In which the London Marathon ballot occurred

I won’t lie.  When the London “Marathon News: You’re in” magazine arrived on my doormat on Wednesday, my first reaction was not one of excitement. 

Back in April, the recent post-birth me was desperate to go for a run again, in that flawed human psychology way which makes you want something so much more when you know you can’t have it.  And so my crazy, sleep-deprived brain enthusiastically entered my details into the ballot for the 2017 marathon.  After all, it was fate that the iconic marathon should come along just as I reached the magic 6 week post-birth mark and could start exercising again; fate that next year’s marathon would mark one year since my first post-birth run.  And with that neat plan and a new zest for life outside of my baby cocoon, I set off for my first little jog in six months.

One word for it: agony.  A different body to that which I had last taken for a run.  My middle empty.  My knees hurt.  My thighs tight.  My lower back ached.  My boobs too big.  My arms tense.  I was knackered.  Reality kicked in, and combined with the ongoing issue of having a far stronger mental desire to seek out a café serving strong coffee and large slices of cake than don my running shoes, I have been keeping my fingers crossed since that I wouldn’t get a place.  After all, I told myself confidently, the odds were against me, and at least I’d know I’d tried.  It had proved useful to kick start me into going for runs again, albeit rather – ahem – sporadic ones (it turns out a baby comes with a whole host of new excuses not to go for a run).

And so the arrival of the post resulted in a somewhat mixed reaction and some choice four-letter words.  The following 48 hours have been a whirlwind of overactive random thoughts about the practicalities of training, the excitement of a race, the nerves of long runs.  But the bitter fight between running me and mum me has dominated; oh yes, as soon as I felt a bit excited about the prospect of some regular ‘me’ time and started dreaming of being fit again (for I do like to complain about my current fitness), mum guilt popped up with a huge frown and waggly finger: “but this year is about having a baby… isn’t that enough for you… you must be a terrible and uncommitted mother to leave her for a run”.  Blah blah blah.  Ooh, how I hate mum guilt. 

As my finger hovers over the ‘enter’ button online, mum me is wondering what the hell I’m doing.  In fact, running me is too.  Maybe I need to rename this blog ‘Now I am running mum’, for I’ve got a feeling mum me and running me may be having more choice words over the next six months.  Here goes.  Madness.