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.