Running downhill is fun. Even after 25 miles. Splish splosh I go down the wet slide of a hill towards Llanberris and the finish line of the Snowdonia marathon.
Running downhill is fun. Even when two people in front of me slip over into what appears to be a peat bog of pagan proportions.
Running downhill is fun. Even though my ankle is throbbing and the rest of my body feels like it has been helping the LAPD with their enquiries.
It’s fun because it’s my last marathon and I know I am going to finish it. That will be six marathons completed in the past four years. Time to pack away the trainers.
I greatly admire those sporting ‘100 marathon’ shirts and the spry elderly types that keep facing down the twenty six point two.
But I have put my shift in. Manchester saw my pale pins three times, Dublin witnessed me staggering past the Guinness factory and Copenhagen’s cobbles were less than wonderful. Snowdonia was the final finish line.
For Christmas I received a gift of my marathon medals in a display case (the Snowdonia ‘medal’ coaster I gave to my mum). The Manchester marathon email prompts went unopened and I contemplated going for a run without the tyranny of training.
Then Laura said: “I’ve got you a place in London this year”. London Marathon. I had tried to get a place for four years with no luck. Just when you think you have got out, they drag you back in.
So I am back in training. I am slowly recovering from the ankle injury received bouncing up and down the hills of Snowdon. I’m excited about running in one of the biggest sporting events in the world.
This will not be a PB run, but a farewell tour that will hopefully result in my own shambling and stumbling Magnificent Seventh marathon.
Just don’t mention the Hateful Eight.