It’s been two weeks and three days since I tore my calf at the Surrey Half, and it’s three weeks and four days until the Yorkshire Marathon. During this time I’ve reacquainted myself with feeble physio exercises, indoor cycling and volunteering. I’ve learned more than I ever needed to know about operating a water station, scanned barcodes with gritted teeth and managed to clock up a personal worst at the London 10000, having previously thought my 2012 time of 1:38 was quite unbeatable.
I went back to the physio on Monday and it was the best news that it could be: I’m pain free (but doing very little that might elicit pain) and can start doing slightly less feeble physio exercises and power walking. If that goes well, I can progress to a 10 minute run/walk on Monday! Which will be two weeks and six days away from the Yorkshire Marathon. Although it hasn’t been written off yet, I just can’t see any possible way I can go from Couch to 42.2k in two weeks and six days.
I’m mourning the loss of my marathon like the loss of a relationship. I can’t listen to the songs on my Marathon Training Playlist without shedding a tear. I have started to look at Other Marathons. But I don’t want Other Marathons! I want THIS marathon. I worked so hard for it. I look back on my summer training runs with rose tinted glasses, imagining the breeze in my hair and the sun glinting off the water as I effortly bounced from one foot to another. Now I’m starting to wince as I power-walk 15 minutes around Barnett Park with grey skies and the rain starting to fall, and I envisage the misery of aborted winter training runs, numb fingers and sinking heart, just like in 2016, chasing a dream that I knew all along was beyond me.
Maybe it’s time to let go.
7:07 