Except actually, I wouldn’t. Nor would I run 26.2. I started training for this year’s Edinburgh Marathon, back in December or so. It was a non-starter from the beginning. Running in the cold, dark and wet is not my idea of fun. An unpredictable work schedule and 10 weeks of snow did not help with my lack of enthusiasm. When the weather improved, I started doing a little more. And spent a few hours before each run grumbling about how I didn’t want to go, continued grumbling whilst I was running, and spent another few hours thinking that perhaps it wasn’t so bad. I can be quite a contrary person at times – with no race to train for, I rarely put on my running shoes, but when training for a race I get deeply cross with my scheduled runs, wanting to run long instead of speed work, or only do 5 miles instead of 8 because it’s all I have time for. About 6 weeks ago, I decided I’d had enough. I was spending hours each week, plodding around, feeling fed up and wondering why I was bothering. Not a state of mind conducive to running my third marathon and trying to get a PB. So I quit.
I know. QUIT. Not “got injured and was forced to withdraw”, but QUIT. Because I couldn’t be arsed. And I feel great about it. I’m not forcing myself into doing something because I think I should. I don’t even feel bad that I don’t want to. I’d like to fall in love with running again, and forcing myself to run 26.2, in pursuit of a personal best time that I don’t deep down care about, isn’t going to help with that.
Instead Le Homme and I are taking to the streets on our bikes tomorrow. We’re going to cycle the 46 odd miles from here to Edinburgh, stay at my sister’s, go to dinner with his brother, watch a bit of the marathon kick off on Sunday, and cycle home. Cos that’s how we roll.