Oh yes, it's that time again. Forget Comic Relief, with 6 weeks to go to the London Marathon (how so soon??) I still have a *grand* to charm out of you, all for the benefit of the Richard House Children's Hospice.
I had intended to visit the hospice last week but work got in the way so you are spared the guilt-trip. Instead I thought I would focus on my suffering.Since my last plea I have gained bruises, sweat burns and weight, and given up meat, weekday alcohol and smoking (except on special occasions), I have raised £750 for charity, and I have run in 2 official races: the Dover half Marathon and, at the weekend, the Duchy 20.
A 20 mile race through scenery I know and love seemed a really good idea a month ago, but the build up was stupidly nerve-wracking, and full of self-doubt; my training had got me as far as 17 semi-limped miles, 20 was a number unknown to my knees.
And there were added complications to running in Cornwall: hills to consider, family and friends to juggle, food that was so not on my pre-race nutrition plan screaming to be enjoyed, and hysteria to control (my dad had studied the contours on the ordanance survey map, ‘driven the route’, scheduled lunch with one-eyed Rocket Ron (venerable veteran of Falmouth Road Runners) and packed the car with blankets, Soreen and hot water bottles 'just in case...', before I had even booked my westward-bound MegaBus).
And then there was the weather...
The whimsical western weather woke me up all blue and sunny on raceday, and on the drive to the starting line Radio Cornwall was laughing off the forecast threat of galeforce winds and 'snow on high ground'.
Phew.
Thinking back, the hail storm that burst into action at my humble 3rd mile, was never mooted. My gracefully gloved hands were clinging on to as much exposed face as possible as I passed my damp family, and their cheers had a distinct note of concern to them, I managed an upturned thumb in reassurance. Then, when I turned on to the coast road, the wind was so strong that my efforts were translated to practically jogging on the spot. Heavy rain, gales, hail. I had to laugh through the agony, both of body and of brain.
Occasionally the sun came out and I had the energy to avoid excited worms and enjoy fields of daffodils and the confused faces of sheep as a few hundred heads bobbed by their usually peaceful meadow. I sped up and felt amazing when I overtook a runner, and then another...
But the last 2 miles were hell. I remember nausea, hill after hill through the ugliest parts of depressed ex-mining communities, and a persistent painful stitch. All I could do was repeatedly count to nine ('and you'll be fine') and trust that the sheer momentum of the last 3 hours would propel me to the pasty waiting for me at the finishing line. I daren't imagine the sublime moment when I would be allowed to stop.
2 hours 59 minutes 50 seconds after starting, I stopped. I have moved as little as possible since.
So, what's that worth? All that pain? £2? A fiver? Even a tenner of your well-earned cash?
And don't forget to consider the sweat burns on the inside of my arms, I am grateful it is a cold spring or I would have to constantly reiterate that I am not self-harming. Well, not in the traditional sense...
The best pain relief would be for you to visit www.justgiving.com/katerawson and SPONSOR ME! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?
Thank you, thank you, and thank you again,
kate xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
