MARATHON-FEET

Well, I've done it!   In under five hours, but only just.    The first 12 miles believe it or not go very quickly.   There was an African band under the bridge at Woolwich that should have it's own record label. They were utterly brilliant and so much of what the runners needed at mile 22 (see below). 

I saw one legged runners and runners who looked in their 80s (or perhaps it was just years of running in the sun that made them look that way) who were incredibly humbling. There were others who had photos of their loved ones, usually toddlers, pinned to their shirt backs, who were running because they had lost them for one reason or another.    A wave of deep heat or whatever its called washed over the waiting area at the beginning and everyone talked to everyone in the way they do when you are on a particularly rough flight and you think you're going to die.  

Up to 18 miles I had managed to jump over all obstacles and smile Cheshire Cat style at the fabulous spectators who I applaud for getting up and being selfless on a Sunday morning. You are all utterly amazing.  I saw sides of London and Londoners I never had before.    I only wish we had politicians who deserved us.   I kept being reminded of them and the election as I ran seeing images of Cameron and Brown on the hoardings - especially Gordon Brown's mug beaming down on us on those posters every five miles or so. Very off putting negative energy at every five miles. He is such a Spitting Image puppet of a man.  If they could only capture the positive energy behind that 26 mile run, when everyone seems to be going in the same direction, running through the pain, for the good.  They're not the ones that just say they're going to do something, they're doing it. 

At mile 14, we were going in one direction when the elite runners were running toward mile 22. Despite the fact they must all be very fit, they all looked like death, as though they were in a lot of pain, which wasn't as reassuring as I'm sure it should be (if THEY are in pain, what the hell are the amateurs gonna be like at mile 22). 

   

At 18 miles, a red head pushed in front of me and sent me (and her) flying in the air (think Run Fat Boy Run), both of us landing flat on our faces.    Thankfully I was wearing knee guards. I got up hoping that the ankles hadn't been twisted but they were fine, it was my nerves that took the most bashing.    She was ok, but I've got her number!

At mile 22, I hit what they call 'the wall'. It is not a wall, it is a huge overwhelming slap across the face of common sense when the body tells the mind 'I'm tired, this hurts, this is not fun' and the rest of the organs tell you they don't want to be inside this body any more.   There was also an overwhelming feeling that the body isn't meant to do this.   Not run this distance. It's not normal, natural.  Not for a SW woman any way who hasn't trained enough!  

There were LOTS of casualties. I know because I saw the stretchers and ambulances.  Lots of very healthy looking runners with painful cramp, and people falling over water bottles that had been dropped on the road by previous runners.    I took round some energy gel which has an intriguing consistency with a belt I bought at the Excel Trade Fair, and I looked like a cowgirl ready with her ammunition.  I was covered in Vaseline head to toe which kept me both warm (it rained hard while we were waiting to start) and free from getting sore.    

I walked for half a mile, perhaps more, when negative thoughts set in, as they do, one after another, and heard all those hateful voices and negatives that are thrown at me every day - and then focused the mind like I had the body.  The body gets you round the first twenty miles, the mind does the last six.  It really does.    I saw men and women literally fold like tissue paper as they were running toward the Mall, as though their bodies and legs were made of jelly.  Their bodies just gave up.   I just kept very focused, kept thinking of all the positives in my life, of which there are many, and all the inspiring people I know.    My son wasn't there to see me at the end - but I was thinking of Tom and his face beaming at me when I crossed the line.    I didn't feel elated which I am told some people do when they finish. I felt utter complete relief and really quite tearful.   The medal felt heavy.  The smiles and 'well dones' very welcome and the jelly sweets in the goody bag at the end eaten with the speed I would have eaten them at five not forty five.  Everyone was stretching and too tired to talk, even to the BBC reporters who were trying to get sound bites.  I am amazed people have enough energy to say anything, let alone a sound bite.    I laughed as I watched others like me attempting to climb the steps at Pall Mall. We all looked very very old.   And sitting down was hilarious. Simply couldn't be done.    I fell on some steps and slowly bent the legs and talked to a guy called Jamie who was in the same state as me but who wasn't a Virgin Virgin marathoner and had done it four years before.     He still found it tough.   I beat Branson, Princess Bea and Natalie Um...whatever her name is.   And I beat the giraffe but not the ice cream cone.   

So I seized the day and the day seized me right back and whacked my thighs hard and kicked my ankles and my body is doing what it said it would do as I ran those last four miles.  'I will get you there Sarah Tucker, but I am going to get you back.'   It is doing it today.  Sore feet, knees, legs, thighs, back.   As for my organs, I am told they are all bruised, but hey, I've had a broken heart before, so a bruised one, will mend and be stronger (which I'm told actually it will!!!)

Will I do it again? No. Yesterday it was an 'absolutely not'.  Today it's a 'no'.   Perhaps running a marathon is like childbirth.  Perhaps it will be a 'may be' in a few days time.  Perhaps you eventually forget the pain and like after the low of mile 22, you have to focus and think of all the positives in your life.   Only with childbirth you run the marathon every day.... 

ASHES TO ASHES

Just back from a two week break in France.   Only just though.   Like millions around the world I could have been trapped, but thankfully I found alternative means of transport.  Who else out there believes everyone has been grounded because they don't want us to see alien activity and they've told us we can't fly because of volcanic ash?   As a former avid watcher of the X Files, I believe anything now -  but I liked the idea that Willy Walsh flew up in a 'test flight' to see if it was safe to fly.    Would have made interesting headlines if he had proven it wasn't.    Ashes to ashes and all that. 

One thing I love about my place in France is the peace. The tranquility.  So it was wonderful returning to Richmond where usually I can hear planes over head every five minutes.   As a travel journalist I sort of feel that I have to bear the brunt of the noise as I make my living from it, so to speak. But it was special running through Richmond Park this morning (last week training for the London Marathon, not looking forward to it, ankles and knees sore but the worst is the sore underarms - they don't tell you about that one!)  and not hearing one single plane.  It's still not as peaceful as my place in France, but Richmond is a much more beautiful, quixotic place without the planes.   You can rest in peace here as well now.   

STILL HIDDEN GEM..

Just returned from Sri Lanka.  I'm relieved to be home.   It was sort of tales of the unexpected as there was no set itinerary before I left and seven journalists arrived at the airport not knowing where they were staying or indeed what they would be doing from one day to the next.   You expect that sort of thing in a war zone but not on a press travel trip where the PR usually wants you to write about seamless service, melting pots of hidden gems using every possible lyrical adjective and metaphor imaginable.   Talking of gems - Sri Lanka is known for it's gems - moonstones, sapphires and and anything semi precious.   One of the journalists was accused of stealing one of the hidden gems (probably because it was so well hidden the shop owner couldn't find it), which left a sour taste in everyone's mouth - ironic considering it happened in a town called Kandy.   Sri Lanka is also a place where people chill.  It's a chill out place, spiritual place.    Where people connect with nature again.   Perhaps as a result you've got quite a few retreats designed for those who want to connect with nature again - ie go back to basics (hygiene, food) although the price you pay tends to suggest for less you pay so much more.   We visited a retreat where guests can live in mud huts and live off vegetarian food, and do yoga twice a day.  Monks live in the nearby hills and there are oxen in the nearby fields.   Visually the place is stunning.   The teacher came from just up the road from me.   She was good, but I felt why go to Sri Lanka when I can go just up the road.    At least I'll know what to expect.   I asked the owner what sort of people visit the retreat as it wasn't particularly cheap. She told me lawyers and bankers, and media.    They should put that in their brochure, or perhaps that's why they don't.   But at least it would manage expectations.    I'm sure Sri Lanka is a gem, just that it needs to be seen in the right light, in the right setting

Running for life

I have decided to enter the London Marathon this year.   It seemed like a good idea at the time and it's for a very worthy and worthwhile cause.  I went to a 'meet the experts' day where I listened to experts on running (I didn't know there were experts on running but hey) talk about all the dreadful things that can happen to me in the process of running 26 miles non stop - including death.   People talk about running the way they talk about skiing, golfing, anything where there's an obsessive compulsiveness anality in their wish to impart every bit of detail about every bit of detail.    It reminded me so much of all the books on pregnancy I refused to read before I gave birth, about what could go wrong.  To help prepare myself I've joined a running club.   It feels more like a singles club as there seems to be a lot of pairing off, but I'm not pairing off - firstly because I'm already with someone and secondly because when I'm running I'm just about able to breath let alone hold a conversation.    The running club reminds me a lot of the NCT evening I went to once. I only went to one.  They asked me how I was preparing for child birth and I said I was trying to get as much as possible in before the baby arrived. The woman looked at me sympathetically and told me I was in denial. I said I wasn't. I said I knew I would be having the baby and what they would entail it's just that I wanted/needed to do as much as possible before the day arrived.      I think I'm in denial about the marathon although I have started training.  The point is I find it so utterly mercilessly dull.   And what's worse, a beauty therapist friend of mine has told me it ages the skin.   You look older.   Not only that, by running this marathon, I could have a heart attack, get kidney failure, which is appropriate in light of the charity I'm running for, have dreadful shin splints, get dehydrated if I don't drink enough water, throw up if I drink too much (loss of minerals).    I must eat pasta. I don't like pasta, but I must eat it.   I must not run for a few days before hand.   I will be pulled along by the enthusiasm of the crowd on the day they tell me but I don't think so.   But it's for a good cause. It seemed like a good idea at the time.....

How to make a success of your life..in print

I've started to present talks about How to make a success of your life..in print.  I did it because if I got a £ for every time some one said to me they had a book inside them I'd be a very rich lady.   I talk about basically how and why you should write a book fictionalizing your life, and more importantly why you shouldn't.   You know, the should've, would've, could've of life that you can only live out on paper and not in reality because you either don't have the courage, the money or the time to do it in real life.  Or you might be put in jail if you do some of things you get your characters to do.    I've always found writing the wicked characters so much fun. They are interesting to write and entertaining to read. Elliott Sterling in my latest book is a real stinker but utterly fascinating and there's a geek called Digby losely based on someone I used to know when I worked at Warburgs many many years ago.   He had a smell about him and a permanent stain on his chair.

So far the talks have all gone very well.  I can immediately tell the ones in the audience who will write a book, who have the inspiration and passion to sit up in the middle of the night as I first did when I penned my first, and write.   I know when I got published people looked at me as if to say 'well if you can do it, I certainly can', but they still haven't.   Point is, as I explain in my talks, writing books is not about making money, wanting fame or taking revenge (if you write for any of those reasons it won't work as you'll make your heros so vile they will be un credible and your heroines so flawless you'll want to slap them) it's about passion. And it's strange how few of us have passion, real passion (not talking sexual passion here), these days...If you want to attend one of them, I'll let you know via the blog when I'm doing the next ones, which are in January in and around London.   

The whisperers came to stay

October is not over yet.   There are two more weeks left.   I have been visited by a 70 something horse whispering cowboy and his third fiancee and a 30 something guide from Ecuador (voted the world's best - for 2009 at least).  None of them were ghosts but they sound that way don't they?   Echoes of my visits overseas coming back to haunt me at home, although the haunting was for the most part very pleasant.   They all thought England was wonderful which I suppose it is if you stay here for a few days only, as neither of them had to drive.   Their cultures in a way both curiously and strikingly out of place here.   The Cowboy wore a stetson and the South American talked in a whisper all the time, gently, passionately about his country.   They are all gone now and my son goes off to Thailand for two weeks as well so from having a full house for two weeks I am alone with computer and an action list of stuff that I meant to complete sometime in 2007.  I will miss him loads.   I am talking at the Richmond Book Now Festival on November 1st with three other authors.   I need to decide who is quote 'the most important author of all time, barring the Bard'.    Can I think of someone?  No.   Loved Keats as a teenager No one writes about misery like Keats.    Jane Austen I suppose because I've read all her books but feel personally aggrieved by this author as spent most of my twenties looking for Mr Darcey, in some sort of romantic stupor, and ended up with Hurriah Heep.   I suppose as I live in Richmond, it should be Virginia Woolf but I admit I'm a bit afraid of talking about that one.   Loved and still love Roald Dahl.   Dark, childish, deep and contemporary.   J G Ballard is another one who should get more recognition than he think he does.   Perhaps I should say Darwin as just back from the Galapagos.   Or perhaps it's a test. Perhaps it's like America's Next Top Model (I love that programme. It is so pretty and mindless). Perhaps I should say I am the most important author.   And then it's an excuse to talk about my books.  No.    I have two weeks left to decide and I am definitely not going to say Dickens.   

Ecuador and Galapagos

I've just returned from an utterly fascinating trip to Ecuador and the Galapagos with Tom.    I was expecting a Noah's Ark of animals on the islands, but it's more prehistoric than anything else.  Every living thing looks as though it should be outsized in a Ray Harryhausen film.  The giant tortoises all had the expression of one who has seen too much of live, and at over 120 years old some of them probably have.   On the awesome mainland we climbed up and down and around volcanoes which our passionate and experienced guide Diego (one of the best in the world) advised us were still live and could erupt any moment.  None of them did.  I'm in two minds about recommending going to the islands.   They should be left untouched and abandoned.   They would do much better without us to watch or interfere.