Current mood: Hated every second of th at… Shall we do it again?

This weekend I did the Royal Parks half marathon. ‘Did’ is very much the correct verb – I could also say ‘finished’ or ‘completed’ – but what would be a massive lie would be to say I actually ‘ran’ it. Rather, it was a long, slow slog of a jog. So slow in fact that I got overtaken by people in fancy dress and someone who was definitely walking. Nevertheless, yay, I did it (and for a wonderful – and in my case, appropriately named, charity: Slow, which does brilliant work supporting bereaved parents and siblings).

Later that day, someone asked me what the hardest part was. ‘Ummm, miles zero to 13,’ I told them, adding that I seemed to pass the 10-mile marker about five times, like some Kafka-esque nightmare. It was bloody awful. No famous runner’s high for me. Now, over two days later, my skin is still red and my legs (shoulders, knees, and toes) are still sore.

I had rather glibly gone into the whole thing believing people who told me ‘the crowd will get you through’. And, yes, you would have to be one stone-hearted psychopath not to be moved by the sight of thousands of people just trying their hardest, mostly in the name of a cause that means something to them. On the day, the only person I spotted in the crowd of thousands that I knew was an ex-boyfriend. I don’t think that’s what they meant, but it did make me pick up my pace for a good half a mile.

I have newfound respect for people who do a whole marathon. The idea of doing that all over again, immediately after, is unfathomable to me. And yet, here’s the funny thing, as I crossed the finish line, barely making it past the table of bananas before I slumped crumpled onto the first patch of kerb I saw, it occurred to me that running is rather like getting drunk or experiencing heartbreak. ‘Never again!’ we declare, then suddenly…‘Shall we do that all over again?’ And so, I found myself thinking ‘maybe I should sign up for the marathon next year’. Aren’t humans lovely and ridiculous?

Laura