Yesterday I ran my first half marathon. It was the Robin Hood Half Marathon in Nottingham. I have never timed myself running but I managed to get 1:56 which I am told is quite good for a first attempt.
Being nervous and not wanting to invite attention or aggression, I placed myself quite far back in the time pecking order after the starting line, deciding I was probably capable of 2:30.
My rationality for this? The fact that it was at this point where I saw the first person wearing non-prescription running gear. She had a pink fleece and grey fluffy joggers. This was clearly someone non-threatening who would not shove me to the side, shaving off vital seconds in desperate pursuit of their all important PB.
My fear of misplacing myself probably stems from somewhere dark and playdoh infested but a recent memory which was also somewhat governing the proceedings was a trip to London Fields lido where there are three lanes.
At the Lido you must decide if you are Fast, Medium or Slow. Ever the pragmatic, I went for the middle lane. I can't be slow, I decided. I swam for Gravesend and Northfleet when I was 12, this surely grants me honorary middle status, I remember thinking. Well it didn't, and people nipped at my feet and eventually more or less swam over my spluttering carcass. Suffice to say I was way out of my depth.
Therefore you can understand my reluctance to rekindle these feelings of inadequacy for 13 miles of pounding pavement.
However, as the run began I started to realise, hopping from side side behind a human banana and a, shall we diplomatically put it, running veteran, I may have been a little extreme in my desire not to bite off more than my feet or lungs could chew.
So at this point, listening to my friend's iPod shuffle with speed-inspiring choons from the likes of Cher and Pink, I decided to "go for it".
Surprisingly this was not as hard as I thought it would be. I kept expecting to get too tired or to hit some kind of metaphorical wall, but I didn't. Don't hate me but I actually enjoyed it, bad music aside.
We had organised sponsorship with Macmillan Cancer and managed to raise over £1,000. Seeing the charities, along with a heartwarming and quite astonishing number of spectators, was emotive in a way I had not anticipated. I felt motivated and part of something much more important than my own worries, concerns or thoughts.
I won't lie, there were some hairy moments. I found opening the water pounches handed out every few miles extremely difficult and kept blasting myself in the face while failing to get any substantial amount of liquid directly into my mouth.
I was also perpetually worried about running in front of a runner "on wheels" as when this happened everyone else started shouting at the blockage-runner ordering them to get out of the way, and it sometimes involved the person actually having to be pushed to the side. Luckily my ninja awareness, and rabbit-like peripheral vision prevented me from falling foul of this marathon faux pas.
I probably enjoyed running miles six to eight the best and this may have had something to do with the route as well which went through some kind of National Trust place around this point. Sorry for the lack of logistical information. I don't really know Nottingham that well.
Miles 10 and 11 were difficult and I started to feel the burn, in my balls. The balls of my feet that is, even though I was aware of this potential afflication and had purchased ball protectors from Boots the previous day. I can only imagine how sore they would have been without that investment of £3.45. My pain was also lessened by a sign coming up to mile 11 which said: "If your feet are hurting, it's because you are kicking ass."
As I passed the 12 mile mark I surprised myself at still having enough energy to sprint. I felt like my legs and arms weren't attached to my body by this point though, a bit like an over-exuberant Mr Tickle.
As I crossed the finish line my body suddenly contracted and everything felt like mush, more raggy doll than Mr Men. I felt like I wanted to cry but punch the air at the same time. It wasn't easy and every time I have risen from my chair today it has been accompanied with an "ooh" noise that sounded like it came out of the mouth of a 90 year old woman. But if you ask me, am I doing it again? You bet your life I am.
