Training began with my first attempt at a 2k run. My trainers were not my best friends, and I barely made it to the end of my road before my lungs staged a full-blown protest. I felt like my legs were full of jelly, and my mind was telling me I was a failure. But, I stopped and said, “This is for The Unlikely Mummy,”
Each step was a symphony of groans, punctuated by the rhythmic creaking of my knees. I started to seriously question my life choices. Perhaps I should have taken up competitive napping instead.
My diet during this period consisted primarily of “motivational” chocolate bars and the occasional “carb-loading” pizza. I reasoned that if I was going to suffer, I might as well suffer with a full stomach. My family was the most supportive, and my kids, my tiny, digital cheerleaders. They would track my progress on Strava, leaving comments like, “Wow, Mummy, you walked a lot,” which, while technically accurate, wasn’t exactly the encouragement I was hoping for. But when they met me at the end of my “training runs,” their faces lit up like Christmas trees. My son would proudly and loudly announce, “Mummy, you ran 5k!” even if I did spend half of it ‘power’ walking and the other half pretending to admire the scenery.
Race day arrived, nerves and excitement for what I can only describe as a beast of a day that loomed. My husband, ever the supportive (and slightly insane) partner, decided to join me. This was, of course, a brilliant opportunity for a kid-free outing, even if that outing involved running for three and a half hours. We lined up with thousands of other runners, all of us a mix of nervous excitement and the quiet terror of knowing I had made a terrible mistake.
The first few miles were a blur of adrenaline and the desperate hope that I wouldn’t trip over my own feet or die in that never-ending tunnel. By mile eight, my legs felt like they were made of concrete, my brain was chanting, “When will this end?” and the finish line seemed like a distant, unreachable task. I did actually consider faking an injury, but then I remembered I was already injured.
I pushed through, fuelled by sheer stubbornness and the occasional overheating. I gritted my teeth, I swore under my breath, who am I kidding, I swore quite loudly, and I told myself I was a warrior, even though I looked more like an exhausted lunatic.
Crossing that finish line was a surreal experience. A wave of exhaustion, triumph, and the overwhelming urge to lie down in the middle of the road washed over me. I had done it. Three hours, thirty minutes, and thirteen seconds of pure madness. And we raised over £2500! That’s a lot of money, right?
Looking back, it wasn’t just the 21 km on race day. It was the 150-odd km of training, the hours spent away from my family, the runs on holiday (which, let’s be honest, were mostly just an excuse to avoid parenting on holiday). It was the mental battle, the constant fight against the negative voices in my head, the voices that sounded suspiciously like my own inner critic doing stand-up.
And you know what? I would do it again, well, I am doing it again because I have signed up for 2025. Because apparently, I have a deep-seated need to prove my inner critic wrong. And because, despite the pain, the sweat, and exhaustion, it was one of the most ridiculously rewarding and hilarious things I have ever done, apart from childbirth.
So, if you are thinking about running a half marathon, go for it. Embrace the chaos, the pain, and the sheer, glorious madness of it all. And if you want to run for The Unlikely Mummy, well, just send me a message. We can suffer together, and I might even buy you a t-shirt.
