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Tales of a (not very good) marathon runner
RUNNING can regularly create a number of emotions and experiences which nothing else I’ve sampled can come close to matching.
Only last week, I found myself having a wee sandwiched between Spider-Man and Banana Man ahead of a half marathon.
And that was followed by a number of nearby runners rubbing certain parts of their body in Vaseline just a few yards in front of me.
Now we’ve probably all been on a Stag Do similar to this.
But this involved no alcohol and such stories and the feeling when you finish are why I continually enter races.
Being honest, I’m not really a particularly good long distance runner and I never will be either!
I also don’t really enjoy it and whenever I make such a confession everyone always ask why I volunteer to put myself through such pain.
Well, the actual answer is quite long winded and rather personal too.
But, after my dog poo shame, in my previous column, I may as well come clean (no pun intended!)
Those of you who know me will have instant images of me being the joker, the one who accidently drove with his phone of the car of his roof for 15 miles, the one who somehow managed to shut the tourist information booth at Madrid Airport and went to the doctors concerned about a long term bruise which turned out to be a leaking pen in the pocket of my jeans.
Such mishaps are, of course, the silly, stupid, jovial person that I just happen to be.
But early on last year there was a painful period of time when incidents like that just weren’t happening.
I went from being the social clown to someone who was scared to leave the front door.
It was a horrible period and I suddenly found myself struggling to complete the most simplest of tasks.
It came after a series of setbacks in my love life which would have been better suited having its own series on Jeremy Kyle.
And being rejected more times than an alcoholic’s liver had a hugely negative effect on my confidence and led to me suffering in a big way.
Trips to the doctors followed as I was diagnosed with depression and I tried a whole number of different things in an attempt to cheer myself up.
However, talking out loud and certain types of medication could only help so much and running strangely turned out to be the most successful way of bringing a smile back to my face.
As a result, I signed up for the London Marathon, knowing that I would simply have to keep up the training.
Without such a commitment, I would probably still be struggling to get the motivation I need to regularly keep on running.
But, aided by having cheesy music blaring in my ears, I have been running at weird and wonderful times and have now lost three and a half stone in weight in preparation for the big day.
The fact that I have just accidently wiped my face with an anti bacterial floor wipe also shows that I’m back to being my usual stupid self.
And, that means however long I take to complete the 26.2 miles, I’ve already achieved my marathon goal and I’ve already won my biggest battle too.