A post from the sofa
It’s all over. It was not by best day ever, but I finished, and that’s what counts.
In hindsight, it went something like this. I was doing fine for the first half of the course. Getting to the start line took a little longer than expected, but at mile 11 I was only 10 minutes behind the time we expected. Then it happened.
Somewhere between there and mile 13 I pulled something in my foot/ankle. I say ‘somewhere’ because I didn’t actually notice.The adrenalin effectively masked the pain for the next 13 miles. What it didn’t mask was the nausea, a common side effect of trying to run on a busted ankle. So I got gradually slower and had to walk for significant periods. Eventually I found myself among the people in big costumes at the back.
I came very close to bowing out entirely. I was feeling pretty awful. Then I saw the 20 mile marker and bloody-minded stubborness took over. It was at this point I decided that there was no damn way I was losing to Bagpuss. It’s funny what goes through your mind at times like that.
Bagpuss, a man called Paul in a rhino costume and I kept pace with each other for a while. I pulled ahead of them when we hit the Embankment. Recognising Blackfriars tripped something in my mind. I managed to run most of the penultimate mile and all of the final one.
Even knowing that I was much slower than I had hoped, crossing the finish line was practically a religious event. The combination of relief that it was over and pride that I’d done it was pretty intoxicating. They cut my timing tag off and I was done.
That was the point I realised I was limping. Suddenly all the people who had asked if I was okay made sense.
My final time was 5 hours and 42 minutes. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit disappointed, but right now the pride is eclipsing all of that. I ran the London Marathon with a busted ankle. That’s a hell of an achievement. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to stay on this sofa until I can work up the energy to get to bed.