This Sunday will mark the 26th anniversary of the London Marathon, and my first anniversary of completing it. (Technically, that anniversary was Monday, but I was busy drinking with my friends that day, which prevented me from posting it).
Yesterday I spotted two guys in Greenwich with their TNT bags slung over their shoulders (fellow marathoners will know what I mean), having returned from the Expo to pick up their numbers. The barriers are already up around Greenwich, the pubs have their signs up, and the portaloos, yes, the ones that made me burst out crying last year, are up in the park.
While the loos still make me want to cry (thinking about the fact that I actually did the marathon, not the sight itself), it's a supremely great feeling this year. In the past, I always felt great regret when marathon time rolled around, knowing that I still hadn't crossed that goal off my life list, and trying to figure out when it would be possible. Instead, this year, I feel such pride, elation and relief that I've done it, and I don't HAVE to do it this year. I've proven that I've done it.
However, our new house is literally on the way from the train station to Greenwich Park, so the boys and I will be setting up outside, distributing last-minute good luck supplies (Nurofen, bin bags, jelly babies: essentials that they don't give out on the course). It'll be a great way to join in the fun, and I won't have to do any running to do it.
Unfortunately, the no-running thing is important, because I've done something odd to my left foot (ha! no pun intendend) which makes it difficult to walk, let alone run. I'm back to the doctor for the second time today to try to figure out what the problem is.
Last month, Paula Radcliffe announced she wouldn't be running London this year because of a foot injury. So that's something else she and I have in common. That, and the fact that we've both run the London marathon.
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