OMG – I ran the London Marathon

Miles this week                     The London Marathon 2011

Time                                       5:08:35

Place – overall                      25,134            (34,710)        

Place – women                     7,443              (12,257)

Place – category                  1,245              (1,908)

Money raised                        £1,300 and climbing

() Show finishers in this category

If you like stats, visit my results page.

[The official photos will be posted there soon.]

"I tell our runners to divide the race into thirds.

Run the first part with your head, the

middle part with your personality, and

the last part with your heart."

Mike Fanelli, running club coach

Marin County, CA

(Thank you, Kerry)

We did it: SG and I ran the London Marathon!


Superlatives just about capture how I’m feeling.

It has been incredible: the training with its highs and lows; the fundraising which you have all made so very easy; and, of course, the Big One itself. A truly wonderful journey – and one I can’t believe I’ve taken.

And I’m feeling surprisingly good. I can walk and talk, and I’m still beaming. In fact, I’m feeling more emotional than exhausted.

Here goes – forgive me if I blub whilst typing...

Race Report

Despite the M1 closure, we had an excellent run down on Saturday, and were parked up at our accommodation by 11.30am. This left plenty of time to register at the sprawling ExCel London, have a gentle afternoon in the capital, and meet the fabulous Heart Research UK team in the evening – before cramming a huge, carbed-up dinner of cannelloni and salad into my face.

Sleep was rather elusive on Saturday night, but following Denise’s (HRUK) advice, I snuggled down and relaxed with the idea that by just resting my limbs I was training very hard: love it.

Central London was fairly quiet on Sunday morning when we started our journey out to Greenwich. The sky was grey and the air was cool, but I was sweating and shaking like a crazy thing. Sharing nervous greetings with the handful of other runners at Moorgate Tube station was lovely – as was the cheery good luck from the smiley attendant on the barrier who let me travel gratis. I’ve never known London to be so jolly and chatty.

Once we climbed aboard the DLR at Bank, things started to busy up. Instead of its workaday sombre mood, the train was vibrant – buzzing with excited people all gearing up for the day. I’m sure it was fuller than capacity: you can really squeeze those string-bean running-types into a carriage.

When we left the train at Greenwich, the cloud started to lift and the sun came out, offering our first glimpse of the baking day ahead. It was also the point at which I didn’t have to worry about directions anymore. I fell in line and followed which was all I had to do for the rest of the day really.

I left CM safely with SG’s family at the park gates, received the first of many nourishing race hugs and went in search of SG.

Meeting her in the runners’ area was a huge relief. I was terrified I wouldn’t find her and would have to face the long miles alone.

After depositing our bags on the numbered trucks (fantastic bit of logistics), we did the needful. Whilst queuing, we chatted to Sarah, another marathon novice who was running solo. We stuck together for the Start, but lost her in the crowd once we hit Greenwich: I hope she had a fabulous day.  

Joining the throng in Starter Pen Eight was mind-blowing: so many people, so much excitement and anticipation, so overwhelming. I couldn’t believe I was there.

In fact, throughout the day, I found myself saying really daft things like, “Hey, look at us running the London Marathon...”

I blame the heat.

Which was stiflingly exhausting. SG – a marathon veteran – says she has never known it so hot or seen so many people walking and struggling – and so determined to battle on.

The day was made up of fantastic moments and victories. And although I’d loved to ramble on for hours, here’s a collection of snapshots from the day.

The noise when we swept into the centre of Greenwich from the park was thunderous. I was gobsmacked that so many people were lining the streets, willing us on. And it didn’t stop. I don’t think any point along the route lacked a roaring cacophony of cheering and clapping to carry us along.

I’ve not touched so many grubby, little hands since working as a primary school classroom assistant years ago. The squeals of excitement from the younger members of the crowd as we gently high-fived them in passing were so heart-warming and encouraging.

Some outstretched hands were offering water, juice and – the runners’ staple – jelly babies. I hadn’t anticipated such wonderful generosity. The crowd really was one giant support team. It was staggering.

Arriving at Tower Bridge – which has been something I’ve been excited about for weeks – really made me choke up. Then, as we curved east to head into Docklands, an oh-so-familiar baritone bull-frogged my name and there was my Dad ready for a big, sweaty hug. The crowd shifted a little and there was Mum.

Fantastic!

In all, I had five hug-stops en route which fuelled me up good and proper.

After the heat of the city’s streets, descending in to the cool canyons of Canary Wharf was delicious. Gazing from the depth of shadows up the sheer walls of glass into an eye-wateringly blue sky was dizzying.

Then, because running 26.2 miles just isn’t enough, there were the crazy costumes to wonder at. We spotted a positive zoo of animals – a camel, a giraffe, a horse, a pride of lions, rhinos, a tiger; all kinds of hardware – a spitfire and a washing machine; a strength of superheroes – Batman, Spiderman and Superman; the emergency services – the police (who gamely took cheers and boos), nurses, and firemen (with oxygen tanks); the forces with heavy backpacks; a bride and groom; and, of course, Lloyd Scott aka Brian the Snail who is still going now.

Now, I cry all over again. I’m so proud of us. We hit The Wall early on, but simply changed our costumes, melting into ghosts to run right through it.

Which made crossing the red line on the Mall hand-in-hand and grinning like loons a phenomenal moment – and a fitting finish to at least 1,000 shared miles.

Apologies, but whilst I’m teary and being a drama-queen, I’m going to come over all Gwyneth Paltrow and say my multitude of thanks:

...to my Mum, Dad and CM for being a top Support Team

...to all my friends, family and colleagues who are so encouraging and supportive

...to HRUK – for taking a chance on me and letting me be part of this amazing thing

...to everyone who made my fundraising total so enormous

...to you for ploughing through the blog

...to SG’s family for sparing her so we could train

And, of course, to SG for being the ultimate running buddy: with me every step of the way to London – and beyond, I hope.

Thank you to you all – till next time!

Please visit my fundraising page at

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PaulaHamill

On your marks...

Days to go                 Four

Miles today                A big fat zero – see below

Miles this week         A big fat zero – see below

Miles last week         23

Miles 2011                415

Other exercise          Now you’re just rubbing it in – see below

Oh, my good gosh, it’s almost here. Today is Wednesday and Sunday’s marathon is eagerly waiting, looking at its watch and drumming its fingers impatiently, keen to be under starter’s orders and off.

Me? I’m just plain old terrified...

And nursing an injury – which is a phrase I’d hoped would not feature in this blog.

I’ve double checked all the information and checklists explaining what to do during the last few days before the Big One and not one of them says anything about sustaining an injury. So, what am I playing at?

My ridiculous left leg chose Sunday to kick off. Not last year; a month ago; not even last Wednesday. No, Sunday: a week to the day before the Big One. I woke up with a calf tangled with cramp. I could barely move and struggled through the day with gritted teeth.

The gut-knotting misery has thankfully eased – a hot bath, plenty of Voltarol and a sports massage can work wonders – but my left calf is still tender. I’ve had to shelve my plans for some final keeping-warm-miles. Instead, I have been hobbling about like an aged crone and looking about as far from the image of a honed athlete as you can possibly get – which I think, at the moment, is 26.2 miles.

Thankfully, most of the other things I should be getting on with during this important week of preparation for the Big One are achievable with a hop-along leg.

Mostly, I should be resting. Yip – can do. Am doing: under protest. What I really want to be doing is lacing up my ASICS, heading out into the sunshine and up through the woods for a gentle six miles.

Harumph!

I also need to be getting some early nights and sleeping my way to marathon success. I’m trying my best on this one, but at this time of year my naughty Kitty is keen to be up with the larks – and chasing them round the garden. So, she has resorted to some terrible tactics to demand release into the dawn: crashing onto the bed most undaintily, boxing me on the nose and yowling at full volume.

Not good Kitty behaviour, I tell her, and not good marathon preparation. She blinks at me, nonplussed; shrugs her shoulders and yomps back to the window sill. She allows me enough time to drift off again before coming back to deliver another duvet-stomping, nose-boxing, Jericho-bashing wake-up call.

Eating plenty of the right stuff is also on the to-do list. It is essential that I carb up over the next couple of days. Managing that nicely by chucking in some extra cake rations just to be on the safe side. Well, it’s imperative that I’m fully fuelled for Sunday.

According to Marathon News, I should also be packing carefully and preparing the bits and bobs all participants must cram into their kit bag. There are the obvious things like a variety of running outfits (you never can tell with the English spring weather), race number and chip, warm clothes for afterwards (what a lovely sounding word), spare change, a drink and bite to eat, sun cream, and Vaseline.

And loo roll.

Now, I’m not sure what innovations have been adopted in the south in recent months, but the last time I visited the capital I’m sure that all conveniences were equipped with this needful product. Or have things moved on? Is loo roll the quaint preserve of tourists from the north?

Talking of which, I must also remember my passport...

No, seriously. North-south jibes aside: no id, no race registration. No registration, no number. No number, no race. And what a big, fat disappointment that would be after all this hard work. There would be tears – and lots of them.

Plus, I was thrilled to learn that runners can enjoy free – yes, it bears repeating, free – Underground travel on the day. All you have to do is flash your race number at London Transport staff and you’re off.

I absolutely definitely want that number – and not just for the free Tube ride.

Despite my stoooooopid left calf and even stoooooopider left calf muscles, I will be heading south on Saturday and wearing my number as I run/stagger/crawl around London on Sunday. Wild horses, etc...

I’m genuinely looking forward to running the Big One with SG – even though it’s really gonna hurt. I’m also keen to meet the lovely people from Heart Research UK who have been so supportive and encouraging over the past 10 weeks or so. And I can’t wait to be on the receiving end of a huge hug from CM and my Mum and Dad at the finish. Sorry – I’ll be all hot and stinky.

So, it just remains to say: please send positive go-faster vibes, keep all flexible digits crossed, watch the telly, and make lots of noise for 43020 (SG) and 40334 (me).

See you on the other side – for my (final) post-marathon post.

Please visit my fundraising page at

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PaulaHamill

Warm up, step out, warm down (fall down)

Days to go                 11 (“Good grief, Charlie Brown!”)

Miles today                0

Miles this week         6 (another 16-20 planned)

Miles last week         40

Miles 2011                398

Other exercise          Yoga

“Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”

Haruki Murakami

This week, dear Reader, I start with a confession.

The Fear has landed.

In fact, it snuck up on me unexpectedly 10 days or so ago: the Saturday I was due to join SG for our final long training run of 22 miles. Poor SG succumbed to her umpteenth cold of the season, and so it was left to me to hit the road alone. I’m sorry to say, I simply couldn’t.

My shoes were at the door. My pocket bulged with gels. My water-bottle was full. My toes were taped; my hair, plaited; my SportsBand, strapped on. I was dressed and ready to go. I made my final trip upstairs to the bathroom and then, instead of skipping downstairs and out the door, I found myself hiding under the duvet, sobbing and snivelling and feeling terribly sorry for myself.

It all seemed too much: too big a challenge and too far. I couldn’t imagine myself leaving the house and plodding along the lanes and tracks to reach two miles let alone 22. My legs were lead and my heart was heavier.

When CM returned home after a morning of chores, he found me in a soggy disconsolate heap. He coaxed me from my pit and made me face the rest of the day.

Although the afternoon was punctuated with dry, rattling sobs and deep sighs, I got over myself – and on Sunday, SG and I headed out for a gentle six miles.* Since then, I have run 34 more, and broken in my new shoes which are proudly laced with my red charity laces, ready for the Big One.

*  Thank you, SG, for bravely dragging yourself out. Sorry it made you sicker. If needs be, I’ll give you a piggy-back in London.

Before you rush to logon to see if it’s too late to get a refund on your sponsorship, apparently, this kind of wobble – let’s politely call it – is perfectly natural. Even elite runners get the jitters from time to time. In fact, it seems okay to write at least one such episode into your marathon training schedule.

The advice from all quarters seems to be that a marathon is no laughing matter – not sure if that includes the maniacal, hysterical shrieks I find myself emitting from time to time – and the mileage must be respected. Before considering the challenge, you need to have been running “seriously” for at least a year: 25 miles per week over four or five sessions.

Once you have decided you’re ready to attempt the marathon challenge, you must draw up a training schedule and gradually build the mileage. OMgoodG! This sounds so sensible and calculated. And it’s so not how I initially increased my miles. No wonder I feel rather wobbly.

It’s obviously a week for confessions. Here’s how I upped my mileage: I got lost. I missed my way. I mislaid myself. I left home to do six miles or so and finally staggered home about a hundred minutes later, having run 10.

This got me thinking about the possibility of a half-marathon. It was not, at first, a calculated, conscious decision. It was an accident, a mistake. A couple of missed turnings and I found myself – albeit unconsciously at the time – en route to the London Marathon 2011.

And the mileage is only part of the story. As well as getting my legs used to pootling along at a steady, comfortable pace for hours on end, I have to train my lungs, brain and upper body – presumably so that when my feet are worn out I can trot along on my hands.

Key to transforming myself into a honed running machine is cross-training. This isn’t a description of my state of mind whilst running in the wind and rain, it is more about mixing up my exercise regime in preparation for the Big One. As if running weren’t enough, I really ought to be indulging in other forms of exercise to strengthen various muscle groups and improve my aerobic activity and recovery.

But to be honest, my exercise diet was rather more varied prior to embarking on this marathon malarkey. Each week, I used to select from a menu of running, swimming, cycling, gardening and yoga as well as walking uphill and down dale of a Sunday. Now my activity carte du jour has been reduced to running, gardening and yoga. There just aren’t enough hours in the week to squeeze in all the miles, my chores, a full-time job and a rest-day every now and then.

Still, yoga is a good partner for running, apparently. It strengthens my core whilst unknotting and stretching muscles scrunched and tangled by high-impact sports. Its focus on the breath, marrying of mind and body, and immersion in the here and now are also important to efficient,

injury-free running. And it seems to be helping. Certainly, I have found Savasana particularly useful and tend to adopt it after every run.

Practising yoga really does help with the flexibility, but I know that I don’t do enough of a warm up and warm down either side of each run. I’ve seen seasoned athletes prepare for the few events I’ve entered and their warm up would be enough to exhaust me for the day let alone prepare my muscles for the long-distance race ahead. And the last thing I feel like doing after running 13 miles or so is trying to touch my toes while my hamstrings scream like banshees.

One thing I do seem to have got right is hill-training. Apparently, climbing hills builds your stamina and works your muscles far more than flat running. I live in a rather undulating area so I tell myself that each of my miles is worth far more than those covered in less hilly terrain. London is supposed to be a flat course, so look out for me skipping around it like a carefree little mountain goat...

It’s positive thinking like this that keeps you going. All of the marathon gurus stress the importance of affirmative thoughts and mantras. Visualisation is also popular: see yourself outstripping the field; imagine crossing the finish line with a big smile on your face; watch yourself eating that huge slab of cake after the last killer mile...

SG and I try to adhere to this optimistic way of thinking and running (see The loneliness of the long distance runner, 4 March). As well as our favourite maxims, we also ban certain negative four and two letter words. Neither of us is allowed to utter the vile syllable “hill” or the noxious sound “up” when we are training. We substitute them with “straight” and “along”. So, we run “along here a bit” and “straight over to Bloominghillfordby”. It works a treat and those cursed straight-alongs don’t hurt anywhere near as much.

One word we do enjoy is “taper”: “cutting back on the distance and intensity of training runs during the two-week period prior to the marathon”.

Woohoo and hallelujah!

Tapering also requires us to keep stretching; build up food reserves and stay hydrated; have a leg massage and treat blisters and calluses.

Can do.

Resting and being fresh for the Big One is essential. When you look at the stats, it makes sense. Since first using my SportsBand in January, I have run 398 miles; burnt 37,838 calories; and pounded the streets for 65 hours and 26 minutes.

And so, dear Reader, when you cheer for SG and me on Sunday 17 April and we smile and wave back, please remember that it’s not just the 26 miles round London that we have to conquer. They’re just the tip of the iceberg, the icing on the cake. You are witnessing the last few hours of a journey spanning more than 12 months and several hundred miles.

So, though it’s going to hurt like heck and I know I’m going to cry with the sheer joy and agony of it all, London is the gala performance. It is has got to be my bestest, happiest running yet.

Please visit my fundraising page at

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PaulaHamill

Food, glorious food

Days to go                 18

Miles today                0

Miles this week         12 (another gazillion planned)

Miles last week         24

Miles 2011                 370

Other exercise          Yoga and planting out new strawberry plants

Cake report (Friday 25 March, 2011)

Last Friday morning, my nerves were wracked.

To support my fund raising effort, I had decided to hold a charity cake sale at work. As the day of the sale drew closer, I became increasingly anxious that no-one would come and I’d be left with egg (and sugar and butter and flour, baked at gas mark six for 30 minutes) on my face as well as a barrow-load of dainties to dispatch.

Not an onerous task, I admit – and between us SG and I are certainly putting it away at the moment – but with the generous support of family, friends and colleagues I was able to lay out an enormous spread of mouth-wateringly tempting goodies which I did not want to see wasted.

I had publicised the event with print and online posters. All I could do was hope and cling to the wise old adage: if you bake it, they will come.

In the final days before the sale, colleagues from other departments stopped to chat and wish me well with both the running and the fundraising. Some enthusiastically promised to buy plenty of yummies. In fact, even before the first cake was plated up, I had received £20 in pre-orders.

I began to relax a little, but not being one to count my cup-cakes before they’re iced, the butterflies (Must. Resist. Bad. Baking. Gag.) persisted. In fact, on Friday morning I was just as nervous as when I lined up at the start of the Ashby 20.

At this point, I must apologise to CM for losing the plot: sorry and thank you for bearing with me again.

At T-minus 15 minutes, with the help of my lovely colleagues, I laid out the cakes, arranged the beautiful egg cosies hand-knitted by my Mum’s friend (“ideal for Easter”), and laid out the sweepstake papers.

It looked fantastic, gorgeous, delicious, and oh-so enticing. It also resembled an Everest of cake. I needed a team of hungry customers prepared to scale the sugar-coated north face and take on the challenge of almond slice, bilberry muffins, cherry buns, chocolate brownies, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate sponge, coconut tart, coffee and walnut cake, domino sponge, Fifteens, flapjack, lemon drizzle cake, millionaire’s shortbread, pecan and chocolate chunk brownies, triple chocolate cookies, and white chocolate chip cookies.

A positive A to Z of gorguosity: perfect for Friday elevenses.

Someone from Finance arrived, armed with a purse and a cheery, “Good morning”.

We were off.

The next half hour or so is a bit of a blur now. Suddenly the room was packed with smiling faces, ooohs of appreciation, careful decision-making, and was humming with conversation. The queue for cake filled the kitchen and snaked into the corridor.

I stationed myself beside the sweepstake papers and donation box at the end of the heavily laden and groaning cake display to encourage people to join the former and thank them for popping pennies into the latter.

Everyone was very jolly: glad to have a brief diversion and a Friday morning treat. It was lovely to chat to people from across all departments housed in the building, and really was very encouraging to receive so much support for the running and the fundraising.

The next time I looked up and along the line of cakes, I was surprised to see the mountain range reduced to a scree of crumbs.

The crowd began to thin and quiet tip-toed softly back into the room. I was alone with a collection of empty boxes and plates; a long list of names on the sweepstake paperwork; a rather heavy donation box; and a dazed, but happy expression on my face.

I took a deep breath, and began to wash up and wipe down the sticky surfaces.

“Have I missed it? Am I too late?” A plaintive cry. Luckily, there were a handful of tarts and a couple of sweetmeats for the late-comer to tuck into. Then, I was alone again and free to finish tidying up.

Within an hour of setting out my stall, I was all washed up and back at my desk, counting the takings: almost £170!

A great big thank you to everyone who baked and everyone who bought. My fundraising total now stands at just over £1,000. Fantastic!

It now seems appropriate to say a few words about the importance of a healthy diet for marathon runners.

"If you feel like eating, eat.

Let your body tell you what it wants."

Joan Benoit Samuelson

(First ever women's Olympic marathon champion)

And you know, it really does – and alarmingly frequently.  

I’ve even started dreaming about food. Early last Thursday, a slap-up breakfast of beans, eggs, mushrooms, hash browns and toast was curtailed by the alarm and I was ravenous all morning.

Advice on what to eat, in what quantities and how often is fairly abundant across print and online resources. I need to touch base with protein, carbohydrate and fat, and make sure I also tool up on ample vitamins, minerals, water and fibre. The key seems to be to eat a combination of foods that “promote good health and peak performance”. As far as I can make out, it’s all basic healthy eating stuff – but with added cake.

Joking aside, I have found myself craving certain foodstuffs only to discover – when I’ve read up about what I should be eating in preparation for the Big One – that I’m more or less on the right track.

Peanut butter; porridge; jam on toast; fruit, particularly bananas; lots of greens; eggs – boiled, scrambled, fried; beans and lentils; pasta; bread...

Lean meat and fish should also be on my list, but – other than the questionable roadkill episode (A spring in my step and the sights you see, 23 March) – I’ve not contemplated flesh since 1987. I don’t eat anything with eyes – except potatoes.

I’ve found myself becoming interested in the science of food and why I need to indulge in certain things. Protein builds good strong bones and muscles. Carbs keep me fuelled. Vitamins and minerals support my various bodily functions: for example, Vitamin A is good for my eyes, helping me to avoid falling over dogs in the dark.

Delighted to report that I even need a certain amount of fat. Seemingly, in moderation, it’s not such a villain after all and does a whole heap of crucial jobs. It cushions my organs when I’m pounding the streets and helps me to absorb that all important Vitamin A.

I also need plenty of water and fibre to help keep my system afloat and flushed.

In short, it seems that I need to take on plenty of food that makes me go fast, go long and go often – if you get my indelicate drift.

The only thing I haven’t been able to reconcile with my training diet is alcohol. Despite experts extolling the many health benefits of a regular glass of red wine, I can’t find any support for runners enjoying a tipple or two or so. It’s fruit-based, full of carbs and contains water. What’s not to like?

Apparently, alcohol is a terrible diuretic, and running when dehydrated can cause cramps and muscle strains. It also interferes with lactic acid breakdown – ouch. It can cause sleeplessness, anxiety, make your legs feel like lead, and wreck your coordination...

Enough! Enough! I get it: drinking is not compatible with training for a marathon.

To be honest, though, since upping the mileage my tolerance has caved in. One sniff and I’m squiffy – not that I was ever anything other than a light-weight, but I’ve found it really interesting just how quickly my body has adjusted – or rather waved its white flag in surrender. I’m sure I never used to have a raging hangover after just one glass of vino collapso.

Joan Benoit Samuelson is absolutely right. My body has got really good at telling me what it does and doesn’t want.

Pass the cake.

Please visit my fundraising page at

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PaulaHamill

A spring in my step and the sights you see



Days to go                 24

Miles today                0 (see below)

Miles this week         12 done – 28 to go
Miles last week         25 (“resting” after the Ashby 20)

Miles 2011                 346

Other exercise          Yoga and domestic chores*

*  You don’t see Paula Radcliffe with a duster in her hand, do you?

“Full of sweet scents,

And whispering air”

Christina Rossetti

Apologies – I don’t mean to come over all Wordsworthian, but Spring really is bursting out all over. Twigs and branches are hazed a fresh, innocent green. The snowdrops have valiantly led the floral vanguard of crocuses and daffodils. Blossoms are blushing, and the catkins are starting to purr and stretch in the soft sunshine.

Running through the woods is a delight. Once I’ve recovered from the two mile climb, and my huffing and puffing no longer disturbs the whispering zephyrs, I can pause for a moment to enjoy the view and expectant stillness heralding spring.

Monday was delicious. As I plunged into the woodland’s dappled calm, a woodpecker rapped out a rapturous refrain of welcome and the startle of a rabbit tumbling into the undergrowth made a smile play about my weary lips.

It was a joy to be outside.

When I left the woods a mile or so later, the sun softly eased my shoulders as I slipped through the gate and onto the track that hugs the first of several fields. The rumble of a tractor roused me from my pastoral reveries and a brace of pheasants scrambled into scruffy flight.

It really was good to be alive.

As I skirted the hedge and into the second field that narrows to the bridleway which meanders me home, the tractor growled a sweeping left, spewing a stinking stream of steaming muck in its wake – right across the path at my feet.

Oh, the sweet stench of spring.

Running has certainly put me in touch with the elements and, in the process, opened my eyes to some rather curious sights. This is not an original subject for runners, I know, but it is well worth dragging around the block one more time. So, bear with me.

As well as the usual flotsam and jetsam of food wrappers, bottles, cans and 20 pound notes – if only – there are some pretty odd articles out there in the wild.

Clothing for starters, particularly shoes.

And always single shoes – which begs the question, where are their partners? I don’t expect to see rows of neatly polished pairs lined up along the kerb – like night-time slippers under a bed – but always one solitary shoe. I have never seen hordes of people hopping home because one shoe has gone AWOL, but there are a multitude of lonesome shoes lying forlorn in gutters up and down the country.

To be honest, they do tend to be men’s shoes – I can’t ever remember seeing a lone stiletto or kitten heel. Are women perhaps more mindful of their footwear, fearing laddered stockings, or do single Jimmy Choo’s go for a packet on ebay and, therefore, get snaffled by passing eSellers?

What’s more, I seldom see a single sock to accompany the deserted footwear. Gloves, yes; socks, no. The polite consideration of walkers and runners is very touching. I have often raised my hand to return a greeting only to realise that the waver is actually just a glove lodged atop a gatepost for safe-keeping, awaiting the return of its owner.

One of my oddest clothing sightings to date was a tan leather bomber jacket. Arms outstretched, it was crucified in a hedge beside a track in the middle of nowhere. I had to look twice to make sure it really wasn’t a hippy away with the faeries, hugging the hedgerow.

Running along country lanes and tracks, SG and I often avert our gaze from unfortunate and gruesome roadkill. At least, I assumed SG closed her eyes with me.  Last weekend, I learned otherwise. After 11 long miles, we were hungrily devouring our usual motivational topic: food. When we had tortured ourselves with the customary litany of cake, cake and more cake, I observed that there was a rather fresh-looking rabbit a short way back. SG salivated and licked her lips...

We are entering the twilight zone of only three weeks until the Big One. Our minds are addled with exhaustion. Please do not think badly of us.

[NB: No rabbits were harmed during the making of this blog. SG and I are vegetarian and survive on a diet of cake.]

However, one bizarre roadside gastro-delight did tempt and then puzzle us for weeks: a box of oranges strewn across the bank beside a major junction. The man from Del Monte had obviously changed his mind, said “No” and the offending citrus fruit was ditched on the verge. Over a period of a few weeks, we sadly watched it rot: such torment for two ravenous runners.

On the other hand, having run through all seasons, we have seen some truly wonderful things.

Back in the depths of winter, a cascade of icicles beneath a disused railway bridge stopped us in our tracks – if only because it looked so tasty and refreshing. A fat bee bumbling about is a great excuse to catch our breath as we watch it lumber amongst the waking flowers. An autumn rainbow straddling the valley can distract us from a gruelling climb – as can lambs gambolling about the meadows.

Of course, we encounter other runners. These tend to fall into one of two categories: those we’re jealous of and those we empathise with. The former group bounce along gazelle-like without breaking sweat, completing ultra-marathons in the blink of an eye. The latter, like us, are struggling along as best they can.

Then, there are the non-runners. Again, these can be sub-divided – this time into three categories: those who see us, those who don’t, and those we wish hadn’t.

The latter tend to be at some remove – perhaps in a passing car, beyond a fence in a pub garden, or at an upstairs window. These are the ones who feel compelled, for some reason known only to themselves, to shout encouragement. And not always in words that you could repeat to your mother.

The ones who don’t see us spread across the pavement. They don’t see us approach and spread further, absolutely, definitely resolving not to share one bit of the pavement with the runners they can’t see. So, we have to jump into the road to get by. And then they don’t see us reduced to roadkill.

Finally, there are the wonderful people who do see us and give us plenty of room to stumble past – or is it a wide berth?

As someone recently remarked – this marathon training does seem to be verging on madness: a kind of mania.

Agreed: I do think I have started to hallucinate.

A menacing post box lies in wait for me at the end of one long circuit. Every time I turn the corner and trundle by, it leaps out of the shadows to scare the bejeezus out of me. To neutralise it, I have taken to greeting it.

In fact, I tend to acknowledge everyone and everything. Maybe just to pass the time or maybe to prove to myself that I am actually still alive.

So, I greet other runners, walkers, dogs, livestock, landmarks and road signs. On my longer solo runs, I also mutter encouragement to myself – a trick I learnt from SG. It is highly effective, but can probably be a little unnerving to other people who are out and about.

So, whilst commenting on the weird and wonderful, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised if I find myself on someone else’s list of the peculiar and unusual.

And finally...

As if you haven’t had enough of me and my babble, you can find me guest blogging at http://blog.virginmoneygiving.com/

And finally again...

Further to Dogs are daft (15 March), I recently enjoyed a minor revenge of sorts. I inadvertently scared a pretty little springer spaniel out of its wits. It was lost in a daydream of chasing rabbits as I ambled by. It visibly jumped when it turned to see me right beside it. It seemed only polite, but the owner laughed as I apologised: “Sorry, dog!”

And a final and finally...

We have received our vest numbers. Please make lots of noise on 17 April for 43020 (SG) and 40334 (me).

Please visit my fundraising page at

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PaulaHamill

Dogs are daft

Days to go                 32

Miles today                Six

Miles this week         Six – with another 19 planned for later in the week

Miles last week         38

Miles 2011                308.7

Other exercise          Yoga on Wednesday to unknot my aching muscles

"We run, not because we think it is doing us good, but

because we enjoy it and cannot help ourselves...”

Sir Roger Bannister

Race report – Ashby 20 (Sunday 13 March, 2011)

We did it! And everything still seems to be in reasonable working order and nothing has fallen off.

Sunday dawned somewhere above the heavy, grey clouds that swathed the East Midlands. It was raining, and it was cold. This did not bode well – but at least the air was still after the high winds of the previous week. We would not have to adopt the blustery day Piglet pose for 20 miles.

SG and I arrived at the start in plenty of time for me to make my umpteenth nervous visit and were under starter’s orders promptly at 10am.

And we were off.

Dante was wrong. Hell is not nine concentric circles. It is running the same 10 mile circuit twice with an uphill finish!

The organisers describe the course as “rural and undulating...with several inclines to test your stamina”. They’re not wrong. It certainly lives up to its “reputation as a thoroughly testing route”.

But we were not defeated.

Apparently, 865 of us survived its rigours and, according to the online results table, I finished 758th with a time of 03:22:28. I was not last and I was in more than an hour before the last finisher*. I am also thrilled to note that the lovely organisers have deducted six years from my age.

* Yes – it would be rude to ask the winning time.

So, yes, it was a demanding course, but I thoroughly enjoyed it and we were very well looked after.

There were marshals at regular intervals and at all major junctions. As well as pointing us in the right direction, they cheered us on and told encouraging white lies like: “Well done – looking good.”

There were plenty of drinks stations along the way. The wonderful officials who kept us plied with water, gels, jelly babies, and chocolate were – like the marshals – also very generous with their psychological sustenance and encouragement.

Even the weather relented. The sky cleared, the temperature rose a comfortable notch or two, and the sun peeped down every once in a while to check on our progress.

It was certainly the friendliest race I’ve run. SG and I chatted to some fabulous people of real stamina who made the 20 miles jog along quite nicely. A big thank you to everyone who passed the miles with us, but especially:

• the lady who underwent surgery on her foot just before Christmas – fingers crossed the hoodie matched your team colours as well as hoped
• the chap whose longest distance to date was a half-marathon – big congrats: it was super to see you at the finish
• the mum whose baby arrived in November – perhaps see you at the Big One
• the gentleman who ran four marathons last year and was still breaking in new shoes – thank you for the tips for surviving and enjoying London

Although it didn’t quite feel like the “two minutes” predicted by our coach, SG’s husband, the jolly company definitely did while away the three plus hours we were out.

Whilst doing the thanking, I must say a super-sized one to our race support team: SG’s husband, daughter and Mum who made a lot of noise for us along the way; and CM who whooped in welcome at the finish and held our jumpers.

In case it’s sounding like an easy-peasy stroll in the park, it was pretty brutal. I was in bed by seven o’clock on Sunday evening and coming down stairs is a real challenge. The thighs have found their voice – and, boy, can they scream.

Nonetheless, it’s a fantastic milestone and a huge achievement. It has given me hope that all being well – and with a favourable tail wind – I might be able to drag myself across the finish line with SG on 17 April.

None of which brings me neatly to this week’s ramblings: dogs.

They may be man’s best friend, but they are not necessarily the runner’s – particularly those who, like SG and I, are of the myopic persuasion. As noted in Gadgets and gizmos (22 February 2011), dogs can be a genuine peril to night-time runners.

During our evening runs, we have problems spotting juggernaut at junctions let alone our four-legged friends. In the dark, they can be so easy to overlook and then fall over. Really, as a courtesy to all those training for a marathon, dogs should remember to zip up their hi-vis jackets and clip on their head-torches when they head out to take the air of a winter’s evening.

They should also consider trying to remain calm when out and about. Leaping around and woofing boisterously in greeting is all very well and terribly friendly, but can constitute a terrible trip hazard.

As can extending leads. You can just picture it: dog on one side of the path, dog-walker on the other. Long and lethal lead stretched between them. Ooopsie or hurdle, take your pick – if you’ve got time.

One of my top 10 dog encounters was with a stocky Beauceron who was accompanied by an awfully proper older lady in genteel walking gear: green wellingtons, Barbour, jodhpurs, and headscarf knotted neatly on her chin. Monsieur Beauceron was trotting politely along, having a little sniff here and a little sniff there. Then, he clocked me. He paused a moment, looked back over his left shoulder at milady and made a lolloping bee-line for me.

I tried to run around and past him, avoiding eye contact and mustering as confident a look as possible. To no avail. He barged and bounced me, and began to bark frantically. He may have been asking to play or could have been sizing me up for dinner. Either way, I was more than a little intimidated. 

“Just stand still,” her ladyship shrilled from quite a distance. “He won’t bite. Will you, sweetie?”

I swear the damned dog curled its lip and winked at me.

Please visit my fundraising page at

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PaulaHamill