The miles are done, the legs are weary; it’s time to settle into two weeks of rest and refuelling in preparation for 26.2 miles of pain. But oh, the horror that lies ahead. As your body relaxes, your muscles twinge and your mind frets. And frets. And frets.
The doubt begins to gnaw away at you like a psychopathic hamster, chewing holes in your resilience and belief. Then, just as during the longed-for holiday after a frenetic period of work, you fall ill. Your body has relaxed too much, your immune system has let its guard down, and the coughs, colds and viruses sneak in to dash your spirits.
Every splutter and wheeze makes you fear for your PB, every stomach cramp makes you doubt your ability to stagger to the finish, and raises the spectre of shame – the toilet stops, or worse …
Your children, always supportive, seem to stamp on your toes even more than usual. You drop the laundry basket on your foot and the headline of failure flashes through your mind as you imagine having to explain to your friends just why you pulled out of your first marathon.
You want to eat and eat and eat. Then you feel sluggish and unfit, and you want to run, but you shouldn’t, you can’t … your mind spins round and round in circles as you sit, helpless, stretching, but not too much.
You dream of the race, your subconscious mind fretting about the journey,the parking, your kit, and arriving with no shoes and vest. Topless running seemed like such a good idea at the beginning of the dream, but suddenly the horror dawns, and if you’re lucky, you wake.
You tweak a muscle in your sleep, and start to feel like an old woman. Your last long run seems a hundred years ago and a walk to the shops is exhausting. The agony of ticking off the days and trawling through the hours before the race is worse than a marathon itself.
And then suddenly, the torture is over and there you stand at the start, raring to go, fully clothed, nerves jangling, adrenalin pumping and your mind is free and clear at last.
Source: Read Full Article