’re working the shovel. Let the old man yell. You just work at your own pace.” I looked at him and knew immediately what he meant. It wasn’t the foreman who was wearing me out; it was my desire to please him.I was the one who controlled the effort. I

It happens every time I lead a pacing group. There are always a few runners who just can’t stand to run in the pack. This year’s Flora London Marathon was no different. They were there – the lead clique. They were less than a metre ahead of the pack

of the course, the day – and themselves.At the start, he charged boldly ahead. He was unable, it appeared, to contain his enthusiasm. He searched for position and his piece of the road. And more importantly, he searched for the rhythm and pace that would carry

of the course, the day – and themselves.At the start, he charged boldly ahead. He was unable, it appeared, to contain his enthusiasm. He searched for position and his piece of the road. And more importantly, he searched for the rhythm and pace that would carry

visit, she’s pacing her cage. It’s as if she senses that there’s something beyond her moat and wall, something unknown that draws her outward. That something unknown is freedom. She reminds me that many of us spend our lives simply building better cages

the objective reasons for my failure. I’d run a very difficult marathon, as a training run, only four weeks beforehand. I’d run a marathon-pace half-marathon the week before. I’d also taken two international trips in four weeks, and had come down with a

, but still they ran past.More than in any other marathon, I had to resist the temptation to run along with them. I had found my own pace, a rhythm that worked for me. I could go no faster or slower. The real marathoners were soon out of my sight. Somewhere

miles away.Now what? I was having a great day. Maybe the best I’d ever had. I wasn’t running any faster than usual, having settled into a solid five-hour pace, but I felt strong and comfortable. I was well-prepared, and I wanted the medal. For a minute

to wait. On this day, my gift to myself was an easy run surrounded by thousands of smiling yellow faces. I’m still not there yet. On days when I struggle to find a pace or a distance that suits me, I know that my goal is still some distance down the road

character, but only on the pages of Runner's World). My progress as a runner has consisted of frustratingly slow, small gains. I’ve gradually learnt that, in order to improve, I need to inch my mileage up and, sometimes, slow my pace down. I’ve realised