This is me the day before doing the Royal Parks Half Marathon. It was taken by Gabriel on my new Nokia N8 phone. No idea what that sign by one of my children is doing there. Outwardly I’m calm. Inwardly I’m anxious about running with 12000 other people. I always train alone. No music, no running partner, no chats. Apart from what’s going through my head in the wonderful meditative state which you reach after 4 miles. Impossible with people cheering and everyone else running to the beat beside you. After 4 miles, though, it will get better. After 9 miles, much better. When you are in double figures, immeasurably fine. Then you finish! I’ll post the pictures tomorrow. I’ll be smiling.
Oh, total pain. Have knackered my Achilles. Might have to miss the Royal Parks Half Marathon next we… after all that bloody training!
No, not just because the Marathon was hilarious, 26.2 miles observed by a) women in full make up, smoking and b) cornet-blowing hunting types in long red coats. Not because it was so beautiful. Not even because Mr Millard was overtaken by someone on STILTS. But because my bag, pinched from under the dining table during my birthday dinner in Montmartre has been returned. How likely is that to happen? Of course I’ll have to go back there to collect it. Any excuse…..
As Mr M and I discovered on Sunday doing the grim and gruelling Finchley 20 which is basically run by 500 men in singlets. And about 20 women. Twenty miles in four five-mile laps. Was overtaken by the winner when I was only at Mile 12, but came in about 190th with a time of 2’43″. I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was realise my dream of lying down on the wet grass afterwards (this race ends in a muddy field). Mr Millard trailed in some time after me but as he is a Colussus of Journalism having nailed politics with his Dispatches on the lobbying ex-Ministers, we can forgive him for not having trained too much. Now I am completely pooped. There are less polite ways of saying it but not on this blog.
Or even…yay…as my daughter would say. Watford Half Marathon- we conqurered it. Well, in 1.47 min which was some distance from the winner who did it in about 2 seconds. But at least my toenails haven’t fallen off, I can go downstairs without agony and I didn’t go anywhere near a wall. So all’s looking good for next one. Mr Millard? 1.56. Ha! Except a mix up with our numbers has meant that I have his slow time on the official website and he has my speedy time. Very irritating. there are a LOT of hills in Watford, I have to say. Too many..
Well its back on the relentless road for 26.2 miles of pain…having madly submitted Mr Millard and myself for Paris on April 11 its now just a question of holding on until April 12 and then dying gracefully. A fellow runner said ‘You are clearly running away from something, its why we all do this long distance ****.” Fine. But there are SO MANY things to run away from at the moment…a derelict house…my daughter’s detention record…thirty Polish builders and their attendant bills…etc etc.
Am reading the Murakami book on running, its SO inspirational. Makes me want to do the Paris marathon next year.
Well, not really. Indeed, I’ve been a bit sniffy about blogs in the past. You have to forgive me. I grew up in the era of platform boots the FIRST time round. Anyway, I’ve swapped trendy footgear for trainers right now as I am in the depths of marathon training which is GRIM.. Never, never again, I chant to myself as I speed around the delightful terrain of Islington in the early hours of the morning. Never again. Read More…
Carb loading, occasionally running round the park, nothing major. Of course this is just preparation for the mighty 26.2 on April 13. I’m so nervous!
Just got back from doing the Reading Half Marathon , before this highly exhausting experience.
Some bloke came up to us in the queue by the Portaloos and said “Are you Mr and Mrs Millard”, to which Pip and I said “yeah”…and he then said “Is this one of your famous competetive moments,” to which we said “Yeah”. I then proceeded to overtake Mr M (he he) – he’s still cheesed off about it. Myra Hindley fright wig, eh? I’ll have you know my hair was last cut by Nicky Clarke, and if that isn’t a giant name drop what is?