11 weeks to go (2 February)
This seems to be fundraising week for people entered into the marathon:
No sooner have I sent the link round to my charity page than a flood of similar
emails land in my inbox. I have a scan
through, jealously assessing the competition – it’s all “my personal battle”
this and “in memory of that”. Adam
Shorey’s running for little wheelchair fellows, for God’s sake. I can’t really compete: As passionate as I am
about improving care for people with diabetes, there is no heart-wrenching tale
of triumph over adversity from my own life.
I need to enlist some support.
As I set about finding people with diabetes and more charisma than me
to share their story (shouldn’t be hard, there’s approximately 2.7 million of
both in the UK) my thoughts turn to my progress on the road.
See, as per my training plan this week I run 5km in race
conditions. It’s hard going – it’s a
marathon not a sprint I’m doing, after all, I’ve been working on increasing my
distance not my speed – but I’m still reasonably happy to have done it in a
little under 25 minutes. I click the
‘end run’ button on my Nike+ and await confirmation that I’ve just completed my
fastest 5km.
Nothing.
No Rafa Nadal, No Sanya Richards Ross.
Not even Ellie Goulding. Nike+
doesn’t feel like I deserve rewarding.
I’m puzzled by the lack of ceremony: This is a system that usually
cheers if I climb any incline higher than a speed bump. I go back through my records and there’s the
reason: On 14 November, halfway through an uninspiring run around Tooting, I
logged a 5km stretch at 23 minutes 50 seconds.
WTF? So cutting out alcohol,
eating meals of carbohydrates laced with carbohydrates, in a carbohydrate-based
sauce, and getting up at 6am five times a week to run manically round South
West London is actually making me slower?
I start to wonder what I’m doing with my time. I try to think back to the specifics of any
of my recent runs and I can’t really remember what I was doing whilst on
them. Was I visualising myself crossing
the finishing line, motivating myself to run faster and harder, driving myself
on to meet a determined goal? Was I
fuck: I use my time jogging to sort of dawdle mentally, mulling over issues at
work whilst being distracted by squirrels and boats and unusually-shaped leaves
on the floor. That and listening to Alan
Davies moan about the Arsenal on The Tuesday Club podcast.
The next day I set off on a 20km run to Kingston-Upon-Thames and I try
to keep a kilometre-by-kilometre log of my principle thoughts, to see if
there’s anything worthwhile happening upstairs or if it’s all cerebral
fluff. You decide:
0-1km – This is going to be a slow kilometre because I had to wait at
red lights to cross two main roads. So I
shouldn’t bother pushing myself to go fast because I’m already slow.
1-2kms – I’m listening to the Kendrick Lamar album and it gets better
with each listen, though ‘Martin got a dream’ is really annoying.
2-3kms – That café does yoga.
I’ve been meaning to tell my girlfriend that for a few weeks now. And look, they have toasters on each table!
3-4kms – [No record]
4-5kms – [No record]
5-6kms – Was that five kilometres?
I bet that’s even slower than yesterday’s, what an embarrassment. I’ll be the laughing stock of the charity
fun-runners, maybe I should do the marathon dressed as a goat or something to
save face. Although that guy did it
dribbling a football in five hours, maybe I should do that and wear a silly costume.
Then I can go whatever speed I want.
6-7kms – What happened to those cups of coffee that came in cans that
were for sale a few years ago? You
pulled them and they heated up, but I never had one. Nor know anyone who did. It seems an unlikely invention really. Have I made it up?
7-8kms – What’s a relevant costume for Diabetes UK? A giant insulin pump?
8-9kms – The thing about jogging along the Thames is that it gets kind
of, well, samey. They shouldn’t have
clumped all the buildings and stuff together in the centre, poor town planning.
9-10kms – Could I go dressed as an enormous bag of sugar? Is that nearer the side of tasteless or just
dumb?
10-11kms – So this is Kingston-Upon-Thames!
11-12kms – Kingston-Upon-Thames is exactly the same as everywhere else
in England. Points to note: Their John
Lewis is slightly bigger than usual and there are two Whittards. Well worth the trip.
12-13kms – I should probably just turn round and retrace my route but
that’s boring, I’m going to turn left here instead. And then right up ahead, then I’ll just go
through those fields and we’ll see where we come to.
13-14kms – Rather than wasting time thinking about costumes I should be
thinking about ways to raise money for the charity. Maybe I could do a video with people with
diabetes, or pop along to the Diabetes UK headquarters and interview people
about the work that they do. I should
really hold an event or something but it’s already February and I’m quite tired
at the moment, so...
14-15kms – Jessie and Killi want me to do it dressed as a
terrorist. They’ll up their donations if
I do. Maybe I could still tie that to
diabetes, like “everyone can get diabetes, even terrorists”. It’s quite a subtle point to be trying to get
across though when jogging along in an Osama Bin Laden face mask carrying a toy
machine gun.
15-16kms – I guess I could carry a sign explaining it. Or write into the Guardian beforehand and
claim it’s performance art with a serious message. But then Tracey Emin might come over and shit
on my bed.
17-18kms – Never even heard of Ham before, I assume this is a
joke. I know of West Ham, obviously, but
just Ham? Wait until I tell my
girlfriend this, she’ll love it even more than Eggham.
18-19kms – I am actually lost.
19-20kms – Thanks to my ipod’s GPS I am now back on track, quite far
away though and I’m getting tired. At
least it’s all nice from here – back along the Thames then up through Richmond
Park and home.
20-21kms – Sweet Jesus, why did my GPS not warn me about Richmond Hill?
It’s steeper than the entrance fee to
the marathon. Basically vertical. I’m going to have a right sit down if I make
it to the top.
 |
| A right sit down. |
21-22kms – It’s quite pretty up here. I’m pooped.
I’ve done as far as I’m meant to at least, no shame if I get the bus
back now. May as well have a snoop round
Richmond Park whilst we’re here, see how the other half live.
22-23kms – They live amongst deer.
That’s weird.
23-24kms – Homeward stretch now, my mind’s stuck in a loop of I’m-so-tired-stop-thinking-about-how-tired-you-are-but-I’m-so-tired...
24-25kms – I knew we should have moved into that abandoned slum, I’d be
home by now.
25-26kms – Not only am I almost home, I made After Eight ice cream last
night! Absolute result.
Inspiring stuff. I imagine Sally
Gunnel’s thoughts are quite similar. Maybe
interspersed with worries about where the next loos are.
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