I'ma keep running 'cause a winner don't quit on themselves

Six months on since the London marathon and I've decided to sign up for my second! I knew this was inevitable, the insatiable feeling that I could probably do that again. So, here goes nothing.

I'll be heading to Prague in May in an attempt to beat my time, and the training begins here. Here in wet, cold, rainy Nottingham. Training was actually supposed to begin three weeks ago but I've been in bed back to back with infections... not ideal. But what better place to start than from right at the bottom of the mountain of physical fitness?

So far this year I have run a total of 340.5km. I'm hoping to finish the year on 400km which should be easily doable now that my running shoes are back on.

Goals for the next year of running

• Beat my marathon time of 5:16:29 
• Beat my half marathon time of 2:19:52
• Run over 500km 

In other fun news... I recently reinvested in a weighted hula hoop. A couple of years ago I had one, and let me tell you there's not a more fun way to strengthen your core, than to swirl around with a hula hoop, lip-synching to Queen B. 

London Marathon 2017

Marathon Goals

1. Don't shit myself
2. Finish the race

(in that order)

I arrive at the race village with plenty of time to relax, pee and eat another banana.
There are so many people, too many people. I find a spot on the grass, put my headphones in, stretch out and enjoy the sunshine. I find a quiet space in my own head and try to find a sense of calm. I'm ready. I've been ready for this for weeks.



Waiting to start. Ant and Dec are commentating the beginning of the race, "There are some good looking ladies running today, let's have a big cheer for them!" Every man, woman and child near me eye-rolls. I've never been prouder of the human race. Absolute jokers.

It takes forever to get out of the starting pens. I knew this would happen but it doesn't do anything to dampen the frustration and excitement. A few messages trickle in on my phone from important people in my life as I wait. Their words are essential to my success, and I savour ever last one of them. I cross the start line at about 10:20am, and that's it. I am doing it. I am running the fucking London marathon!

The first mile slips past so quickly as I settle into my stride, but it's not long before I detour to the portaloos for a quick nervous wee.

It's lovely and sunny today. The showers en route make for the nicest surprise. I run through each and every single one and the cool water makes me feel brand new, for all of about thirty seconds. I find joy in the littlest things: smiling and saying a meaningful 'thank you' to the volunteers handing out water; hi-fiving a small child as I run past; Jungle Boogie coming on shuffle.

There are so many people here and trying to spot people I know is like Where's Wally. I know Mum and Ali will be roughly at mile 8, mile 13 and mile 23 but I'll keep my eyes open just in case. I haven't written my name on my running bib this time. As lonely as this makes me feel during the many other miles, it makes it so much easier to find them when they're near by. I miss them at mile 13 and this really upsets me. My brain gets weird and for a solid two miles I reeeaaalllllly miss my Mum, on the brink of tears like a homesick child. Hey Mama by Kanye West comes on, and I remember that it's not really so bad. I'll see her in a couple of hours!

I drift in and out of the miles mentally in a bizarre day dream. One mile passes, then another. I focus on my breathing, fleeting thoughts, the people. The first TorQ gel is delicious, black forest fruits. The second one, less so. After five I want to vomit. But if I don't eat them I'll definitely hit the wall. I pretend it's medicine to shut my mouth up from complaining because 'A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down...' 

When I hit mile 20 I am acutely aware that I have never ever run further than this. No mans land. Who knows what my body will do here? I certainly don't know. I see a sign that makes me laugh, but it's also sound advice, 'NEVER TRUST A FART AFTER MILE 20'. I keep going slowly and steadily, smiling as I run through the pain because Chrissie Wellington (four-time Ironman Triathlon World Champion) told me so in her book. It works a treat up to a point.

Mile 21 and 22 are the hardest by far. I'm so tired. Everything hurts, especially my right hip, and I really want to walk for a bit. I manage to convince myself to keep running, just for one more song. Six or seven 'one more songs' happen before I relent and let myself walk for a bit to stretch out my legs a little. Hard Times by Paramore comes on, and I can't do anything but start running again. It's like when you're in a club and hear a song you know, and can't do anything but run to the dance floor to enjoy it. The sun in shining, everything still hurts, I don't have control over my body, but I do have control over my head. I just have to keep going. One more song.

Nothing in my life has ever felt sweeter, than when I hear my Mum shout my name at mile twenty-four. Her kisses and kindness push me faster and further. Only seconds later I see my old housemates, "Only two more to go Immy!" Josh shouts. This stays with me. This helps. I can do this. Only two more? Easy! I feel totally invincible.

I turn the corner of The Mall towards the final stretch for the last 1000m and one of my favourite songs of all time comes on: Langhorne Slim, The Way We Move. It takes me back to 2013; a party in France. It's the middle of the night. Stars overheard, drinks a plenty. Toby and I are dancing like absolute lunatics in an orange bedouin tent, family and old friends around us celebrating my cousin's marriage. I'm overcome by love. And though we aren't together anymore I feel the weight of that memory like he's there cheering me on. We're dancing and laughing, and nothing beats the encouragement from one of my best friends. I finish with a smile. (I think I am smiling but I can't tell any more. My body feels like it's totally detached from me.)

Five hours, sixteen minutes and twenty-nine seconds, and I'm done.

I catch the tube back towards Greenwich where I'm staying. I climb the stairs slowly, painfully. Every step feels heavy but I've never felt stronger than I do right now, mentally, emotionally or physically. I have to keep saying the words in my head to really believe them. "I ran a marathon. I ran the London marathon!" For days it still won't have sunk in, and even now three weeks later I feel far removed from it. I didn't run the London Marathon; it was someone I knew or knew of, a friend of a friend.

Walking back through the streets of London and I'm smiling like a twat. Like when you find out the boy you fancy likes you back. A big goony grin from ear to ear. The city feels smaller today, a different place to be. Kind strangers come up to me to ask me how I am, shake my hand and congratulate me. I feel a part of this big, mad place and it's wonderful.

Home. I lift each leg into the bath with great effort. I've never heard my knees click so loudly. My pants have chafed a sore red line into my arse. But I know I'll sleep well tonight... because I just ran the fucking London marathon!

Young hearts, run free

Fifteen. I am crouched down in the grass, on my hands and knees, vomiting my dinner up in the dark. I've run here because I hate myself. And I'll keep running for a few more years because I'll still hate myself for a while to come.

I've come a long way from the bulimic, depressed teenager to the woman who's going to run the London marathon this weekend. I wish I could tell little Immy that she's not really alone in the darkness, vomiting and hating herself. I'm there, standing right beside her. We've done this. We have come so far.

We cried together. We went to therapy together. We went soul-searching in all the wrong places, and some of the right places. She and I flew to France, shared a caravan for a few months. Cut our hair with blunt scissors in a desperate moment, contemplated running away from it all 'Into the Wild' style. But kindness brought us back to shore each time. We swallowed the pills, shared the pain and the fear. The embarrassment of admitting defeat and starting again. Mother Curtis stroked our hair when we wept, for a whole year she left us notes of hope and encouragement on the  dining-room table each day when she went to work. And the feeling shrunk a little, day by day. And we fell in love with a boy who helped us to fall in love with ourself, and see the lighter side of life even in the dark times. We've travelled to Bali and back to meditate on what was left of those demons. And we even learnt how to love food all over again; something that seemed entirely impossible all those years ago. It wasn't easy, but we did it.

We fucking did it! 

And on Sunday, with every heavy, slow step I run, I'll also be running for little me.

Follow this link to sponsor me and little Immy on Sunday :)

Reasons to run: round two

With each stride, each step, each tiny inch forward I am amazed by what my body is capable of. The champion feeling I get after smashing out another PB.  For my Dad, and all the days he's missed.  When I'm running and thinking about that big ol' bowl of roastie potatoes with cheese and gravy that's got my name written all over it. Serotonin! Racking up the miles to try and run further than I did last year.  Just incase I ever need to run away from a lion, or a really mean boy. To strengthen my core...I'll never have a flat belly but I will have a strong one. Watching the idiots behind me at the gym, posing in the mirrors as I run (stop taking selfies and just get on with it!)  Carb-loading before a race ♥ Because it makes me feel like I can boss absolutely anything in life. 15 year old Imogen would be well-impressed (and she was pretty hard to please.) Lying down on the grass after a hot, sticky run.  New Asics. When I'm racing and a stranger shouts my name and sends some kind encouragement my way. The Tarka Trail over any treadmill, any day. I AM A DRAGON. Healthy mind, healthy heart, healthy Imogen. Sweating out all the toxins, city shit and bad juju. When I push past that permanent feeling of 'I can't I can't I can't' and realise that actually I can. Chocolate. Because will complete the London Marathon this weekend.

NaNoWriMo

This year I've decided to participate in NaNoWriMo. What's NaNoWriMo I hear you ask? Well I will tell you: National Novel Writing Month. Essentially people from all over the world write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November.

I've wanted to participate in NaNo since I was sixteen, but each year since signing up for an account I've given myself every reason not to write.

I work in retail. November is busy. I'm studying. I've got a full time job. I'm too tired. I'm not really a writer. I'll be shit. I won't complete it so what's the point? It's a waste of time. What do I even write? Where do I begin? I don't have any stories. I can't. I shouldn't. I'm busy. I'd rather watch TV/read/sleep/[insert procrastination of choice here]

The list goes on.

But this year I'm saying 'fuck it' to my critical voice and having a go anyway.

The irony is that by writing this post I'm avoiding doing the thing I set out to do, so I guess I better stop procrastinating and bloody well get on with it! Watch this space.

Feeling small.

So it seems I'm not going to be able to write anything of any value here until I've announced the fact that I feel like a big fat failure. Why can't I write anything interesting? Why do I hate the sound of my own words? Why do I feel the need to write stuff down & seek the approval of others? To be honest the only person who reads this is my Mum, the least judgemental person I know, but every time I've tried to write since March the little creep in my head whispers, "But why would anyone really care what you have to say?"

I've been struggling a lot with 'impostor syndrome' recently.

"Impostor syndrome can be defined as a collection of feelings of inadequacy that persist even in face of information that indicates that the opposite is true. It is experienced internally as chronic self-doubt, and feelings of intellectual fraudulence." - google duh. Where else do we get quotes these days? 

Self-esteem is a funny old thing, and something I've always failed to maintain. For the last few months I've been snail-pacing it through the Headspace meditation section entitled 'self-esteem' hoping it will somehow teach me how to like myself. Why should that be such an impossible feat? And you know what, it has helped. That along with weekly yoga practise has left me feeling strong and capable, more days than not.

My adventure to Bali filled me with a real sense of reassurance and self-love like I've never experienced. But since returning to the reality of working and living in London, it's slowly ebbed away. We all have good days and bad days. Maybe today just isn't the best day. But I should still write on my bad days, I should still try. And maybe I'll delete all this in a few days when the better version of myself crawls out of this cave of self-loathing.

Today I've eaten all the carbohydrates I could find in the cupboard, and spent as long as possible either side of work curled up in my pyjamas. It'll do for now.

What do you do when the critical voice in your head is getting the better of you?

Home sweet home (last week in Devon)

I'm going on a bear hunt

Truth be told, I'm a scaredy cat. It's the little things that make me feel uneasy.

Catching buses. Meeting people (whether I've known them years or five minutes). Going to new places. Making small talk. Waiting awkwardly at the counter in Pret for my coffee to be made. Clothes shopping. Eating in front of other people. Going to the gym. Being in clubs/pubs/bars/anywhere there's a delightful combination of alcohol and strangers.

But that's the exact reason I've always tried to push my boundaries. I need to be a yes man screaming 'YES!' from the top of my lungs, otherwise I'd struggle to get out the house most days.

It's the reason I uprooted my life from Devon to Nottingham alone when I was eighteen. The same reason I took the job in Kingston. The reason I'm flying to Bali on my own in two days time.

I've long had this deep seated belief that I need to move, in rather extreme ways, to get past the fear. People sometimes tell me I'm brave. Quietly I tell myself I'm mad. I don't feel like I have a choice; it feels more like an impulse. I get an idea of somewhere I need to be, and I follow my gut. It's that simple. It doesn't matter if I'm scared, or anxious, or excited, because I'll probably feel all those things wherever I go. All that matters is that I listen, really closely to what I really need. And that's why I'm here, and that's why I'm headed where I'm going.