Well, that's what they say. Thing is, I'm already missing the blogging (the training... not so much). The facebook fans have been kind enough to support my continuing to blog, and I thought you might be wondering how the aftermath is hitting me.
Anyway, at the end of the race, I was just so happy. I think you can also observe my grinning ear-to-ear in the smurf picture. It wasn't just the smurf, I was grinning anyway. Heather was telling me how moved she was and how she wished Iris had been there, and I was still grinning. OK, I looked a bit serious. For a moment. I didn't really notice any pain. I did some stretches, and when I showered, I carefully dowsed my legs in freezing water for a few minutes. And I didn't think too much of it. I was expecting the stairs to be hard, and they were - I'd had the same thing from that fast run I did a week last Wednesday. But the next day - WOW. I'm not the most organised person, but the 3rd time I realised I'd left something else in my bedroom, I was just - oh, right, well how much do I really need that? I texted Sal to ask if I should ice or anything, and she replied that I needed to go for a half-hour walk.
I did this towards the end of the day, I walked into town to pick up some shopping. Rather gallingly, I forgot to buy actual food, but I did spend my usual obscene amount of money buying cards (I like to stockpile them), and a replacement ink cartridge for the printer. And I bought a hat that I'll probably never wear, but might if I have to go somewhere classy in Scotland when it is cold. (You have to think of these eventualities). Half way home, I'd got to beyond the half-hour, and beyond a joke. Cambers on the pavement were causing me to whimper out loud. Although I was nearly home, I stopped at Keely's house and begged for tea. I was entertained by a sign on the door that said "No thanks to salesmen; religions; junk mail", and was trying to formulate a sentence around trying to sell them some religious junk mail, but I was more interested in the tea, preferably accompanied by a seat, so I let it go.
At this point, it is only fair to share with you an idea that has been growing in my troubled mind. I'm not sure if I said at the time, but I may have mentioned it in passing: when I told my mother about the race, and raising money for Iris, I got quite a frosty reception. She came round in the end, and supported me like a good 'un, but to be honest, no one does scowls like my mother. (Well, actually, yes they do. Wow, I wonder what would happen if mum and Jeanette met, and annoyed each other? Fortunately I doubt that would happen, although it's possible that my dad might annoy both of them). The point was, you see, that I was running the race for someone else's mum. "What about me?" she wanted to know. "Well, you don't have cancer, do you?" [wrong response]. "No, but I have Polymyalgia rheumatica," she said. This is true. Well, obviously: she's not prone to lying. "It's not killing you, though, is it?" [wrong response]. I shan't tell you what she said, because I hope she didn't mean it. But it's nasty, and very painful. It's treated using a very strong steroid that has uncomfortable side effects itself, and is highly addictive, so doses are started high, and then reduced as rapidly as possible, and hopefully to the point of coming off it altogether. But flare-ups can occur, and then treatment has to begin again. Now, mum has been suffering for over 2 years, and I distinctly recall at its worst (at least, I hope it was) she had just completed writing her first ever book, but hadn't had it published, and she took my hand and said "if I don't make it, will you see that my book is published?". Now, she's not prone to histrionics as a general rule, this is just how awful she felt. I'm happy to say that the book is published, and we're all immensely proud of her. In fact, if you're interested, you can buy it on Amazon. It is about my great, great Grandfather, Edward Capern, who was a postman in Bideford, and used to write poems on the backs of envelopes he delivered. Since then she has had periods where she's felt better, but then also, periods where she's declined again. The pattern of almost "getting there" and then worsening depresses her deeply.
So amid my euphoria for having completed my challenge - which I regard as being pretty massive, but in the grand scale of things, obviously it isn't, there was a little nag of guilt. Your mother's suffering: it said, and you haven't tried to do anything to support her. Now here's another thing. My mum loved running as a child, and has harboured a desire to run the London marathon herself, which she had as a pipe dream, through my childhood, I think. She recently expanded it to "any marathon - in fact, I'd settle for just being able to run 26 miles". I think you can probably tell the general direction my thoughts are going in. 5 months ago, I considered it a physical impossibility for me to run 13.1 miles. I worked, I trained (and you know I did) and I did it. Seemingly pretty effortlessly, even with a virus. So, 26.2 miles also seems an impossibility. Especially as I've now established that I am, in fact, deeply competitive, and will need to do it in a "good time". I texted Sal, and she said, with her usual lack of hesitation "have to be a charity place now". This means that although the open ballot for places on the London marathon has closed, you can run for a charity, because they have places that they can give you. I looked up on the internet, and the charity that supports Polymyalgia research is Arthritis Research UK, and they have charity places. I'd have to raise £1800. This is almost as big a challenge (but not really) as undertaking the race. Of course, there are other marathons - the Edinburgh one, for example, which is a month later on (and hence potentially warmer).
I ran the whole thing past Luke and Keely. "Wow, a marathon" said Luke, trying not to laugh at the fact I was seriously discussing this at his table basically because I was too crippled to walk home. "Twice as far: I imagine that the pain afterwards wouldn't be twice as bad as a half marathon..." I don't know why I thought that was the end of his sentence: "no, I'd say it would be much worse. It's bound to be an exponential scale, isn't it?"
So a joke's never as funny the second time you hear it.... But then, running jokes are supposed to get funnier through repetition, right?
Watch this space.
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