Tomorrow is the Asics Manchester Marathon 2015. Which, in the context of the blogging world, makes this a slightly odd time to start a new blog. The training is done, and the taper's nearly finished. I've spent 16 weeks or so dealing with fitting in runs around a punishing work rota, the scare of a potentially nasty knee problem, and the challenges of getting the diet right for me. All that remains is the last twelve or so hours (ok, it's actually just under 16 hours until the starting gun goes), and theoretically those should be the easy bit. And ideally, most of them should be spent sleeping.
But anyone who has run a marathon before, or had any big event to attend, or any important exam/presentation/meeting/etc., knows that that's not really how we work. Because the day and night before is almost always the worst 24 hours to live through.
As the title of this post implies, this isn't my first marathon. Just under 11 months ago, I ran the Stockholm marathon with some colleagues from work. I had a blast, loved the whole weekend, and knew as soon as I'd crossed the finish line that I'd want to have another go. It's amazing how quickly you forget how hard and painful the whole thing actually is!
When I signed up to run Manchester this year, I didn't spend much time thinking about what the day would actually be like. I knew I'd probably stay at my grandma's the day before the race, and I suspected that trains and metros would be an important part of the planning, but that's about it. It didn't occur to me that the most painful bit of my training for this marathon would be the realisation that, even though I was much closer to home, I'd actually feel a lot more lonely.
See, last year, I ran with friends. And even though we were in a foreign city with not much in the way of on-site cheerleaders, that meant that we had a built in support group. We travelled to Stockholm together, we carb-loaded in a local pasta restaurant together, we got up together in the morning and made our way to the start line together. And with the nerves building to a frenzy by that point, the company was vital.
This year, I've travelled to Manchester on my own - but surrounded by groups of friends making their way up for the same purpose. I'll spend the night with my Gran, who I can't really talk to about the marathon. And tomorrow, I'll drag myself out of bed at the crack of dawn, and make my way to the start line by myself. By now, the nerves and the loneliness have combined, and I've spent most of the past day feeling pretty miserable about the whole thing. I know that my friends and family all have good reasons for not being here to cheer me on, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to think that there'll be no one yelling my name as I run, and no one to congratulate me when I cross the line - or commiserate if things don't go as plan.
So this leaves me with one final, big task before I can stand at the start line and feel prepared. Tonight, I have to remember why I'm doing this. I have to remind myself why I loved running in Stockholm last year, and why I'm pushing myself to do it again. And there are plenty of good reasons, and importantly, they're mostly about me, and not about other people. I'm doing this to impress myself, not for any one else. I'm doing it because I want to be better than I was a year ago, because I want to prove to myself that I can go faster, feel stronger. I'm doing it because I love running, and I love having goals, and I love both training and competing. And that's why, when I stand on the line at 9am tomorrow, I'm going to focus on the nervous excitement, and nothing else.
Wish me luck!
But anyone who has run a marathon before, or had any big event to attend, or any important exam/presentation/meeting/etc., knows that that's not really how we work. Because the day and night before is almost always the worst 24 hours to live through.
As the title of this post implies, this isn't my first marathon. Just under 11 months ago, I ran the Stockholm marathon with some colleagues from work. I had a blast, loved the whole weekend, and knew as soon as I'd crossed the finish line that I'd want to have another go. It's amazing how quickly you forget how hard and painful the whole thing actually is!
When I signed up to run Manchester this year, I didn't spend much time thinking about what the day would actually be like. I knew I'd probably stay at my grandma's the day before the race, and I suspected that trains and metros would be an important part of the planning, but that's about it. It didn't occur to me that the most painful bit of my training for this marathon would be the realisation that, even though I was much closer to home, I'd actually feel a lot more lonely.
See, last year, I ran with friends. And even though we were in a foreign city with not much in the way of on-site cheerleaders, that meant that we had a built in support group. We travelled to Stockholm together, we carb-loaded in a local pasta restaurant together, we got up together in the morning and made our way to the start line together. And with the nerves building to a frenzy by that point, the company was vital.
This year, I've travelled to Manchester on my own - but surrounded by groups of friends making their way up for the same purpose. I'll spend the night with my Gran, who I can't really talk to about the marathon. And tomorrow, I'll drag myself out of bed at the crack of dawn, and make my way to the start line by myself. By now, the nerves and the loneliness have combined, and I've spent most of the past day feeling pretty miserable about the whole thing. I know that my friends and family all have good reasons for not being here to cheer me on, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to think that there'll be no one yelling my name as I run, and no one to congratulate me when I cross the line - or commiserate if things don't go as plan.
So this leaves me with one final, big task before I can stand at the start line and feel prepared. Tonight, I have to remember why I'm doing this. I have to remind myself why I loved running in Stockholm last year, and why I'm pushing myself to do it again. And there are plenty of good reasons, and importantly, they're mostly about me, and not about other people. I'm doing this to impress myself, not for any one else. I'm doing it because I want to be better than I was a year ago, because I want to prove to myself that I can go faster, feel stronger. I'm doing it because I love running, and I love having goals, and I love both training and competing. And that's why, when I stand on the line at 9am tomorrow, I'm going to focus on the nervous excitement, and nothing else.
Wish me luck!
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