#hackney half marathon

In January, I did what was in hindsight a pretty reckless thing, for me. I signed up for a half marathon. A 22.5K (13 mile) run.

2 of my housemates suggested we do it. I went along with it. Humoured them at first, and couldn’t quite believe it when I actually pressed ‘confirm’ on the £40 transaction to take part. Had I really just paid to take part in something that promised to be 2+ hours of pure pain?

But I had also, admittedly, convinced myself that I’d get INCREDIBLY fit, losing a bit of weight in the process, gaining a ‘runners body’ (it was January after all, and I was drunk on the ‘anything is possible’ vibes that the first month of the year brings, even if this means kidding myself I’ll someday look like an athlete).  

Now, I’m not saying this is a ‘Couch-To-22.5K’ story by any means. I had been somewhat comfortable running 5Ks for about 3 years, but had never thought to push myself to achieve more.

‘Training’ therefore went okay for a while, but for a longer time than I care to admit, I continued to only run 5Ks. There was a certain fear in what lay beyond this finite distance. How far could I go? At what point would I start wanting to stop? Would I be strong enough to push myself through?

I’ve never been what people would call ‘confident’ with sport. It goes back to the ‘fat kid at school’ days, too shy or embarrassed to ever join a team. It had been affirmed back then that sport was not for me. I had never had to tell myself ‘I can’ with regards to sport. I couldn’t, and that was that.

And although it’s cheesy, I must admit that as a tactic to push myself past the goddamn 5K ring-fence I had created for myself, I used to visualise myself as part of the ‘This Girl Can’ advert (check it out if you haven’t seen it), pounding the streets with determination and music blasting, the collective female population roaring in support behind me. I also listened to Drake’s ‘Nice For What’ about a billion times when it was released. But that’s beside the point.

Whatever I did. It worked. I went to 7K, to 8K, to 9K.

I achieved my first 10K on a mediocre Friday evening after work, while others were possibly having a much more socially acceptable start to the weekend with alcoholic beverages. I felt invincible. I thought ‘I ABSOLUTELY FUCKING CAN’, for the first time. The adrenaline was divine.

Fast forward quite a few more slightly panicked months, where I achieved up to 18K before the race, and it was suddenly Sunday 20th May. The date had been blocked out of my calendar for 5 months.

People tell you about the atmosphere on the day of a half marathon. They tell you that the atmosphere will get you through, and although you hope, you never quite believe them. But the sight of people who had left their homes that day to stand on the side of the road and cheer you all on, complete strangers, to give out sweets, to spray you with fresh cold water, to give you a simple ‘hi-five’ – it was honestly all the motivation we needed.

Which is why for the first 16.5k, I felt wonderful. I took it at a leisurely pace, not rushing myself (also, because the temperatures on the day were SCORCHING). But as we got to the final few kilometres, the route passed through the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, a vast, open expanse of nothingness. There were no people lining the roads this time, and we were met with inclines, bridges and very little shade. I could just sense that the motivation of all the runners surrounding me had deteriorated significantly.

Pushing through this part of the route was possibly the moment where I realised that second only to getting a Cambridge degree, this was the hardest challenge I had ever set myself. But for some reason, my legs kept running, steady. I thought of the finish, not too far away, and thought of how I could #humblebrag about the fact I hadn’t had to stop, once. About the fact that I hadn’t even wanted to stop, until that final few kilometres.

When I finished, I did feel relief. But mostly I felt drained, and tired, and a bit sick as I had also contracted a chest infection. It’s actually taken me a whole week and a holiday to Italy to start feeling proud of myself.

And I think it’s also taken a while because, throughout the process, I didn’t feel quite how I expected to feel, mentally, about my physicality.

In hindsight, I was naïve to think my body would magically transform itself in a matter of months. Naïve to think that, when I saw pictures of myself after the race, I would be seeing a transformed, athletic form.

I lost a little weight, but I also lost muscle, as I had replaced my usual weights training with long distance running due to pure time constraints. People don’t tell you how hard it can be to rouse yourself to run 10-15K after a 10-hour day at work when all you want to do is sleep.

But I don’t feel disappointed in any way that I didn’t ‘look’ how I thought I would ‘look’ when I ran a half marathon. I actually ran a bloody half marathon! The experience has totally shaped my view of who, physically, can run.

Take when I appreciated first the fact that after a 5K, I didn’t feel out of breath in any way, and then take when I came to appreciate the fact that after a 10K I didn’t feel out of breath in any way. And so on. And so you see the pattern. I have become more appreciative of what my body allows me to do, rather than think about how my body looks in the process of doing so.

Which doesn’t mean that there’s not more I may do for my body that might ultimately change my form somewhat. But I’d like to think I would do this primarily due to performance, not aesthetic (e.g. start my weight training up again to strengthen muscles and therefore be able to run longer or quicker, as I’m stronger).

To conclude, in January, I had unwittingly signed up to the half marathon without truly realising what a feat it would be. But now, in May, I can say that although the act of signing up was so out of character, so ‘un-Sarah’, something has happened to me in the past 5 months. I’ve been forced to begin to believe in myself. To believe in the capabilities of my body, to be specific.

I have done this. And if I can do this, I can do anything I truly put my mind, body and soul to. Which is why this probably won’t be the only half marathon I run, and it probably won’t be the last time I unwittingly sign myself up to something scary or new. I can, and will, keep pushing myself to feel increasingly more confident in who I am.

I’m excited.

Hackney Half Marathon. 20 May 2018.

Feeling, hot, hot, half!

I’m not exactly well-known for my love of heat. In fact, evidence that the sun and I simply do not get along has been very much in evidence since my childhood, and peaked when I contracted sunstroke aged 13 whilst in Provence on the year 9 French exchange. Last Sunday my boyfriend (who, if I know one person even worse in the heat than me, is him!) and I were signed up to do the Hackney half…