Eating and beating the elephant

My mind invented all sorts of reasons why I shouldn't be doing it, whilst at the same time tormenting me with the idea that if I didn't complete the distance again, then I would somehow not have done enough long runs to allow me to complete York.

The previous two weeks had been tough: a 17 mile race, much of it off-road into pouring rain and howling wind along the beach in Norfolk, where I could barely lift my head to see in front of me, let along enjoy being by the seaside. I'd finished that off with an extra three miles, determined to hit that magic 20.

The following weekend, I managed to get a late entry into our local half marathon in the New Forest, in an attempt to see if I could do a pace that would be on target for my attempt at a 3.45 in York.

On a humid day and a hilly course, I managed a 1.46.29, and was chuffed to bits, but - combined with the previous weekend's efforts, I was also shattered.

And so, knowing that there was one more obstacle to overcome, I eased off the mileage last week. But my hamstrings hurt, my pelvis kept going out of alignment, my feet were killing me and I wasn't convinced I could run 10 miles, let alone 20!

I put it off until I could put it off no longer. So, with 20 days until the marathon, I set out the door, warning my partner that I didn't think I was going to make it and he might need to come and rescue me.

It was uncomfortable from the start. But, I was determined. Or at least I was for the first fifteen miles.

For that distance, two things kept me going.

I've recently been reading "A Life Without Limits", the memoirs of the Ironman World Champion Chrissie Wellington. She's the same age as me, and although that's pretty much where the similarities stop, when things started getting tough, I thought "what would Chrissie do?" After all anyone who can run a marathon distance after swimming 2.4 miles and biking 112 is pretty inspiring in my books.

And I also drew on some advice my Mum gave me when I was younger. Whenever I felt overwhelmed by the magnitude of situations, she would say,"How do you eat an elephant, Hannah?" Setting aside the fact that I love elephants and would of course never eat one, the answer was always "little by little".

And so at every 2.5 miles for the first ten miles, I did a mini jig at the thought that I'd eaten one of the elephant's feet. It was an inexact science, carving up my elephantine long run. Mile 11 was the tail and by the time I reached mile 16, I'd only have the ears, trunk and tusks left.

Sadly, by the time I reached mile 16 I was also very low on water, and exhausted after battling the wind in my face for the previous two hours. I forgot all about the elephant.

I stumbled into the small shop in the village I was running through and they kindly filled my water bottle, but the damage was done. The last four miles were slow and I stopped a couple of times, having lost the will to go on. But finally I mustered up the motivation to push through the last mile or so, knowing that once this was done, I could finally taper after 13 hard weeks of juggling training, work and the needs of my little girl.

I staggered through the front door, and collapsed onto the floor, where I stayed for the next 20 minutes unable to move.

It wasn't the triumphant entry into the final strait of marathon training that I might have imagined a few weeks ago, but there I was at the start of the taper.

And what a relief it was. After that beast of a 20 miles, I knew that the ensuing 20 days of reduced mileage, combined with the marathon day atmosphere and some mental motivation supplied by Chrissie Wellington and my Mum, meant that I wasn't prepared to lose my next fight with the elephant.

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