The one and only marathon I have run so far was a category of disasters from start to finish:
Two weeks prior to the race I went down with tonsillitis leaving me not as fit as I could have been with all my training. I recovered in enough time to run a 10 mile run before the race, but this wouldn't have prepared me for everything else. I stayed overnight in a strange B&B near Brighton (where the marathon was) it was basically an outside building that didn't really cover the all the requirements of somewhere to stay. My 2 year old daughter wouldn't sleep, I got 2 hours sleep.
I got to the race in plenty of time but it was freezing, luckily I had brought plenty of clothes. Then it got warm and warmer, and warmer.
After the first few miles I knew it was going to be hard work, running much slower and finding it a struggle. I took in my first gel after only 5 miles, this was going to be long.
A hill appeared and I started to feel dizzy and sick, I made it. But only just. I came down the other side to approach the half way point. I realised I needed the toilet so I ducked into a portaloo, the whole thing spun and there were spots in my eyes. I had to take a few minutes to calm myself down.
I eventually came out and started to walk for a while, talking to runners along the way. I ran and walked and ran and walked.
I had a drink, and another, but I realised I was full. This wasn't comfortable at all, I couldn't bear it. I'd put too much inside me to keep going.
At this point I hit a wall. The Brighton marathon goes through an industrial estate, this is not that appealing when you're this tired and in need of motivation and encouragement. So I went to a dark place, a very dark place indeed. With bodies on the floor all around me, littering the pavement, casualties of the race. I wanted to just get to the end.
I made it, but only just. I was on course to run that at least an hour faster. I collapsed into a mess of tears and went to find my family and vow never to do it again....maybe.