Grand Ideas 

“The sky is not the limit… I am” T F Hodge

As soon as the words “I’m thinking of trying a 30km swim streak” left my mouth, I almost instantly regretted it.

You see… stick me in a race with other runners, cyclists or even swimmers and, if I think or know they are a lot quicker, I won’t bother my arse to compete… But when I throw my own gauntlet down, I strive to achieve the goal. So the challenge was on.

To facilitate this absurd idea, I’d need to juggle some stuff about. Luckily, my current employer offers flexi-time which is a god-send for a the wannabe Ironman. I can flex hours between 7.30am and 5pm to suit and usually I opt for 7.30-4pm. It means getting up at 5am and commuting over the Forth Road Bridge, but I’m home for 5pm.

For my Big Swim Week, I switched it up. Bannatyne’s have permanent lane availability and open at 6am. Ideal. I’d work 8.30-5, swim at 6am and, traffic dependent, 6pm. I could never have done this at my faithful Cooncil Gym due to limited pool access for *actual* swimmers.

As the week approached, 6km per day hovered in my sights like a big, fat, fuck-off neon sign. My biggest swim week in prep for Windermere (AKA: The One That Wasn’t) was 15,000m and I was 15,000% dead by the end of it.

 This. Was. Gonna. Suck. So. Many. Balls.

By this point, I can hear the educated amongst you murmuring something about Junk Miles. And you’d be absolutely correct. Technically, swimming 30km in a pool over 5 days could indeed be classed as junk miles. But… I don’t do junk miles. Even ridiculous challenges like this have a point, because the thing about Endurance training is that as much as we bang on about “smashing it” and “having all the lolz” sometimes it’s fucking shit. Sometimes you definitely do not want to smash anything apart from your face into a pizza. So I chuck stuff into my routine that sounds awful and intimidates me in order to strengthen my mental toughness. It works. The added bonus of swimming is that it’s largely low impact and the best way to get quicker at swimming is…. well…. to swim. 

And so it began…

Day 1.

Mood: Grim. Hair: Still glossy. Arms: Attached, if a little nervous

The first morning was awful. I’d tapered the previous week, reduced strength work and rested for two days before the streak started. I have a nasty recurring trapezius injury which has a habit of flaring up during quick swims, so everything was kept very slow below 1:50/100m. Miles below my current CSS pace of 1:41/100m but enough to hopefully keep injuries at bay.

Unfortunately, someone had replaced the water in the pool with treacle over the weekend. I felt shit. My arms were made of spaghetti.

This was going to be an extremely tough week.

Monday evening’s swim was also awful, and, just to add icing to the cake-of-shit, I was joined in the lane by a Master’s age grouper at the end of my set. Who was a sprinter. And was not even sprinting. Not to sound cocky, but I’m well used to being one of the quickest swimmers in a standard gym pool, but I am by no means fast. This guy was just the most elegant swimmer. And my splashy, inefficient 1:55’s were being destroyed by his effortlessly graceful 1:30’s. I went home feeling deflated and dreading the coming days.

Day 2.

Mood: More Grim. Hair: 8% less glossy. Arms: “pls no”

Tuesday was almost the end of the challenge. I really, truly, 100% did not want to be doing this. “This is a stupid idea” I muttered to myself as I dipped into the chilly pool at 6:02am. The water still felt like solid matter and everything that could possibly irritate me was doing so with a vengeance.

“But this shit is gonna make me nails” I reminded myself, “if I can get through this, surely I can get through the 10k swim.”

Tuesday evening saw the beginning of The Shit Traffic. For some reason, everyone in Scotland decided to head north over the FRB every single evening this week. I was already ragey by the time I got to the pool, so when I saw the lane was hoaching, I knew I’d be in for a quicker swim. Fuelled by anger and impatience.

Elbows out, I slipped under 1:50/100m just to get passed the choppers. (Seriously. If you are slow, do NOT swim in the fast lane if it is busy. And ESPECIALLY if you are gonna do fecking breastroke) See below chart if confused:

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Day 3.

Mood: Grim, tired, nose ingrained with Chlorine. Hair: Mess. Arms: “hlp mi pls”

I’d quite simply had enough. My head was struggling to get through it, 3km sessions felt like 30km and my pace was in the gutters. I tried a new set instead of 6 x 500m (which usually feels ok) and opted for 400,300,200,100 x 3. This broke things up, gave me a smidge more rest and I could count the distances down. However… mind that injury I mentioned earlier…? Towards the end of my evening session, the ping in my left trap told me it was time to rest.

Day 4.

Mood: Less Deathly. Hair: Had to resort to neat Argan Oil…  Arms: So much nope. And yet I feel like I look like Jonny Bravo.

I gave myself an extra hour in bed on Thursday morning, feebly convincing myself that 27km in 5 days would still be badass and right enough, the rest paid off and I was right as rain for Thursday evening’s session.

I had a lane to myself until my last 1000m, when a man sat and watched me swim for 5 or 6 lengths, before proceeding to jump in and push off RIGHT as I got to him. Not correct etiquette. And oh good he’s much slower than me.

Everyone starts somewhere and I am, by absolutely no means, Michael Phelps, but I cannot understand how a person can be working so hard to stay virtually stationary in the water. I was doing doggy paddle and still catching his toes.

The worst bit? He didn’t stop to let me pass at the end of the length. Oh my god. Rage.

The slow lane was empty. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, thinking this was maybe some weird drill I’d never seen. Or a warm-up. Maybe (It wasn’t) And being too polite to ask him to perhaps consider the alternative lane, I had to keep overtaking. Each time he would splash the water hard as if to tell me to fuck off. Yet each length (I was passing him twice to each of his single lengths) he didn’t bother to stop.

If anything, this kept me occupied and I was relieved to get out of that pool and visit my mum and dad. (Mum is now 1 week post knee replacement!)

Day 5.

Mood: Buoyant (swim pun yaassss) Hair: Ruined. Arms: “ohgodpleasedon’tmakeusswimagain”

Work-based anxiety woke me at 3am. And 3.15am. And every 10-15 mins until 5am when I finally decided to make some toast.

At 6:02 I dipped into the pool alongside a lane mate who exhibited absolutely perfect lane etiquette. We were very similarly paced and while he was doing fast 50’s we managed to time our sets well so we were never in each other’s way. MORE OF THIS PLEASE.

I was pleasantly surprised by the ease at which I was able to get through my 500’s. Due to my trap niggle, I’d switched from my usual bilateral breathing, to right side only every 4th stroke. This helped me relax. 3000m flew by.

12 hours later and I was back for the last swim of the week. And what a difference! My 1:50/100m average dipped to 1:44 for the whole, consistent session.

Despite being joined by 2 choppers (one definitely did NOT like being slower than a lassie), I loved this swim and shoulder tiredness aside, I felt strong and relaxed and above all, finally ready to tackle 10km in Loch Lomond.

27,000 metres. TWENTY ACTUAL SEVEN KILOMETRES IN FIVE DAYS. (Which is 16.77 of your junkiest junk miles). All front crawl. All pull.

I have 100% earned pizza.

Interestingly, along with developing a new love for expensive shampoo and conditioner (thank you Kerastase) I realised, as the week progressed, that the problems I was experiencing in the water were well and truly in my head. As much as I set my own goals and work hard to achieve them, I also set my own limits. The minute I choose a goal, I often choose the obstacles. Even by identifying potential issues, I throw spanners into the works well before I reach a possible hurdle. It’s time to relax and just let things happen.

Loch Lomond – I am coming for you.

Water Baby

“Somewhere behind the athlete you’ve become and the hours of practice and the coaches who have pushed you is a little girl who fell in love with the game and never looked back…. play for her” 

Mia Hamm

In the Maternity ward of Perth Royal Infirmary, on the 6th May 1986, Lynora had just given birth to her first daughter. High as a kite on gas and air, she told her husband Dave to “go away and herd the sheep” to which he replied “WE DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING SHEEP”. Their baby girl was then placed on the pillow beside Lynora who looked at her in horror and said “she looks like a frog!”.

“She’s not a frog, she’s my baby” was Dave’s reply.

Charming, mum.

It seemed that this supposed hallucination was not entirely inaccurate. While I may not *look* like a frog (I hope…) I was certainly destined to become amphibious.

I have no memory of my first swimming lesson. Because I was 3 months old, in a pool in Oman with my mum and her friends as we attended “baby swimming lessons” aka “Navy-mum’s have a bit of a chat while the babies splash about and float and stuff”. What was clear to my mum was that I loved the water. And so it began…


I vaguely remember learning to swim crawl (Freestyle) in a manky pool attached to our school in Vienna, Virginia in the early nineties. I remember the feeling of imminent drowning and then noticing a dead frog on the bottom of the pool and forgetting about the drowning.

“Don’t get dead like the frog. Just keep swimming…”

My swimming came into it’s own once we moved to Brussels. The school team was fantastically well coached and I progressed to being quite the champion swimmer. 50m and 100m Freestyle, 50m Butterfly and 100m Individual Medley were my strongest events. Somewhere in my parents house is my box of medals and ribbons. We think they are in the Spider Cupboard. The spiders in that house are the size of my cat so they can keep the medals….

1996 Brussels Dolphins (sorry guys) 

Young Bean recovering from another win. 

In 1998, we moved back to the UK where I joined the Kinross Otters. I continued to show strength in sprinting but my love of swimming began to dwindle, possibly fuelled by having to attend meets at Olympia in Dundee which, back then, was a shitehole…

By 15 I’d hung my cap up for the last time and took to the sofa for the next 12 years. I would look back on my swimming “career” with nostalgia, and frequently wanted to revisit it, but social life, boys, part time jobs, uni and then grown up jobs got in the way. 

It wasn’t until I began my fitness journey that the scent of Chlorine began to whisper to me once again. 

My first swim in 12 years actually happened in Fort Augustus on my 28th birthday. In a 10m pool. I was all alone and decided to try Fly, Free and tumble turns. Surprisingly I didn’t die. But I knew I wanted to get back into it. 

Over the next two years I dedicated time to swimming again and it felt amazing. I stuck to crawl because breastroke is for grannies and fly is for showing off. I joined an adult swimming club to give me some structure and my form began to return. 

Since day dot, I’d always been drawn to water. So I bought a wetsuit and began venturing into lochs. The sense of freedom and serenity that I get from swimming in open water is like nothing on earth. After the initial cold shock dissipates, I am home. 

I finished my first triathlon swim well up the pack and began entering open water events, pushing myself to go further and faster. 

A wise friend encouraged this behaviour and offered his advice and coaching to help me improve once I hit a rut. 

“If you want to get faster, you need time in the water” are the words that stuck. And the proof is in the pudding. Or data. 

Today, as I studied data from my latest pool swim, I was shocked at the improvement over 12 months. I have worked hard. I have worked consistently. I have balanced three disciplines relatively well and despite several back injuries and a persistent shoulder injury which occasionally chucks a spanner in the works, I have been able to shave nearly 10s off my average time per 100m for a standard endurance session. 

Back in February, I remember saying that if I could get my CSS (critical swim speed) into the high 1:40’s I’d be delighted. I had no idea I’d be sitting here in July with a CSS of 1:41/100m. 

I remember 1:55/100m feeling like actual death. Now 1:43/100m feels steady. 


Can we have a moment for that total distance? RIP my social life…. 

With under 4 weeks until The Big Fuck-off Swim, I am getting nervous and actually a bit emotional. Stuff running marathons, this is going to be a monumental effort. My longest open water swim this year (3km) had me panicking about my body temperature, which refused to recover for 24 hours. What the feck is 10km going to do to me? 

Looking at these little snippets of history has just made me more determined for that little girl who used to kick so much ass in the pool. Like “annoying female soccer player” (Friends reference anyone?) Mia Hamm says – “play for her” 

And I will. 

Thank you for taking me swimming all those years ago, mum and dad. 

Love, your Frog x 

Iron [Keyboard] War

Before I start this, I have an apology to make. I made a huge error in my previous blog. Catastrophic, in fact. I referred to my pal @ironpugsley as a mere four-time-marathoner, marathon swimmer, ultramarathoner, two-time Ironman and soon to be swim-runner. I neglected to mention Alcatraz Escapee. Sincere apologies for my devastating oversight, Ironman. 

So…… Back to business. 

140.6 miles. That’s the distance from my house in Not Fife almost to Wick. Which is basically the top of Scotland.  Which is essentially the North Pole. 
It’s a distance that, over the last 3 years, has become the epitome of Awesome to me. I idolise Ironmen and those who can push their bodies and their minds to complete a race of such a punishing distance. 

I respect the distance. I aspire to be the level of Nails required to complete a race that encompasses everything I have come to admire about the sport of Triathlon. 

Recently, with the inaugural Ironman 70.3 race in Edinburgh, it’s brought Triathlon newbies out in force. Let me just preface this slight rant by making the point that this is a very good thing. Triathlon is marvellous. It teaches you so much about yourself. Technically I am still a newbie, having only done a single tri. 

But. 

Much like the fact that you wouldn’t swan into the office on the first day of a new job stating that you take your tea with just the right amount of milk and that the office temperature must always be no more or less than 21 degrees…. you wouldn’t call yourself an Ironman for finishing a 70.3. Would you? Oh, you would. Well. I’ve watched Grey’s Anatomy religiously for well over 7 years now, can I just go ahead and start practising medicine? Call me Dr Bean. 

Ordinarily, something like this wouldn’t bother me so much. People call themselves stuff every day. But…… Sometimes, something just means too much to you to let the Internet tarnish that significance. Let me explain why I took offence to the remarks of a fool in a forum. 

To me, there is currently no achievement that I want more than to be able to cross a finish line at the end of a 140.6 mile event. It’s a goal that will require sacrifice, commitment and the type of drive that’s taken me 3 years to realise I may actually possess. 

In one Facebook group, I saw someone announcing that as of Sunday evening they would now be calling themselves an ironman. 

What a fucking liberty. 

The keyboard warriors destroyed them but it really stuck in my head. I managed not to engage, having already had The Debate with some good friends who had, despite the grotesque conditions, each done an incredible job at finishing the race. 

Having sat on this for a week, I wanted to take a minute here to think about why that is such an audacious thing to do in my mind. 

First let’s have a history lesson. John Collins et al held the inaugural Iron Distance race in Hawaii in 1978. It was a combination of the 2.4 mile Waikiki rough water swim, a 112 mile Round-the-Island bike race and the Honolulu marathon. It was a competition, following a booze fuelled debate amongst talented athletes in each individual discipline, to see who was toughest. Who could complete this gruelling race first? Surely he (or she) would be the epitome of athleticism. 

John Collins famously said the words “whoever won that ought to be called Iron Man”. And so the race was born. 

Note: not 70.3. 

History lesson over, let’s take a step back and look at the bigger picture, shall we?

I must point out that I am not discrediting the toughness required to complete a 70.3 race. I’ve done one. It was hella tough. I trained my ass off and still hold that finish line feeling as one of my greatest memories and achievements. So if you’re sitting there sucking your teeth and calling me bitter, kindly swivel. Because I’ve been there. I know What’s required. I didn’t have an easy ride, either. Injury, illness and niggles all tried to derail me. I didn’t blag it (which you can do, if required) But I made it. In 6hrs43 mins. I did it. And it was phenomenal. 

Unfortunately for my tired legs, it was never going to end there. As soon as I crossed that finish line and located the nearest Big Mac, I knew I had the bug. I’ve dreamed of doing a full iron-distance tri for years. I wanted more. I wanted to push harder. Go further. But I knew I couldn’t yet. I wasn’t ready. 

To me, 140.6 miles is an unparalleled achievement. It may not be everyone’s cup of tea and, at the moment, I am receiving two reactions. 1) OH THATS AWESOME! And 2) Ummm, you’re gonna do what?

I hold it dear to my heart. I feel like it’s something I have to respect and do justice. I feel like, after being mentored by my IronBuddy that I owe it to the race to do the best I possibly can. 

So to hear and see people throwing that Iron Title about defending their choice because Ironman is a global brand, just rubbed me up the wrong way. It didn’t start as a brand. It BECAME a brand. It is about so much more than a title. It’s about being so mentally robust that you can push your body past the point of pain and giving up.  These races don’t allow outside assistance. You do that shit alone.

I can’t bear to see people devalue the status of being Iron. Being Iron is something to strive for. To aspire to. Not a term to be chucked about haphazardly. 

I’m not one to take such grave offence at the remarks of keyboard warriors, especially those with no understanding of the history of the race they try to lay claim to. But this was different. 

The fuss has died down now and hopefully the absence of Paul Kaye shouting “YOU ARE AN IRONMAN” at the finish line was enough to drive home the point that they are not now in fact an ironman. 

The biggest issue I have with this whole ‘pavlova’ (hi, Tucker ❤️) is that they are detracting from the incredible achievement that is finishing a 70.3 mile race.

Don’t simultaneously stomp all over my dreams while crushing my sense of achievement, you pests. 

In the mean time, I continue to fuel my excitement for the unbelievable challenges ahead. I’m inspired and focused and it feels amazing. It won’t last, so I’m making the most of it! 

Busy, Busy Brain.

It’s been a week since I entered The Lakesman, and what a week it’s been. There is something wonderfully empowering about finally believing you’re capable of training for a 140.6 mile race.

I’m doing this. OMG. 

It’s been a week of excitement, fear, negotiation (with myself) deep thought, planning, organising and surfing the net for higher spec bike components! (Any excuse, but the prospect of 1000’s of miles of training requires unquestionable use of n+1 and Stella needs to feel loved as well……)

Don’t worry, my friends. I shall not be breezing past you, as you sip your pint outside the pub, clad in cycling skins and a sperm hat with a disc wheel whirring away. No. I leave the marginal gains to the pro’s. I’m pretty down to earth with this stuff, but my faithful Stella has done many thousands of kilometres already. With a carbon fibre frame, she needs plenty of TLC. I’m also not the smallest of athletes so she needs good components to make up for my somewhat un-dainty frame.

I digress.

It’s also been a week of reflection: I’ve come an awfully long way from the naive, clueless lass that decided to get fit by entering a sodding marathon. The fact that I’ve made it to the point where I feel I can commit to training for an event like Lakesman makes me feel incredibly proud. Even if the wheels fall off and I end up unable to do it, I know I made it this far.

So aside from bike browsing, welling up every 15 minutes at inspirational YouTube videos and also buying a very exciting new swimming costume which will likely make me look like a misshapen potato, I have been squirrelling away at excel spreadsheets, putting the bare bones of a training plan together. I am gonna be busy.

I’ve spent hours poring over race blogs, tips and life-hack posts to try and stand myself in good stead for the huge amount of adjustment this training is going to require.

My buddy @ironpugsley penned this blog just before tackling his second Ironman. It is the very best advice that I could have in my arsenal as I begin to start piecing together this massive puzzle. As a two-time Ironman, four-time marathon runner, ultra-runner and marathon swimmer, I can think of no one I’d rather take advice from when it comes to this stuff. Mostly because he’s a) a normal human with extraordinary grit, b) did these things while juggling normal life stuff and c) likes beer.

Every night this week I’ve gone to bed buzzing with ideas and excitement and apprehension. The race is a long way off in many ways, but not that far away in many other ways. I am relieved that I’ve got GSS and Dramathon to look forward to and occupy my legs and my mind. I just have to not get broken…

I’ve caught up with friends, started planning routes for rides and even found one which incorporates cake at my bestie’s house:

Check that view!

I’ve had fun inspiring/bullying new friends to take up endurance sports, setting challenges and generally mucking about on bikes beside lochs and up hills… 


It’s been a much brighter few weeks. 

It feels good to have finally taken the plunge and signed up to Lakesman. The last few months have felt tough. I’ve been all over the place inside my head. Huge highs and crushing lows and sustained periods of darkness had left me feeling empty, dulled and numb. Over the past few weeks my sparkle has started to return. I have a focus and I’ve regained my drive to not only tackle this next obstacle but have the most fun I possibly can in preparation.

 
It’s like someone has turned on a light. And I’m so ready to feel light again. 

 

Iron Dreams

“To accomplish something extraordinary, one must have an extraordinary dream. A goal so high, a journey so demanding, that it’s achievement, to most, seems impossible….”

Daydreaming. We all do it. On a quiet afternoon in the office when the rain is running down the windows. When you’re stuck in traffic. Before you drift off to sleep. Sometimes when you can’t sleep…

Most people daydream of holidays, beaches and switching off their work emails. 

Me? I dream of 4am alarms. Porridge that sits in your stomach like lead. Nausea. Nerves. Wobbly-bottom-lipped and misty eyed goodbyes and good-lucks with family. Ice cold lakes and clear lochs. Lycra. The whoosh of disc wheels. The quiet, metronomic ticking of a cassette. The quiet pad of feet on tarmac. Pain. Determination. Up to 16hrs 59 minutes of just….moving….forwards. A red carpet. A clock: I dream of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride and a marathon. I dream of 140.6 miles.  

It’s not always been that way, believe me. Bean of Yesteryear would have daydreamed almost exclusively of hot beaches with unlimited ice cream and a device that changes your DVD for you so you don’t have to move. 

What was it that sparked this apparent lapse in judgment, you ask? Was it a head injury? U OK hun? 

Well… Around 3 years ago, a seed was planted in my head by a dear friend and accomplished endurance athlete. “You know you could become IronBean…. if you really want to….” 

I watched endless YouTube videos of ironman races, Celtman, Norseman, Swissman, you flipping name it. I anxiously tracked friends as they tackled these unfathomable distances. I coveted that title of being “Iron”. Knowing just how much commitment and drive it takes to complete such a thing. 

Oh, I wanted to be IronBean. But I knew that what was required would be too much, at that time. I trained for marathons, a 70.3 and various other events but training for those was extremely demanding. I could never commit the time and energy to training for an Iron Distance race…. 

…. could I…..? 

In 2016, a new race was launched. The Lakesman. 140.6 miles of stunning Lake District route. I pored over race reports and excitedly waited for updates from twitter buddies who were racing there. And once I heard their stories and saw the pictures, I knew that would be my Iron Race. 

I briefly considered saving up, selling organs and cars and sacrificing meals to pay for entry to a branded Ironman race, but swiftly laid those thoughts to rest on the realisation that it’s the DISTANCE I want to do. It’s fuck all to do with brand. And reading race reports for every conceivable brand or type of 140.6 event, I knew Lakesman’s atmosphere and ethos was 100% for me. 

So I waited. I bided my time. I put in serious fucking groundwork and experimented with huge volume training weeks on swimming and running. I began to develop self belief. The kind of belief that says “if you worked hard at this you could do it.” 

This couldn’t be a selfish choice though. I’d be sacrificing a lot of time. I’d need all the support I could get at home. I discussed this idea with Beardy and in his typically non-chalant way, he shrugged and offered his support. Probably somewhat relieved to be signing up to 6 months of total peace and quiet. 

And then came the day the entries opened. I sat at my desk, bank card at the ready, anxiously refreshing their page. There are only 400 slots. And chatter on social media indicated that a large number of people were interested and looking to enter. 

Please please please Let me get a spot…..

….. and I did. 

So there we have it. June17th 2018. Lakesman day. 

It’s going to be an epic adventure. I have the small matter of another marathon and a 10km swim to get done first before I can knuckle down and start a 30 week plan. 

But it’s happening. I cannot wait. 

This is not impulsive decision. I know, and have suspected for a while, that I am ready for this. 100%. In my head and my heart. My body will just have to accept it. 

Mission IronBean is GO. 

The One That Wasn’t To Be

You’ve spent months prepping for the most intimidating challenge you’ve ever faced. You’ve prepped yourself as best you can mentally and physically. You are ready as you’ll ever be to swim 10,000m in a chilly Windermere. 

Then this happens:


Well, shit. 

I’d been obsessively checking the weather for a few days but Brian and myself were more concerned with Saturday for my cycling adventure and his 25km fell race at Keswick Mountain Festival. Sunday looked breezy but ok! Until I studied it again and saw wind gusts of over 30mph. Ah. Not terribly ideal for swimming in a huge body of open water. 

Bollocks. 

The email from Great Swim said that they wouldn’t be able to accommodate the longer events on the Saturday, but they would happily let us swim a mile. 

My initial reaction was total, utter disappointment. I have trained my arse off. I really have worked so hard for this. It’s like training for a marathon, travelling down to it and then being told it’s cancelled but please feel free to do a lap of this here park. 

Meh. 

I never make excuses. I finish what I start and I give it my all. I have happily never been in this situation, but I absolutely understand safety protocols and experience swimmers are ingrained with respect for open water. It can be a formidable beast. I think the only reason I didn’t descend into a Bean-Strop-Tantrum was because: this was no ones fault. Mother Nature decides. Mother Nature wins. 

Witnessing my heartache, Brian gave me a hug and we set about making alternative plans. 

Luckily, i had been advised by my lovely friend to stay in Ambleside. This turned out to be the saving grace of the weekend. Brian could drive to Keswick and do his run. I’d skip the spectating (it was POURING so this was FINE) and I would spend the day exploring Ambleside (also in the rain though) until I could wander down to swim in the afternoon. (Still in the rain) 

At least I’d get a chance to kick the arse off this smaller distance. As coach said “at this point you could fart out a mile”…… Even if it is only a SIXTH of what I’m capable of. I could do it justice and earn some bling. 

We woke up and had breakfast(s) with our lovely hosts. The rain battering off the sky-lights in their gorgeous kitchen. No tops of any hills visible. 

Brian set off with all his kit to tackle some insane Cumbrian fells and I decided to go for a walk up the falls. 

I wasn’t disappointed. This is such a beautiful part of the world. 


Note: Those pictures appear bright. However the light belies the truth. I was very much wetter than after 10km in Windermere. I was soaked. Despite quality waterproofs. I. Was. Soaked. 

I wound my way down into the village and stumbled upon a small cafe. As I trudged in, the young girl serving smiled and said “you definitely need cake” and proceeded to bring me a perfect latte and, quite probably, the best Victoria Sponge I will ever taste. 

To reach Peak Cake at 31 is sad. But I swear I will not let my attempts to find a better cake end here. No no. I shall continue upon my cake quest. 


I digress.

I wandered back up to the B&B where I was served home made soup and bread while we checked on Brian’s progress. He’d made excellent time and reported that he was still alive. 

Once it hit 2.30, I slowly set off and began the 45 minute walk to the start. It was still wet. My clothes were soaked but I was on my way for a dook anyway so fuck it. Off I went. Soggy. 

As I walked along the side of the lake I could see how choppy the water looked. The winds had started to pick up and for the first time I felt relief that I wouldn’t be having to pick my way through that for 3 hours on Sunday. 

Of course…. Due to Sunday’s cancellations, they had amalgamated TWO DAYS of swimmers into one. Those that could/wanted to swim the mile were allowed. The email stated that you should bring your original cap and chip straight to check in and go. 


No problemo. Or so I thought. 

I got changed. Couldn’t find my chip. Spent 8 frantic minutes searching before it mysteriously reappeared beside me, popped my bag in check in and made my soggy way to the start. I watched the wave before mine set off. I watched about 6 people miss their chance to swim through what I can only describe as sheer ignorance. Marshals were shouting them over but they were too busy faffing about to notice. Then they got shitty with the marshals. Silly, silly swimmers. 

They open your wave check-in 30 minutes prior to your start time. I was organised and one of the first through the gate. Except I was being pulled aside. Uh oh. WHAT HAVE I DONE.  “You need a pink cap for this wave.” Said the girl. I must have looked beyond confused.  “You need to go to Race Information which is over there”. She pointed to a tent about 50 yards away. Across stones. I was barefoot. Nice. 

I now refer you back to the above email. It was LIES. Not so amazing from Great Swim who usually have faultlessly slick communication. 

I had to peg it across stones in bare feet to the girl in the customer services tent who hurriedly handed me a new pink hat. Sakes.  I didn’t need that stressful few minutes at all. 

Finally through check in, I could get my fecking pink cap on and warm up in acclimatisation. Or cool down apparently. Windermere was 15.5 degrees. No colder than I’m used to but I’d have preferred something a little warmer having made the effort to travel for this race. 

Keri-Anne Payne was there to set us off and at 4.30 on the dot I wrestled my way into the lake. The start was violent as usual. I seeded myself with the other 10k rejects as I knew they’d be quick. I enjoyed the drafting as long as I could before we were clear of the marina and out into the lake. 

It wasn’t just a little bit choppy. 

Within about a minute I had already taken a face full of water. The wind was behind us and you could feel yourself being lifted by over a foot and then dropped. I felt sick but I was determined to PB on this distance. My previous best mile swim at Loch Lomond in 2015 was 34 minutes. In these conditions I knew I had to push hard. I wanted sub 30 but knew as soon as the first waves hit, that it would be a huge ask of my body. 

I battered on. Literally. Staying wide of the crowd and trying to relax into a fast rhythm. I felt panic on a whole new scale. Every time I lifted my head to sight I was met with a wave. I couldn’t see the beach or the pink buoy that marked half way. There was too much splashing. 

I powered through half way in 14 minutes. But I knew if the wind was behind me on the way out……….. it wisnae gonna be braw heading back. 

Oh. What. An. Understatement. 

As I turned parallel to the beach, the shallows meant the waves were breaking on us. I had to switch from bilateral breathing to LHS only. Even still every time I lifted my chin to sight the next buoy I took a lungfull. One hit me so hard I choked and for the first time in my swimming life , genuinely thought I was in trouble. After a minute of calming myself down, I bashed on relentlessly as swimmers who’d choked badly we’re being pulled from the water around me. I saw at least 3 swimmers get plucked out the waves. 

Heading back towards the finish, I became extremely uncomfortable. The waves were everywhere. Breathing one side was no better than bilateral. It was honestly quite frightening. I knew I was tight for my time so I tried as best I could to keep my pace strong. 

At this point the water is standing depth. Windermere has enough clarity that you can see the Lake bed fairly easily. I was giving it everything I had and the stones beneath me weren’t budging and inch. It was like swimming up a river. The final buoys took an AGE to appear. 

The field was pretty spread out so imagine my shock when, out of nowhere, a man swam over the top of me and then stopped immediately ahead to do breastroke. He narrowly avoided drowning me and kicking me in the head. I’ve always been told not to take anything personally in the swim, but this was total ignorance and despite the conditions he would have been aware of my proximity to him. He may have narrowly missed knocking me out but he did not narrowly miss a mouthful of my best Scottish swearing. What an absolute turd. 

As I reached the finish gantry I broke into as much of a sprint as I had left and clawed my way out of the water only to discover that their ankle chip beepers were not working. A very tired, very fed up volunteer, wrote my name down wrong three times before I was released, bless her. We were both frazzled. I was so genuinely distressed by what I’d just experienced that I almost forgot to collect my finishers pack (GASP). My watch said 30.20. I was gutted. I wanted sub 30 so badly. After the crushing disappointment of losing out on my main achievement, the sub 30 mile had been the next best thing. Sigh. 

I was worried about Brian getting back from Keswick. I knew he’d finished but his legs would be wrecked. His mountain race turned out to be extraordinarily mental. It was as I was climbing up to the changing tent that I felt the tap on my shoulder. And there he was. Bruised and battered and emotionally scarred. Alive though, so bonus. 

I changed, we hoovered (incredible) burgers, and then we trudged back to Waterhead to the van and a shower. 

As we walked, some thoughts began to surface; For the last few months I’ve been questioning my decision not to enter Ironman 70.3 in Edinburgh. I know I can comfortably do those distances but having just experienced actual real waves, I felt overwhelming relief that my gut instinct had said NO. There is not a hope in hell that I’m ever doing a Sea swim in a race. Nope. Fuck that shit. The thought of colder water, salty water at that, in potentially the same level of swell makes me feel sick. Good decision, Bean. And good decision, Great Swim. Safety first. 

Of course, it also dawned on me that I’d just swam a 4 minute PB in the most challenging conditions I have experienced to date. I finally felt like I deserved my medal. Like I’d actually raced. I left everything out there. That was 10/10 for effort from me. 

I still want to swim 10km. Like some kind of mental idiot. I want that achievement. I can do it (in less choppy water……) and I WANT to so……


Oops. 

Endurance swimming isn’t dead to me. I shall not be beaten by the weather! 

One final silver lining to the re-shuffles this weekend was that we were able to spend a day driving into the Yorkshire Dales to visit my grandparents old home. I spent most summers there as a child and hadn’t felt able to return after my granny passed away in 2002. I felt the pull to go back when Grandad died a few years ago now, but this weekend was the first time we were able to visit. 

The family that now own the house welcomed me in with typical Yorkshire hospitality and gave me a tour showing me all the TLC they’d given to that house I loved so much. 

It was emotional but so worth the winding roads.


Ambleside, you’ve been wonderful. ❤️

Strong and Stable…?

Oh heeeeey! Yeah it’s a topical blog title and I am impressed with myself. 

Be assured, this is not about Brexit or Emperor Palpatine. So if you were looking forward to an informative insight to the upcoming election, this is not the post for you. 

Soz. 

So! What is it about? Well! Unless you live in a cave or under the sea or somewhere with no access to the internet (so….Fife?) you’ll have noticed, by now, that this week is Mental Health Awareness week. 
Mental Health is something that we all possess. Some are in control of it, others not so much. But we are all beginning to learn that we each have a responsibility to look after ours and that of other people. 

Over the last few years, there has been a huge upsurge in the number of organisations fighting against the stigma associated with mental health. And it’s such an important subject. 

The more open we are about it, the more comfortable we become with the fact that sometimes we are not ok. And that it’s ok not to be ok. Ok? 

Since I ran London, I have experienced the typical highs and lows of emotions that follow such a huge achievement and also what turned out to be a very difficult race. This time however, the lows have been lower. I’ve lost control a few times and had to try and scrape myself together more than once. It’s been particularly tough. There are some other factors contributing the the lows this time, but largely I’ve felt less able to cope. My BFF gave me a shake and encouraged me to take some time and try and get myself to turn a corner. And it’s got me thinking….

The link between fitness and mental health improvements has been debated many times over. The more active we are, the greater the rush of endorphins and the more positive and healthy we feel and physically become, over time. But there’s a dark side to all that post-run adrenaline. 

The risk of overtraining is great when you take on so many huge challenges. I’d become a victim of that. I was pushing myself too hard in training both physically and mentally. And it took its toll. 

There is also the fact that Post-race blues are a real thing and they have challenged my anxiety to its very limit. 

Of course, my story started a very long time ago now. Here’s a sort-of-summary:

Admitting I wasn’t well. 

I was overweight. I had been suffering from chronic back pain for nearly 3 months and was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. This followed years of sporadic fibrositis. My GP, having seen quite enough of me, thank you, was quite frank with me. At 24 years young, I was informed that if I chose to continue on my path of Sitting Still and Filling My Face, all I’d have to look forward to would be continued muscle damage and pain. I had compressed discs in my back and if I didn’t get active, I’d likely require surgery by 40. A sharp kick to the arse.  

Around this time I also reached what I perceived to be “rock bottom”. My partner encouraged me to ask for help. Again, my GP didn’t hesitate to offer support and immediately referred me for CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) at the Murray Royal Hospital in Perth. 

I was not strong or stable. I didn’t know which way was up, where I was going or what I’d do if or when I got there. I was the physical and emotional embodiment of Brexit. (#topical #sorrynotsorry)

I also now began to experience, first hand, the stigma of mental health. At school, if someone was being a bit of a weirdo, you’d tell them to fuck off to The Murray Royal. It’s got a reputation for housing some pretty fucked up humans and I figured I’d best keep my referral to myself. 

So, if anyone asked, I was seeing my “Chiropractor” WINK. (Note; I was also actually seeing a chiropractor so if you were one of the people I said this to, I’ll leave it to you to decide where I was…)

To be honest, I found that after 6 months of CBT, all I was able to do was identify some of the factors that triggered the chronic anxiety I’d suffered from childhood. I couldn’t actually do anything to prevent the triggers, or avoid the downward spiral. But at least I could say “HEY! Thats a thing what makes me anxious!” As I cried and panicked. 

Following CBT, I tried more holistic approaches such as EFT and acupuncture. These provided short-term relief from anxiety but were never going to get me close to the root of the problem, nor would it give me the right tools to control it. 

Of course there was initial relief that I had finally broached the subject, I was still painfully aware that my issues could be shrugged off as needy and selfish. And that just because a doctor has given what I was experiencing a name, didn’t mean I could dine out on that. 

I wasn’t going to let high-functioning anxiety define me. I needed a hobby to distract myself and to give me direction. 

The beginning of Marathon Bean. 

In 2012, my dear friend and colleague (at the time) gently badgered me into entering the Kiltwalk with her and some of her friends. It was Lesley who gave me the first motivational kick in a positive direction. She doesn’t know quite how much she helped, until now. 

After Kiltwalk, I set my sights on running marathons. The obvious next logical step, of course. 

I now had drive. I had goals. I met more people with these goals, entered more races, diversified, became a triathlete, rekindled my love of swimming and now I’m busy taking that to the extreme as well. The whole time I laughed inwardly anytime anyone said “you’re mental” for entering something stupid. Yes. Yes I am. But I’m at least 80% less mental now that I’m active….

I found my positivity. 

But this new positivity came with new challenges. 

Truthfully, the mental health problems that I’ve encountered seem almost impossible to “cure”. It’s a case of managing them. Sometimes I manage to manage them. Other times I don’t. But at least now I have an outlet. I have a level of control over myself that I need in order to feel in control. It is a balancing act. 

The effect that took me completely by surprise was The Post Race Blues. No one warned me about this. So…. let me get this straight: I’ve just completed the most amazing achievement, and now I’m going to a) feel like shit and b) experience a renewed and greater lack of self confidence?

Oh ok, cool. 

Over time, I have trained myself to allow this to happen. I realised that it’s important to feel the lows so that you can appreciate the highs. And simply accept that it’s part of the ride and the learning curve. 

This time, however, the post race slump has been particularly jaggy. I’ve had to fight harder to hold on. And I’ll admit to letting go, not wanting to get out of bed and finding solace in comfort food and crying at Dogs Trust adverts. 

However, I am working on pulling myself out of it. Focusing on the next challenge while allowing my head to accept what it’s done to itself and move on. This isn’t easy or straightforward, but the sheer fact that I’m able to identify these thoughts and feelings is progress enough for me. Sometimes it’s about the smaller victories. 

I’ve also learned to stop focusing on the event as the achievement itself. Instead, taking a big old step back and looking at the journey. 7 years ago I was miserable and had no health and no fight. Now I’m all fight and despite injury from overtraining and occasional illness, I really am healthier than I’ve ever been. 

I now sit down after every race and, instead of looking predominantly at what I could do better (this is always important)and what I did on the day, I look at what I actually did to get me to that start line.

Because it’s all me. 

I mean, yeah I’ve seen the odd remark along the lines of “but she has a coach which makes it easier” … and I’ll say this: Having a coach to help me plan in sessions has made my ridiculous combination of disciplines FAR easier to manage around 5am starts and a stressful job. BUT. (And this is the crucial bit)….. it’s ME that gets myself ready to go to the gym. It’s ME that lifts the weights off the ground. It’s ME that keeps myself going through 3 minutes of lunge jumps. It’s ME that gets up at 4am on a Sunday to cycle 40 miles so I can spend a day with my family. It’s ME that goes out running in sideways rain and snow and sleet. I wrestle tired limbs into a wetsuit and jump in a freezing Loch. 

It’s. Me. 

Realising this was huge. A lightbulb moment. I am the driving force behind my achievements

If you are pushing yourself to achieve things it’s because YOU are your driving force. Do not let go of that. 

So. Will I ever not be crippled with anxiety and fear? Hopefully! But until then, what keeps me focussed is the fact that every hurdle, every blocked path, every set back I have ever experienced, the common denominator in beating those things?

Myself.

 I have the strength. And so do you. 

London Marathon 2017

Settle in, guys. This is a tome. 

I’ll paint you a picture. 

Last year, all I had to look forward to for MONTHS was VLM. So the day came and I loved every painful second. I HAD to enter the ballot for 2017. I NEVER expected to get a place. 

But I did. 

Yay. *pained face* 

As this is an opportunity I’d NEVER pass up (because nails. And because biggest marathon in the UK) I gladly accepted and began training for my ideal goal time of 4hr30. I kept this secret. I’m glad I did. 

Come December, things started to fall off and by March I had all but given up hope of even going sub 5. 

Not to worry though, London is London. 

However… The run up, fraught with stress and worry and pain, completely detracted from the event and set me up for a tough day at the office. In my head. 

So. The day. 


Everything was ready. I’d had fun at expo, laid out my kit, eaten my porridge and brushed my teeth. 

I nervously made my way to Kensington High St Station. Then to Westminster. Then London Bridge. Then Blackheath. 

At London Bridge, I found myself walking beside a girl who looked excited and nervous. Her name was Rhian. It was her first. We immediately became Blue Start buddies and i answered her questions as best I could, kept her relaxed (which helped me stay calm!) and got her to the start line where we hugged and made sure we followed eachother on Instagram. (She had a blast and finished in 5:17. Absolutely incredible and so chuffed for her!!) 


At the blue start, I happened to notice two 4hr pacer flags and finally (FINALLY) after all these years of twitter chat, met the beautiful, mental Susie Chan. Fresh from the Sahara after completing her THIRD Marathon Des Sables…. what. A. Woman. A runner so talented that she’s able to pace the 4hr runners home in 3:58 WITH A SORE THROAT AND COLD. Legend. 

The Start 

Last year, I was Red Start. It took 39 minutes for me to get to the start line. This year, at blue start, I was over in 12. I was running London. Again. It was AMAZING. 

The blue route is different for the first 5km so it made for some newness and new distractions. I kept a good steady pace (apart from the woman who STOPPED DEAD right in front of me 500m from the start TO PICK UP A QUID.) and pretty soon it was gel time and timing mat time. 

I felt good. Calm. Zen, even. 

The first thing I noticed were the crowds. Last year it was cool but dry. There were many parts where there were no people. This was not the case this time. Every mile was 4-5 deep. It was oppressive at times. And often extremely claustrophobic. Sometimes it boosted me. Other times it made me panic. Hugely different experience! People will tell you that the crowd get you round. I really did need them several times, but I often felt panicky and freaked out by the sheer number of people. Hundreds of thousands. It was mental. 

Also. It is true what they say about having your name on your top. I decided not to do it this year but I really think it would have helped me. Saying that, the girl running beside me for most of the race was called Jenny which sounds close to Ginnie so I dined off her cheers for a good while. 

From 5km-10km, its busy but pretty featureless. It’s then on to Cutty Sark where the crowd was AMAZING. So loud. So so loud. I took on another gel. It didn’t sit right. I sipped water and decided to give it time. 

Cutty Sark to Tower Bridge

After Cutty, 15km came round quick and I now realised the gels were definitely not agreeing. Same gels as always. Same frequency. New discomfort. I felt bloated. And I darent chance a fart. This was not going to plan. I had to quickly re-evaluate and come up with a strategy that would give me enough energy and salts (on a hot day) to safely get me round the course without becoming a Poo Statistic. 

We jogged through Rotherhithe which was jam packed this year, and then to Bermondsey where I knew Michelle would be waiting. I didn’t see her!! I hoped she was ok. I’d never seen crowds like this and worried that the tube would be horrific. 

As with every run ever over 10 miles, my hips were now starting to protest. It’s agony but largely I can shut up and push through it. But this time, however, every little niggle felt huge. For some reason my head couldn’t focus on anything positive. Just on how far I still had to go. And how much of a battle this was. 

This was going to be a hard-earned medal. 

My plan at this point was not to touch gels until after half way. I couldn’t risk it. I felt so sick and bloated and I had to try and settle my stomach, so I chose to sip water gently and held onto a bottle from a water station until just before Tower Bridge. 

As ever, turning onto Tower Bridge road and seeing it looming over you is indescribable. I enjoyed the first half and managed to wrestle my phone out to film a bit too. Remembering the cameras at the end, I quickly shoved my phone back in my pocket and made sure I smiled and waved for the cameras. I didn’t want to be caught on film awkwardly shoving my phone into the pocket on the arse of my shorts. It would 100% look like I was sorting a wedgie. 

Tower Bridge to Isle of Dogs

This year, I was over the bridge in enough time to watch the GFAs and super fast runners on the home straight at the Out-and-back. I’m not an expert on these times, but I do know that for 18-40F it’s 3hr40 and my god, I can’t imagine holding that pace for 26.2 miles. On a hot day. 

The 3hr30 pacers sailed past and I clapped and cheered for the runners who all looked like they were really hating life. 

Out and back continues for a wee bit until you’re taken down into Limehouse. Just before the turn, the pain in my hips and the voice in my head forced me off the course into the longest queue I’ve ever seen for marathon portaloos. They are at very regular intervals but there were fewer this year despite over 40,000 entrants. 

14.5 miles was where I deeply considered quitting. I stood in that queue and sobbed. I was in agony, my stomach was cramping, I was hugely uncomfortable and for the first time in an event, ever, I truly wanted to give up. 

My head was filled with the negativity of a bitter, jealous “friend” and I could not shake the feeling that I was letting everyone down by running so poorly. 

I decided to consult with some friends and family. After fishing my phone out, I texted mum and dad in our group chat and was instantly met with love and encouragement. I texted my hardcore friend who I knew would kick motivation into me.  I texted my Marathon guru and dear chum  who immediately broke the race down into sizeable chunks for me. I read all the incredible messages of support and genuine love on Facebook.  I realised the love in my life outweighs the shit stuff and that I was DOING THIS. I COULD KEEP GOING. If you were one of the literally hundreds of people who took time to send me love and support, you genuinely made a difference to my day. You got me to the finish. Thank you. X 

Phone back in pocket, horrific portaloo experience over (how do you get shit up a wall?!) and I was off again. 

Running is largely uncomfortable for anyone and everyone in some way. Especially endurance. So by now I was sort of shuffling. But my pacing stayed fairly consistent. I knew if I could get to Mudchute I’d see Michelle. She’d asked me if I needed anything. I just said “a cuddle”. 

Adding to my growing list of sore bits, my feet had now cottoned on to what was happening and I felt like I was developing blisters. Which NEVER happens. 

The run from Limehouse down to the turn at Mudchute felt long. But when I ran up the hill under the 17mile marker and saw my friend I was elated. I then sobbed some more while she hugged me and lectured me on fuelling and forced me to gently and slowly take on a gel while she was there. “Just a little. You NEED sugar”

More words of encouragement given and popped under my cap and I was off again with renewed positivity. 


Once you pass Mudchute you’re back at Canary Wharf. The buildings tower over you. There’s music and screaming crowds and it is an assault on the senses. But you know very soon it’ll only be 10km to go. So you just keep going. Relentless forward progress. 

By now, with sore hips, sore feet and weary soul, I was getting hungry but gels were not an option. I sipped water and took jelly babies and tried them. No pain. Excellent. Orange segments. YES. Not sticky but sweet and refreshing. Then, a beautiful angel appeared from the crowd holding out a Tupperware. “You need this” she said. It was mars bar segments. 

Oh. My. God. 

If you asked me what my idea of race nutrition would be at 19 miles, I’d never ever say Mars Bar. 

It’s officially Mars Bar. 

I was saved. I nibbled it gently and kept taking on water with it. So tasty and easy to digest. For the first time all day I actually felt in control of the situation I was in. THANK YOU MARS BAR LADY I LOVE YOU. 

After this, I largely grazed off food offerings from the crowd. Jaffa cakes (amazing), more orange, tangfastics. You name it. It was like a very long buffet and I made the most of it. I took on enough carbohydrate to feel like I had some energy again and then, sticking to my plan, stopped once I knew I only had an hour to go. 

I don’t like the route after you leave Canary Wharf. It sort of out-and-backs through Poplar for ages and I tend to get a bit disorientated. You’re then in Tower Hamlets and almost back to the out-and-back at Limehouse. 

Still crowds. Still cheers. So many people!!

Limehouse to Blackfriars

The run back along the course to Tower Bridge was tough. The other side was being cleared now. The sweeper bus was carrying VLMs victims and there were injured and broken humans lying along the pavement being looked after by medics. A reminder of how easily it can all go wrong, and how lucky we were to still be soldiering on. 

I was reciting Eminem lyrics over and over in my head to keep a steady rhythm. I rarely run with music these days but I could have used some for this! 

The party bus that choked me up with Fleetwood Mac last year was playing Calvin Harris – Feels so Close. I REALLY missed my iPod. Music was helping me so much. 

Running back past tower bridge and the Tower of London, was incredible. Literally everyone lining the streets was pissed and hilarious. It was brilliant. 

(Although – side note – please don’t fucking blow your vape smoke onto the marathon course. I really did almost puke) 

As I passed the mile 23 marker I heard Michelle screaming for me! There she was! Another hug and a KEEP GOING YOU ARE SO NEARLY THERE. 

Down into the underpasses and on to Blackfriars tunnel. The Somme of running. No screens or music this year in the tunnel. Just people walking, crying, puking, stretching amongst mountains of discarded Pukozade bottles. 

The only thing I loved was the absolutely pounding choons that were drifting up the tunnel from the end. Chase & Status Blind Faith has NEVER  sounded so good. And as we emerged from the dank depths of Blackfriars, like that scene in 28 Days Later,  I finally got the adrenaline rush I needed. 

Embankment to the finish 

Ignore what everyone says. Embankment takes forever and you just want to lie down but you can’t because it’s almost time to finish. 

Not to be flippant, but by now I just wanted to be done. I got unlucky. Despite never suffering with chafing and wearing the kit I train in comfortably, well…. I had chafed. In my special place. And I really just wanted to sit in a box of ice and re-evaluate my life choices. It was not ok. 

Sure, it’s pretty epic to run along the Thames but I was conscious of all the sore bits. And that Big Ben should be there and it’s not. And not. And still not. And is that it? No. Still not Big Ben. 

After about 18 years I saw him. Standing proud waiting for me. Beckoning me towards him. 

(FYI Once you’re  passing parliament, you need to try and smile here for the photographers.)

My next big surge of adrenaline came as we were funnelled through onto Birdcage Walk. I didn’t get the rush of emotion here this year. I just wanted to see the finish line. But it’s such a beautiful section of the run with St James’ Park on the right and leafy trees above me. 

800m to go sign. Oh fuck. Nearly there. Smile for the cameras. SHUT UP LEGS. 

*raps Eminem inside own head*

What feels like an hour later: 600m to go…

Round the corner to Buckingham Palace, under the arch to the golden Victoria Memorial statue, then…. the greatest sight you will ever see:

The Mall. One of the most iconic finish lines in the world. If not THE most iconic. Resplendent with its flags all laid out. The gangtry and cameras calling me home. I try and look majestic but really it’s a death-shuffle. And you’re done. 

My watch showed a moving time of 5:16 but thanks to the toilet queue my chip time is 5:32. However, I was done. I really didn’t give a hoot about the time. A lovely lady gave me my HUGE medal and I was ushered over for a picture, then given my goodie bag and hobbled off to find my bag drop lorry. 

I wanted to take a minute alone before I started making calls and went to find Michelle. So I found a tree and gingerly lowered myself onto the dusty ground beside it to stretch. I sat in the dust and gave myself a pat on the back. My third marathon. None of which have been easy (they never are. For anyone) but yet again I pushed through my mental and physical barriers and proved to myself that I can do anything. Is it hard? Fuck yes. Does it suck? Also yes. But does it make me feel powerful and strong? Yes. Yes. Yes. 

The fact is that training has been hampered by illness and injury since December. Until yesterday my sum total mileage for the year was 154km. Since January. Most people run 5 times that to train for London. I had to rely solely on strength training and my inner fight. 25% of my annual mileage to date was done in one day. If that isn’t a testament to strength training, I don’t know what is. Huge thanks to my coach and dear friend, Jonathan Pain (of Painless Performance and Complete Human Performance) for his support and guidance. 

There is no doubt that running a marathon in 2,3 or 4 hours is an incredible feat of athleticism and grit. To sustain that pace for that distance staggers me. 

But. There is a great deal to be said for the 5hour+ runners. Who slog it out and enjoy it or hate it but get the job done with a smile. (Or in my case a hefty grimace) 

Having to lay aside my aspirations was extremely character building. I am my own biggest critic and my only competition is myself. So taking 5 minutes to have a word with myself about what I’d just achieved, yet again, was important. No one could take this from me. I had earned this medal. 

I phoned Brian to see how his 10 miler had gone in Edinburgh. I tried to stretch. I took my shoes off and slumped against a tree while my feet throbbed. I found salt and vinegar crackers in my finishers bag and inhaled them. Once I’d forced my swollen, battered (but weirdly not blistered) feet into my change of shoes, I painfully stood up and hobbled off to find Michelle. 

There she was. Right in the meeting spot. With Tailwind juice for me and all the hugs.  The meet and greet area was unbearably busy so we headed out to the street and wandered along for about a mile before hailing a cab successfully. 


Back at the hotel, I assessed my limbs during a salt bath. I immediately spotted the bits I’d missed with the factor 50. I have two burnt rings round my ankles where there’s a gap between calf guards and socks. It looks silly. My right forearm is burnt and my left hand, too. I am a patchwork quilt. 

Michelle was the absolute QUEEN of Bean-chaperoning. She ran me a bath and went out to get me food and Epsom salts. She then went for her own run while I tried to stretch and nap. 

So. London. I wanted to love it. I didn’t, this year. It wasn’t hot by London’s standards but I genuinely could not imagine how tough that would be on a properly hot day. This year my mettle was tested. I was pushed to my limit. But I prevailed against my own odds and showed myself, yet again, that I’m tougher than I think I am. 

And then there’s the bling. Always earned, never given. 

Special mentions to the marshals who tirelessly stood and cheered for 40,000 runners. The organisers for yet again creating a slick event where I felt completely safe and looked after. And of course the crowds who came out in their masses and made the atmosphere electric. Thank you, London. X 

Don’t. Give. Up. 

You know those dreams where you are desperately trying to get somewhere but you can’t run or something is in your way?

That. But real.

Sunday was my final big push for London. 3 hours, no prescribed pace. Bliss, you’d think! But no. A lap of the loch plus a little bit extra to get the distance up is normally my idea of heaven. I live in a beautiful part of the world. But the sloshing of the water in my hydration pack and the crunch of the loose gravel on the path were combining to do my head right in. My legs felt great (unsurprisingly. I’m literally SO rested right now…) but my mind just was not in it.

This may sound a little bit mad, but whenever I’ve undertaken one of these ridiculous endurance events, my head hasn’t really considered just how far 26.2 or even 70.3 miles actually is. It’s just not a thing I think about. If I did I wouldn’t enter these things. My commute is 27 miles. But I’d never dream of running to work. And yet I train to run that distance without thinking. Weird, innit?

This time, however, my mind is entirely preoccupied with the route. With which bits sucked and which bits I should look forward to. With where I hurt. With where I needed to pee. I don’t know if this is a blessing or a curse. I’m dreading the stretch from Cutty Sark to Bermondsey and Rotherhithe. I’m dreading Isle of Dogs and Limehouse (WHY DOES LIMEHOUSE CONTINUE FOR SO LONG). I’m dreading miles 21-23 where my body really starts to hurt.

What am I looking forward to, you ask? Michelle waiting for me with a Five Guys burger at the end. That’s what… but seriously. I’m excited for the different start. I’m blue start this year, so I’m hoping to be over the line in under 40 fecking minutes. I’m excited for Cutty Sark. The crowd there is huge! I’m beyond excited for Tower Bridge because I still get goosebumps when I remember it from last year. I’m excited for the party bus at miles 13/23. I’m excited for Embankment because I know when to expect Big Ben this year! I’m excited for Big Ben, and the incredible sensory experience that is running down Birdcage Walk. Bucks Palace is next and the almost deafening crowd. Then the finish line looms and it is SO MUCH FURTHER AWAY THAN YOU THINK IT WILL BE…

More than anything, I’m excited to get that incredible bit of Bling around my neck and definitely NOT enter the ballot for 2018. Gurl, we have had ENOUGH of training for marathons. (What’s that? Number four is in October? Shit.)

So. Less than a week to go. 3 days of work. Glycogen depletion joy. Carb loading MEGA JOY and then London, I’m sort of coming to get you a bit.

 

Why Weight?

When I started this journey, my plan was solely to achieve weight loss. I was unhappy with my size and my weight. I needed to do something for my health and also to try and alleviate the chronic back pain and frequent illness that I was suffering from. Being told, aged 24, that the pain in my back may require surgery by 40, was quite the reality check. I didn’t want invasive spinal surgery. I just wanted to feel no pain and the doctor advised that getting fit would help. 

This decision to drastically alter my lifestyle was always going to have a profound impact. I have, for as long as I can remember, struggled with my body image. I’ve discussed it here before, but there’s so much more to be said. Body dysmorphia is so common that I don’t think I know anyone who doesn’t experience it, to a degree. There would always be those well-meaning people who said “why do you need to lose weight? You look fine!” But the reality was, I was unhappy with myself I knew my health depended on the change. 

Looking back, now that I know what I do about nutrition, I roll my eyes at the choices I made. I think for the first month I survived off 2 bowls of cereal and one meal per day. I was tired, still sore (because I wasn’t feeding my body the right things to help it heal) and I was malnourished. 

But I had started to lose weight because I was in a calorific deficit. By quite some margin. 

And so began a new battle with the scales. I’d have what I thought was a great week. I’d stick to my food plan and I’d walked and exercised. I felt like I looked skinnier so I’d weigh myself only to see another few hundred grams ADDED. 

Then the downward spiral would start. I’d binge. Then skip meals. I’d cry. It was hell. I had zero understanding of my body’s weight pattern, of water retention, of macronutrients. Zero. Fuck all. Nada. 

By this point I’d signed up to do The Kiltwalk. So the added miles of walking really kicked the weight loss goal’s ass. I was soon down by 7kgs. I was delighted. I was still malnourished. 

And the war still raged. 

Over the coming months and years, I would yoyo by around a stone at a time. Thus creating the other problem I’ve had to try and address: my relationship with the Hate Step. Aka the bathroom scales. 

The hardest fight came after the initial significant weight loss. After the difficult maintenance phase. After the endurance journey started. 

The real battle is now, as I get stronger every week. 

In October last year I weighed 69kgs. Not small. But not big. I was pretty ok with that. 65 would be nice but 69 is ok. I’d come back under 70 again and I was pretty stagnant. But then illness. And Christmas. 

On January 9th i weighed myself and cried. 74.5kgs. Literally the heaviest I’ve ever been. Heavier than when I called myself “fat”. 

And yet, my clothes still fit. Sort of. 

I knew that a healthy weight for me is under 70. So I spoke to Coach, got myself straight and started weighing food and tracking macros in earnest. We’re now into march and I’m back at 71. My clothes DEFINITELY fit and I feel better for it. Still 2kg to go but I’m in control of it. 

Now. I must state that, for the record, this drop in weight is not for aesthetic purposes (That’s a big statement from me). It is primarily down to being as race-ready possible so I don’t obliterate my joints. 

But that whole approach has taken SERIOUS determination and I still struggle every so often with the girl looking back from the mirror.

I have to fight with the numbers constantly. Stare down the girl who fights against the numbers and try to show her how STRONG we are. 

I will never be as committed to food control as some of my peers. I mean, I’m not elite. I’m not a pro. And I have no interest in being the fastest or strongest out of any group. I just want to be a fitter, stronger me. Sure I could be even faster, fitter and stronger with obsessive control of food. But life is literally too short to not eat that piece of cake or enjoy a beer with my mates on a Friday night. Life is for living and good food is SO important. 

That has also been a big lesson. Yes it’s fuel. And in the run up to an event I will work to depletion and then loading macro goals. Because jam. But gradually I’ve learnt that it’s so important to be happy and healthy while enjoying what you love doing.

The best thing I’ve learnt through all of this is not to weigh myself out of vanity. My body is capable of amazing things. EVERYBODY’s body is capable of amazing things. 

The sooner we stop looking at numbers and seeing fitness, health, strength and endurance as the marker for improvement, the better.