It’s that time of year where thousands of unfit and wholly unprepared idiots decide to enter the London marathon. And this year I’m one of them!
My sister has done it, but she’s a health and sports nut and did it in some insanely decent time. But also, my brother-in-law has done it, and he’s a chain smoking, fast food eating, skin and bone freak. So surely there is hope for me? I’m neither a fitness freak nor a smoker (anymore) nor skin and bone. Well I am, there is lots of skin, and lots of flesh underneath, but the normal amount of bone if you exclude the extra bit I grew a few years back.
It’s now two years since I had my leg stretched, see here for the full story (NSFW). I’ve since rediscovered a love for running. I used to do a lot of it in school, and loved long distance cross country. I did rather more of it in the Army but liked it a good deal less. Combats, boots, webbing, an SMG and a smattering of PTI’s swearing at you didn’t help.
And so, at 45 years, I’ve decided it’s something I must do. So I’ve entered the ballot. With more than 100,000 entries and only 30,000 places the chances are slim. But if I don’t succeed in securing a place I’ll bid for a charity slot. Yes, I’m determined. And when I get the bit between my teeth I can be bloody minded too. So, if I do get to enter, keep a keen eye out for a silver haired fox, very possibly on oxygen, drinking G+T and smoking a cigar, crossing Tower Bridge sometime in the early evening of race day.