Yep, you heard it hear first.
Me – Little Miss Turn Up At The Gym And Fuck About With Some Weights Sometimes – is running the bloody London Marathon.
No, before you ask, I’m not an avid runner.
I ran a 5k about 8 years ago and I trained for that by walking round Crystal Palace park with my mate smoking Mayfair Smooth’s.
Didn’t exactly take it seriously.
And whilst I have had my times of being a bit of a gym nut, none of that has ever involved cardio. EVER.
So what seemed like the next best logical step?
Apply to run the London Marathon, of course.
To be fair, it came from quite a logical place.
After the whirlwind that was our time with Heads Together last year, Mum & I decided to head down to the marathon and show our support to all those running for the cause.
The atmosphere was electric, and I couldn’t help but be a bit awe of all those running. In awe. And also mildly concerned about their disposition and what on earth had possessed them.
Fast forward to the pub, with both parents and several glasses of wine later.
Me: I just think it would be amazing to do something like that, imagine the sense of achievement. I really wanna do it.
Dad: If you run the bloody marathon, I’ll give you five hundred quid. No way that would happen.
Me – goes home and applies for a place in the marathon.
Me – puts together super heartfelt and emotional application for Alzheimer’s Society.
Me – ‘know I won’t get a place but can stick two fingers up at Dad’
ALSO ME – goes and gets a place.
And that was October. And since then I’ve tried this running malarky. And 5 weeks ago I ran 10k for the first time. And it felt like my legs were going to come away from my hip. And it was horrid.
But also whilst it felt like my life was going to end somewhere around 7.5km, I also felt like a bloody superwoman that no mental illness could bring down.
So I think I’ll carry on.
Also, I thought what better way help me along the way with the training (which I’ve drawn up over Christmas for the next 15 weeks and which made me feel slightly like I want to immigrate) than to write about it for you lot.
The triumphs. The tears. And the toenails that apparently I’m going to loose.
Here’s to all of you running the marathon too.
And to my Dad, who at Christmas told me that the 500 quid wager only counted if I win the bloody thing.
No pressure then, Pops!
You can read my story and donate to Alzheimers Society here: