Today, my body mourned. It sound a lot more dramatic than it is, really. Today I knew a couple of people running the Paris marathon. I am meant to be tapering. I am meant to be getting set to run my own marathon. This time next week I would be finished. I would be a marathoner.
But I won’t be.
I will not be running the Vienna marathon, for several reasons – not least of which is that I cannot leave the UK at the moment due to my immigration status. Since making the (mainly financial, to be honest) decision to not run next week in Vienna my running has suffered. A lot. I think that will be fairly obvious to anyone who reads this blog with more than a passing regularity. I am still planning on running a marathon. My own marathon, which I am actually going to start planning in earnest this week and so hopefully will have a lot more details to report soon. I’m also still training – TR24 is coming up and I’ve just signed up for an 80km race in October. I need to get my head back in the game.
Which is why today was a big win. I didn’t want to run. I spent the morning reading tweets and updates on the first stage MDS and people coming in from Paris with their shiny medals. I won’t get a medal when I finish the 42.2km of my marathon. It’s not the important part, but the bells and whistles and the mementos are nice. I won’t get to run with thousands of people. There won’t be people lining the streets and yelling out. In fact, the overwhelming majority of people I pass won’t even know what I’m doing.
And, you know what – I’m absolutely fine with that. It doesn’t sound like it, but I am. However – there’s always a however – since deciding not to run Vienna I haven’t really let myself feel disappointed about missing the experience. I want to still cover the distance because I’ve trained and because I set the goal to run the marathon before my thirtieth birthday, which is fast approaching. Instead of mourning, though, I stopped running. Bad idea.
So today, I ran. I went for my long run even though I really didn’t want to. I wanted to stay home and eat pizza and feel sorry for myself. And my body reflected that. I struggled and struggled for 7km. My feet cramped. I hurt for no reason.
And then I forgot that I was feeling sorry for myself – and I ran an amazing further 12km along the Thames Path, past the ducks, jumping up and off the benches that line the river. Having fun. Loving running.
Because I do love running. And now I’ve mourned – my body has mourned – and I can just get on with running.