Ok, half.
Half marathon, I mean. I was never a half caner. I don’t like to do things by halves, generally - I think it’s a sign of mediocrity. (Unless of course it’s a marathon in 2021 and you’re 45 years old and would prefer not to have a fatal cardiac arrest on the tarmac. I suspect it wouldn’t be a subtle heart attack either - you know, a nice neat, feminine, discreet one - because, like I say, I like to go all-out. So in this case I’m starting with a half to be on the safe side.)
I’ve always been someone who likes to be ahead of the game. I’m an Aries for a start - the first sign of the zodiac. We’re born leaders, apparently. Even as a kid my pituitary gland was in on the act, sending me shooting skywards like the fabled beanstalk that Jack climbed: I’d go to bed at night and wake up a few millimetres taller the next day, outgrowing my clothes like a female Hulk.
In class photos at school the photographer had to move his tripod back, back, back a bit more so as not to chop my big blonde head off in the picture as I grinned like a gurning giraffe at the back. The other kids looked like ants by comparison - even their own parents must have struggled to identify their loinfruits with me looming large in the frame and casting a shadow over their little loves. I was 5 foot 11 in stockinged feet by my teens - a full eight inches taller than the average UK woman. I was never a half-pint.
When it came to my studies I did well, passing my Eleven Plus exam before being placed in the A-stream at grammar school, which felt like swimming upstream against the current, in the manner of an oversized blonde salmon. Sports-wise I was fair - I had the height, health...and probably the ability to really excel, but my gangly gait made me terribly self-conscious, and being a pubescent six-footer in vile purple elasticated sports shorts wasn’t easy, by any means. I stood out like a (very long) sore thumb.
I was great at running - cross country, especially - and scissor-kicking over the high jump bar was a breeze...but then I discovered boys and booze and my interest in more wholesome pursuits expired, along with my Sunday School membership.
These photos, unearthed by my mum during a recent bout of decluttering she’s lovingly entitled ‘Lockdown Death-Clearing’ show the first and only time I ran a race (with my parents, as a teenager - cringe!) outside of a school context. I don’t think I did anything that constituted exercise (that wasn’t performed on a dancefloor) for almost three decades after this day.
For the next thirty years, I got sucked into the vortex of adult life, that never-ending cycle of chasing the dollar: living to party and partying to escape the monotony of working-class living. I worked to buy a house; to fill it with ‘stuff.’ I worked because I was a cog in a machine; a hamster in a wheel, like everyone else gazing with a glazed expression out of the filthy window of the 07:36 from Romford to Liverpool Street, desperately trying to eke out brief moments of joy, squeezed from the long, exhausting days of servitude. As though desperately wringing out a dry sponge over an open mouth, my thirst for adventure was never quenched. Largely because I never had the salary, nor the time, to satiate it.
Finally, after decades of hard graft, the hamster wheel stopped.
On 23rd March 2020, the world ground to a halt. I stood still in my wheel, whiskers twitching, beady black eyes darting left to right, wondering if it was safe to step out of the cage. It was confusing; not only being given permission to stop running in my wheel, but actually being ordered to. Down tools. Stop! We’ll even pay you to do so, said the government. Whaaaat?! What kind of fuckery was this?
The world was burning down around us, this virus was a serious threat, BUT we were also being handed the greatest gift imaginable: time.
For the first few months (okay, 4), I squandered it. The sun shone, the wine flowed. But then I woke up one day with a fuzzy head and a mouth as minging as the bottom of the hamster cage I’d previously been locked in and thought “Enough!” Our lives as we knew them had suddenly changed overnight - and now I was ready to make some profound lifestyle changes, too.
As I don’t like to do things by halves, it had to be all or nothing. So, on 1st August last year, I ditched alcohol. I continued exercising (having rediscovered it in my 40s) until the day the gym closed. Then it reopened. Then it closed again.
At the end of December I took up running. Like, properly. Using gadgets and apps and heart rate monitors and reading about nutrition, listening to running podcasts (like this one) and really, really doing it. The rat race may have been temporarily paused, but the desire to keep moving persisted. Only this time I was running for me, and me alone.
I logged every run, using the Nike Run Club app. I measured my pace, then bettered it. I signed up to the Hackney Half, which was duly postponed. I carried on running - through wind, sleet, rain and hail. I drew the line at snow - too risky, especially as premature menopause in my 30s had made me susceptible to fractures and I’d broken my wrist just before Lockdown 1.0 (in a nightclub, naturally).
I set myself goals from the start, to run a target distance each month, using online Facebook groups to spur me on. I refused to fail: 150km in January, 100km in February (a shorter month, plus a week of snow meant this was still a challenge), and 171km, which is over 100 miles, the equivalent of 4 marathons, in March, which I’m well on track to complete. I’ve run 60 times since the start of this third lockdown, and am in the top 10% of runners completing a March 50km challenge on the Nike app, out of almost 200,000 entrants.
I ran my fastest 5km the other day, at 21:41 (4:20 per km). My fastest 10km is currently 46:02 (4:36 per km), and the other week I ran my first half marathon in 1hr 44 mins (a 4:56/km pace).
How did this happen? Simply by giving up alcohol and channelling my energy elsewhere. By replacing kitchen parties for two until dawn with early nights and good nutrition, I wake naturally each morning with the right mindset to reach for my running gear instead of a bacon butty. Sound boring? Maybe, but there’s nothing boring about waking up fresh as a daisy each day feeling serene and peachy-keen, and not trash-talking yourself for the previous night’s antics.
This time last year, a ‘cheeky half’ would have meant something very different to me, as I tossed toxins into my system like there was no tomorrow.
Nowadays the only thing I’m doing by halves are marathons.
My advice to you, if you’re toying with the idea of going sober? RUN WITH IT. Literally 😉🏃🏼♀️🙌🏻.
I’d really appreciate it if you would sponsor me on my mission, A Cheeky Half, to run the Vitality Half Marathon on Sunday 22nd August for Macmillan Cancer Support by clicking here to donate: https://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/acheekyhalf .
Thanks a million! 🙏🏻
Day 237 🙌🏻
Sam x
Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com
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