Running in the dark

My last two runs have had to happen in the dark. This has not exactly been out of choice. The day goes on, and things happen, and you're just about to go and get changed to run when the baby needs changing, or is covered with a giant teddy by the toddler, or the school rings, or a parcel needs signing for, or you suddenly realise that the tax disc you were sufficiently organised to sort out has not actually got as far as the car and is now lost. And it gets dark earlier, and the children need to be fed and settled snugly to bed, and there's dinner to cook and it's half past seven and pitch black and you haven't run.

The ballot results came out last week and I didn't get a ballot place, so I am using the charity place Guys' and St Thomas' offered me. That's another layer of commitment, another set of people I'd be letting down if I didn't train, another level of accountability. I've already had a cheerful voicemail message asking how my fundraising's going.

Fundraising. Oh, yes, I have to ask people for money. I'm not a natural at this. I believe passionately in the Wegener's Trust. I can see how much we've already achieved. I know how much the money is needed, and how much value is being returned for the money we've already raised. But asking people to sponsor me takes me right back to those awful, awful Sponsored Walks at school. I remember sitting up with Mum, faking names in various handwritings so that I wouldn't lag too far behind the extroverts who presented their sponsor forms to the checkout ladies in the village supermarket and strangers on the bus with no self-consciousness whatsoever. I'm no Bob Geldof.

So as well as running in the dark, which is cold and dull and a bit frightening, because you never know whether the footsteps behind you belong to a mugger or to a real runner who knows what they're doing and wants to do it so much that they go out in the dark, I have to discover my inner Bob Geldof.

Dr D'Cruz and his team are researching a rare disease about which very little is known, but which kills people. James lives with it - he's well now, but it's there, always there, ready to pounce. I'm not the only one running in the dark.

As Sir Bob once said - Please, if it's not too much trouble, would you be good enough to sponsor me?

Third time lucky...

Except it's clear that there isn't going to be any luck involved. Just commitment and training. And seeing as I last updated this blog in June, I'm not showing many signs of either. If there was any such thing as luck in marathon training, I'd have found myself fit as a flea and ready to go without having to go on a single run. Because there is always, always, always a reason not to run. Not an excuse. An excuse is something you think up to make yourself feel less guilty about not doing something you jolly well know you should - and could - be doing. A reason is a three year old unhappy at nursery wanting a cuddle. Or a five year old desperate to read to you, or a two year old about to smother his baby sister in an excess of love, or the baby herself needing a feed. Or a husband who's suddenly run out of prednisolone (unfortunately not a new type of pasta) because he's been groggy and has had to up the dosage and didn't notice it how fast it was going down. Or a mother whose good friend has just become a widow far too young and far too suddenly, or a best friend whose mother has just died - again, far too young and far too suddenly. A sister who's just bought her first house, a friend who's just had her first baby, another who's just had her fourth. Meals must be cooked, cars serviced, presents bought, clothes washed and ironed, children loved and supported, husbands, mothers, friends loved and supported too.

I tried. I really tried. Sometimes I'd manage twenty minutes just after James came in from work. For a whole week, I managed to run at seven every morning. But I couldn't sustain it; neither my two year old nor my baby sleep well; James was ill, I was exhausted, and the mornings became rushed and fractious, and I began to realise that I just couldn't do it.

I'm not a sporty person. Antonia and The London Marathon is not a natural marriage. A friend offered to run it for me; another friend offered a friend of hers to run it for me. I was within inches of admitting defeat. I wondered, as I struggled to manage one run a week, whether I wanted it enough.

So I gave myself an ultimatum. We were going on holiday to France, to a rented house, with my mother and my parents in law. And I said to myself (and anyone else who would listen) that if I did not run when there were three doting grandparents on hand to help with the children, I would pull out of the marathon altogether.

And I ran. Not fast, and not far, but regularly - at least every other day. And I swam. Every day of that fortnight saw me either running, or swimming, or both. I know there are people who would love that, for whom time to exercise would be a wonderful aspect of a holiday. But I'm not one of them. I like reading. I like writing. I love playing with the children and baking and spending time with James and watching films and drinking amazing wine and discovering new cheeses and eating baguettes and talking in French. And I did all those things. But I ran as well. And that's what I'm trying to do now. To run as well.