At the last minute I decided to enter the Cyprus Marathon event but ONLY for the 5K. I’d only just got back on my running feet after my fall before Christmas so I thought I’d ease myself in gently.
The minute we set off from the ancient fort my legs dragged and I struggled to breathe. Everything was leaden. It was so demoralising. And of course my dreaded inner voice started its attack:
How can you not even manage this?
You’re rubbish at running and are never going to get any better.
You might as well pack it in now.
And I felt sick-oh SO sick! All the way round it was a toss up between managing my ragged breathing and gulping down all the vomity burps of acid liquid.
There’s a picture of me at the finish actually leaping over the line. “Wow! Looks like you had plenty of energy left” everyone has remarked.
In fact, I leapt over the line, hit the ground and kept on running in a supreme effort to stop myself throwing up on the finish line. I was vaguely aware of someone trying to thrust a banana and a pint of beer my way. I went right up to the sea where I squeezed between two bobbing fishing boats and retched towards the water.
Of course within minutes I felt great and was climbing up onto the No 1 spot on the podium whilst it was still empty and brandishing my medal.
I’m gonna crack this 5K if it kills me.
