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

Shoes, socks, shirts and stuff

Days to go                 36

Miles today                None – rest day before Sunday’s 20-miler

Miles this week         18

Miles last week         34 – "tapering" (look at me with the lingo) for Sunday
Miles 2011                 288.6

Other exercise          Yoga and digging at the allotment

Thought for the day

Training for a marathon is like falling pregnant and giving birth.

At first everything is wonderful: you feel on top of the world. Everyone is full of congratulations and you’re over the moon: so proud and so excited.

Gradually, as the weeks pass, reality sets in and you start to doubt yourself. Your life and body are irrevocably changing. Will you be able to cope? Are you really ready for it?

Then, before you know it, the big day arrives.

You’re gasping for air, sweating and cursing. You can do nothing but keep pushing on. Every step is agony, but takes you closer to the end, and the moment when you will cradle your prize to your heart. All the months of waiting and preparation, every moment of self-doubt and pain have led to this – the euphoria of crossing the finish line.

Thought for today was generously supplied by

a delirious SG at about mile 15 of a mammoth session.

Thanks for the day

Alice, you sponsored me on 6 March: a great, big thank you. I know a couple of Alices – and I’m not sure which one to address my thanks to. Please get in touch and let me know.

Further thanks go to Sainsbury’s Loughborough for kindly donating a sweepstake prize: a bottle of wine.

Fear for the day

On Sunday, SG and I are running a 20-mile race. This will be the furthest I’ll have run to date. So, I'll be spending half the weekend feeling terrified and the other half, recovering. I’ll let you know how we get on in next week’s post – if I am still in possession of all my faculties.

Anyway, onward: shoes, socks, shirts and stuff.

The more miles I’ve run, the more I have come to appreciate the importance of having appropriate footwear and clothing. You can spend upwards of a small fortune on your kit*, but there are some things I have invested in for which I am thoroughly grateful.

* See also Gadgets and gizmos, 22 February.

I am not a shopaholic. I loathe dragging around the shops and trawling the internet looking for new clothes. I think that my DNA simply lacks the shopping gene common to so many of my sex. It just isn’t a fun leisure activity for me – I’d rather run a marathon.

[Irony – don’t you just love it?]

I can safely say that until I took up this running lark I had never spent so much money on clothes and shoes – and branded stuff to boot.

So these days, I’m looking pretty chic in a breathable, high-vis, waterproof, windproof, man-made-fibre ensemble topped off with a very fetching woolly hat, depending on how cold and damp it is.

Just glad we do most of our training under the cover of darkness.

Footwear is very important to me. I hail from a sub-species of hobbit. We are small of stature; given to rotundity; youthful looking; and have disproportionately large, furry feet. So, I have to choose my trainers with care.

I’m an ASICS girl. They are the best fit I’ve found and, given how many miles I put in each week, seem pretty hard-wearing. Plus I’ve had comparatively few problems when breaking in new shoes. Always a boon given that even my leathery plates begin to suffer on the long-haul.

Currently, I have two pairs – not quite Imelda Marcos, then – road-runners and cross-country tractors. Cynic that I am, I have to admit to being surprised by what a difference the latter* have made to running through the woods and along country tracks. I still look like an eejit on ice, but do manage to refrain from landing with a splish and a splosh in every muddy puddle – just every other.

*  A big thank you to my sponsors – Mum, Dad and CM’s Mum – for the birthday pennies that paid for them.

I may invest in a second pair of road shoes prior to the Big One. Even the roughest of sums – and mine always are, maths not being my strong point – suggest that the current ones will be 600-miles-old by 17 April. I think I may need something with a little more life and bounce left in them to help me stumble through the streets of London.

Let’s face it, I’ll need all the help I can get.

I prefer to run in knee-length shorts, but in November I admitted defeat and defected to long trousers, Grommit. I feel like a cross between Minnie Mouse and Bob Parr –The Incredibles.

When I bought them they seemed spot on: black, zipped back pocket for keys and tissues, snug for that all-important aerodynamic fit, reflective go-faster stripes – the works.

A few washes later and putting them on is like dragging 10cm of elastic up the length of Nelson’s Column.  

It is a battle of vertically opposed forces and great stealth on my behalf. I start sitting down. Once my feet are in, I hurriedly zip the ankles and stand up, heaving with all my might as I go, tie the waistband so tight I can barely breathe – not ideal for running – and then gingerly let go, praying they will ping neither up nor down.

If I can manage a couple of squats without uncoiling in an uncontrolled manner at a million metres per second like a demented jack-in-the-box, I’m generally good to go. And usually after about 10 miles or so they tend to ease up and I’m actually able to bend at the knee.

Top-wise, I go for the layered look: during the winter – the more the better. You can always take things off and tie them round your middle should you overheat. I start with a base layer of a breathable duvet and work from there.

Accessory-wise, this season I’m mostly sporting my Nike+ SportBand along with plenty of Micropore strapping for injured toes and blistered insteps.

Given how muddy the end of February was, instead of dabbing on a spot of cologne to complete my outfit, I’ve taken to splashing through puddles to achieve a unique mud-splatter finish.

One last thing I simply could not live without – Vanish. Although it is no doubt completely environmentally-unfriendly and goes against all my green principles, it is the only thing I’ve found that is able to shift mud and the lingering odour from my 1,000 mile socks.

Still – at this time of year, Sundays usually find me on the allotment, digging and barrowing muck about. So, my running look is actually pretty hot in comparison.

Please visit my fundraising page at

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PaulaHamill

The loneliness of the long distance runner

Days to go                 43

Miles today                None – woohoo! Big one tomorrow – boohoo!

Miles this week         19.5 – plus 15 tomorrow

Miles last week         29.5 – plus plenty of walking in beautiful Wiltshire

Miles 2011                256.5

Other exercise          Digging at the allotment

“Flip-flap, flip-flap, jog-trot, jog-trot, crunch-slap, crunch-slap,

across the middle of a broad field...”

If I may, I’d like to refer you to my post on 18 February 2011: training for a marathon is tough.

It seems to be taking over my life. At the moment, I think I’m running about eight hours a week plus showering and collapsing in a heap – aka recovery – time. I’m in danger of forgetting what my family and friends look like.

My days have become an endless round of dragging myself away from my snores, going to work, eating, coming home, running, showering, eating, going to sleep, dragging myself away from my snores, going to work...

Ad lib to fade.

Exhaustion hounds me. I hurt – all over. And I have no one to blame but myself. This brand of masochism is a solitary thing.

Once out on the road, I am unprotected – completely at the whim of the elements and tested by extremes.

On a sunny June day, when all the world’s relaxing beside a slow, lazy river in a shady hostelry garden, I am reduced to a sweating, melting blob – harpooned by heat, dive-bombed by wasps and gasping in the deep-fried air.

In the autumn, the wind steals my bobble hat and hurls leaves in my face. It cunningly snakes in through my seams, dripping the chilly November mizzle onto the tender spot in the nape of my neck.

The winter ice sees me on my posteriarse more often than my feet*. And I only warm up when I return to the comfort of home and a hot, hot shower.

*  As does the mud of spring. Talking of which, you’d think that spring would be a gentle time for runners, but March can be raging and mad: blustery and wet – a close cousin to malevolent November. And, as we all know, April is the cruellest month.

A-hem – I seem to have gone off on one – as if I haven’t already griped enough about the weather. Terrible English trait. A pile of apologies.

So, returning to my point, training for a marathon is tough, and you can feel rather alone.

Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy some quiet time – the opportunity to pull on my trainers and get outside to run the day out of my system, clear my head and have some stillness – but three or four hours of relentless pavement-pounding can get too much for anyone. The lonely runner mathematical conjecture states that “every runner gets lonely at some time”.

But help is on hand and there is plenty of information about how to make the whole business a little less arduous. For example, drawing up a sensible and realistic training schedule is a sound start. A healthy diet is vital. The right shoes and appropriate clothing really are a must.  

This is all very well, but what of combating the hours of loneliness – the empty miles along endless roads of solitude; the flip-flapping across broad barren fields; the miserable splish-splosh through countless muddy puddles?

Some people use music to help them while away the weary, lonely hours. Some invest in gadgets and gizmos to motivate them through the miles. Meanwhile, others ponder life’s impenetrables or enjoy the scenery.

I have found the best way of keeping on track with the training and not going batty by spending too much time in my own company is the acquisition of a first-rate bit of kit – a running-buddy.

They come in all shapes and sizes, so it is essential that you find the right one for you. This really is a question of trial and error. Like finding the right brand of shoe, trying out a few models before settling on the one is probably the best way forward. I was lucky enough to find my ideal running-buddy on the first attempt.

SG has certainly made running a lot more fun and made upping the mileage in preparation for the marathon a lot less daunting. Together, we have covered near enough 1,000 miles – come rain or shine, snow or hail, calm or gale. Given our pace, that’s about 166 hours of running. And it has been fantabulous!

We talk endlessly about anything and everything – with a heavy emphasis on cake, admittedly – but we have touched on just about all bases. Americans reputedly spend oodles of dollars on therapy. SG and I get our talk-therapy for free. A bad day at the office, a miscreant cat, bad drivers, relationships, education, politics, religion, international relations – all scrutinised and solved by the time we have finished our circuit. We make light work of our miles with moan-power.

We also laugh – a lot. Maybe it’s the tiredness, maybe it’s the pain, or maybe it’s the hunger, but we can meet, make eye contact, groan, and then start to giggle inexplicably and uncontrollably. Before, we start to snivel...

Luckily, our highs and lows aren’t in sync. When I’m having a down-day, SG generally isn’t – and vice versa – and is able to encourage me along with gentle and supportive maxims like: “Winners aren’t quitters, and quitters don’t win” or “Shuddup and just keep running, Missus.” Such kind encouragement can really carry you on to the next milestone.

One of our circuits is really demanding. What am I saying? All of our routes are challenging, but one in particular passes through – let’s call it Bloominghillfordby – at about mile 10 and is the epitome of gruelling. This hill is vertical – we pass people in full climbing gear, crampons, ropes – the works.

On my own, I might be tempted to avoid it, run round it, tunnel it, never leave the house again. However, together SG and I have worked really hard and conquered it – or at least don’t sob quite so much as we approach it. In fact, we have tamed it, turning it into a motivational mantra. Whenever, we come to a tricky part of a route, we just chant: “It’s not Bloominghillfordby. It’s not Bloominghillfordby...”

There have been many days when running is the last thing I have felt like doing, but knowing that SG is going to be suffering alongside me has really helped me drag myself out.

That may sound like it came out all wrong – it didn’t. I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for SG. It’s her fault I’m training for the London Marathon. So, thanks then, SG.

But you know, for all the (faux) complaints, grumbles and whinges, I’m thrilled to be doing it. So, SG, really: thank you.

I have never laughed so hard whilst in such dreadful pain and agony.

Please visit my fundraising page at

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PaulaHamill