Kind of. Actually, not really. Not at all in all honesty. Well, I did. But also I didn’t.
Essentially, yesterday, at around 5:35pm, I completed my 26th mile. Time to congratulate myself? Crack the champagne out? Roll out the bunting and party poppers? Not really.
Yes, it was my 26th mile. Yes, it’s quite a long way to run. And technically it is a marathon. My 26th mile.
Since I began training. Since I said goodbye to my old shoes (sob), bought some new ones and began to take it all a bit seriously. 26 miles, split over six different runs, over a twelve day period. So not really a marathon then.
But it still felt significant, in a way. It also felt immensely intimidating. It had taken me nearly two weeks to run a distance that I will be expected to do in one morning. Worse, I had been absolutely shattered after each and every single one of the six individual runs. It’s hard to understand how any human being is capable of running that sort of distance at this stage, but there’s a long way to go, and a lot of blood, sweat and tears ahead of me yet. Positive mental attitude and all that. Plus some guy ran the London Marathon this year with a fucking washing machine on his back. I know, because I saw it.
I cheered myself up a bit by being a boring twat (i.e. myself) and making some (completely wrongheaded) predictions as to how quickly I would run the marathon, based on my time over the 26 miles I had done so far. Ignoring the basic fact that I would never in a million years be able to run for 26.2 miles at the pace I run over five, I worked out that I will be mostly be running it in 2:57:31. Simple as that then. Maybe I won’t need to train so much after all.