Earlier this year, I ran my first marathon. I blistered my feet and shed toenails like blackened blossom. Physically, it was hard. It hurt. Yet mentally, it was fascinating. Here’s what I learned about the baffling, but sometimes beautiful balance between the mind and functioning limbs.
1. Three miles can feel as hard as 13
It took me a while to grasp this. There’s a three mile loop around Battersea Park in south London. A pleasant trot along the Thames, taking in Battersea Bridge; lovely, sparkly Albert Bridge; a few trees; some nice green space. I hated it.
Somehow, that loop felt ridiculously hard, and it was made all the harder by a swelling sense of panic that I couldn’t manage a mere five kilometres. And yet eight miles, 15 miles, 20 miles were all possible. Sometimes they were difficult, sometimes they were brilliant. I learned not to berate myself on the shorter runs, and to keep adding too, or switching, the distance. Mentally, it doesn’t seem to make much difference.
2. There are moments of ridiculous, nonsensical joy
Two days after Christmas, I ran 12 miles. Freezing rain peppered down throughout and murky darkness descended. I took a wrong turning and ended up galloping down a main road, hurling myself into hedges at the thundering arrival of each car. I returned home numb-fingered, dripping wet and covered in scratches. I was euphoric.
Eighteen miles proved a similar experience. I ran across Wandsworth Bridge 17 miles in, face white as paper, toes burning with blisters, waving a Lucozade bottle aloft and grinning inanely at Sunday-morning walkers.
3. The mind gets fitter
I like exercise. Most evenings I’ll stick on a pair of trainers and do something vaguely sporty without really thinking about it. But, within the shackles of a training schedule, that felt different. There was an “I must” and an “I should” to contend with.
I had violent mental battles with myself. I wrangled and wrestled. I lied. I told myself I was ill, too tired, too hungry. But, invariably, once out the door, all was well. A ceasefire. Victory. And, with each victory, it got a little easier. Next time around, the “I think I’ll have a lie down in front of Master Chef” weakened. And out I went.
4. Mini mental victories win the war
The same principle seems to apply to pushing harder, going faster and going further. I heard Adam Walker, who has swum across seven oceans, speaking at the Royal Geographic Society in January. He was vehement about always completing a training session. Physically, this makes sense. It makes even more sense mentally. Every time I managed to stagger to the end of the required distance, sprint a couple of times between lamp posts or run when I’d had one too many beers the night before, I won. And with every victory I got a bit more confident.
5. There is no space for negative thoughts
I read this instruction in the marathon magazine (harbinger of approaching race-doom) that arrived on the doormat each month. I laughed. On the last of the mega-runs, I understood what it meant. Turning down the Embankment by Vauxhall Bridge at 20 miles, I was walloped by the wind rushing up river. I floundered on the spot, berating myself for my decision to take this route. I had known it was windy. I knew which way the wind was blowing. I could have gone another way. What an idiot. Right on cue, my legs gave up the ghost. Apparently, a strong mind and functioning limbs are inextricably linked, like two people pedalling a tandem bicycle.
6. You’re alone with your thoughts
In these busy, phone-fuelled days, it’s rare to be alone with just your thoughts for company. Even with the best playlist (I never quite mastered that one) vying for mental attention, three or four hours feels like a lot of thinking time. Sometimes my thoughts rambled wild and unchecked, all over the place. Sometimes, on the longer runs, they operated with military precision: carefully monitoring mileage, timings and thought topics. A mile on current affairs; half a mile on what to eat for supper; two miles on “what will my next adventure be?”.
Once I tried to recite a sonnet. That didn’t work. And, on spotting blood creeping across the top of my trainers during the marathon, a calm conversation with myself ensued as to how much blood would indicate a toe actually being severed by a sports sock. This took up miles 18 to 19, which, frankly, seemed a happy exchange for a bit of blood.
Rose Gamble is a freelance journalist who enjoys writing about being outdoors. And Africa. Tweeting @rosyrosegamble
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