So, finally got round to reading the official guide to the marathon today to work out when to register. Really motivational stuff. Tres exciting. Went round my sisters for dinner with my dad, Matt and Jess paging through to the section of where to meet and greet etc at the end of the run. Found a map.
An aerial view map. So you can see landmarks and distances between them. Of the whole race. Spread over 4 pages.
Then it happened. My giggle. Like when I do a really naughty thing. Like finish the chocolate I know Matt’s been saving. Or write off our car in a head on collison on the way to work. (Just twigged how much trauma I put Matt through on a regular basis. lol!)
So I stood giggling, kinda twitching restlessly. I finally realised how far I have to run. I am so ill prepared I feel like weeping. Not in a dismissive, I’ve actually been secretly running under the desk at work all this time, but seriously. I’ve avoided swear words while I write to try and pretend to be couth and refined, but OMG, there is a reason swear words are still knocking about in their word of mouth notoriety. They are very expressive and useful.
Anyway, breathe in, breathe out. The race is no more accomplishable or unaccomplishable just because I have grasped the true scale of it. The best thing about physical trauma is the pain is generally forgettable. But it is the fear and the psychology of it that is the lasting legacy.
I have the registration tomorrow…the registration for the planets largest fundraising event. The London Marathon, that I am going to do on Sunday. This Sunday. Through Blackheath, through Greenwich, through Bermondsey where Matt had his marine barracks, across Tower Bridge. Through the Isle of Dogs (I means seriously? Who knows where the hell that is???), back through Canary Wharf, back past the Tower of London where many an innocent (and not so innocent, to be fair) lives were taken. And then on to the Palace. As you do. On a Sunday. When you are frikkkkkkkiiiiinnng insane.