out, I planned on trekking to a donkey sanctuary I’d found whilst browsing Google Maps, but my gut feeling told me to head back to safety.
I’d envisaged becoming the next star on Making a Murderer, a victim who fell prey to the sick desires of a serial killer who roamed the streets, blending in with his surroundings. The moment this thought crossed my mind, I knew it was time to go home.
Sunday – Race Day!
I think I’m experiencing psycho-semantic symptoms. I woke up around 09:30am and hopped out of bed aiming to be out the house by 11:00am. A peculiar sensation swept through my body as I suddenly realised I felt a little nauseous, but the overriding feeling was one of nerves. As I walked down the stairs, I wondered whether I felt a slight niggling pain in my knee.
That’s strange, I thought, I hadn’t experienced any worrisome pain all week and I’d purposely stayed indoors and off my feet yesterday (plus, the thought of being butchered by a man who didn’t know how to tie his shoelaces put my half-arsed training on standstill).
I wolfed down a bowl of knock-off Shredded Wheat, gulped a pint of water laced with orange cordial, and slowly sipped my coffee, contemplating.
Is it normal to feel clammy on race day?
I’d been feeling quite positive about the race, which is great considering optimism is about the only thing I could fall back on. When the time comes and I inevitably hit the dreaded wall, optimism will be my knight in shining armour. I don’t intend on hitting the wall, though, just to be clear.
I did a few stretches before taking a quick shower. The nerves built but I felt more physically relaxed and less tense after stretching. For one of the stretches, it was required that I bend backwards with my hands on my hips, and in that moment, I heard my entire back make a melodic cracking sound, like a thousand wishbones being snapped at once.
I wished I had another coffee before I left, but I tried not to let my unabated caffeine fix get in the way of my positive thinking. Sometimes it’s hard to know whether coffee is friend or foe.
My first mile was spent productively jogging to the local Co-op to purchase a stick of Fruit Pastilles and a bottle of water. Then, I headed back and set off on my pre-planned route.
It wasn’t meticulously planned, and I’d only walked about four miles of it previously, but it was enough planning for me, and I’d decided to work out the logistics of it once I’d properly got going. The first five miles or so felt… amazing! In fact, I even went as far as writing, “Feels like my best run yet even though it’s technically the toughest and longest run. The mix of road and trail running spices things up a bit, and keeps it from getting boring” in my Notes app.
Perhaps not the most insightful of memoirs, but I wasn’t in a position to document an in-depth analysis of my run as I was too focused on completing what I’d set out to do. According to my phone notes, though, I’d wolfed down four Fruit Pastilles at around the 5.5 mile mark. I remember finding that the sweets only served to give me a slightly painful stitch. I’d been advised to take Jelly Babies to prevent my energy levels from slumping, but I wasn’t prepared to carry a sharing bag of sweets in the front pocket of my windbreaker for thirteen unlucky miles.
However, I quickly discovered that Fruit Pastilles are very chewy – chewier than I remembered – and I didn’t have energy to waste on chewing.
After a short walking interval, I began to smoothly jog off into the distance, striking mile six in the process, and it was in that moment I realised, with a shattering punch to the gut; I’d hit the wall.
I hadn’t expected it to greet me so soon, but yet here I was, and there it was. Luckily, this metaphorical wall was made of sand, and I managed to break through it in short sporadic bursts of restored energy. By mile eight, the wall was made of brick and mortar.
My legs began to feel heavy and achy, and the soles of my feet were beginning to chafe on the material of my recently purchased running shoes. This is the true test, I thought.
The last three miles were the worst, but as I approached the final mile of the race, I felt energised once more. I went from barely crawling to sprinting as soon as I discovered I was on the home stretch.
As my fitness tracker updated itself a fraction of a mile at a time, I began to feel tearful. I will admit, as I edged closer and closer to the 13 mile mark, my eyes began to brim with small pools of utter relief (and disbelief). I felt emotional, and I was in pain. My legs felt incredibly heavy, painfully so, and my ankles had been threatening to give up on me since mile ten.
I was so close, I could taste the salt from the sweat dripping down my face, my skin pricked with goosebumps, not from the biting breeze but from sheer relief and bliss I felt as I approached the finish line (there was no actual finish line, but I could sense it was nearing).
Then, as the mileage ticked over, I realised I had done it. I had just completed my first half marathon with no training, on a whim, during the third national lockdown in a pandemic, and I still had three Fruit Pastilles left!
I finished in a respectable time of 02:48:18 hours, taking into account both walking and running intervals. I was surprised at how easily I completed this run, considering the lack of preparation involved prior to the race.
For that: I thank you, positivity!