I came last in a marathon and it felt fabulous.
I don’t know why I had such a positive reaction to coming last. Maybe it was because it meant that I now had evidence that my body could be pushed hard and could still work? It was only 18 months since the very difficult birth of my son, so I was still pissed off with my body for not doing a proper job. But that day my body had done me proud. That was all that mattered to me.
I’d already done a couple of Moonwalk Half Marathons, so I was pretty confident. For the uninitiated, the Moonwalk is a huge midnight gathering of mostly women, wearing outrageous customised bras, marching a marathon or half marathon distance together through the London streets to raise funds for breast cancer charities. We are a team of many thousands, where no woman is left behind. Most people are delighted to simply cross the finish line rather than get involved with ‘personal bests’ and minute-per-mile timings. In fact when people asked me how long I would take, I usually told them ‘about a fortnight’.
So, feeling like a seasoned distance-plodder I decided it was time to have a crack at a more athletic focused event. It would mean having to up my training game and keep an eye on how fast I was walking, but I was assured that people did walk the course. I had done my due diligence prior to signing up and when I called the organisers, the enthusiastic bloke on the phone explicitly said “People do walk it”.
I'd done my homework
I’m not a runner, not even by the very loose definition for which that term is increasingly used. But I did my homework. I got a training schedule for the distance and stuck to it religiously, so on the run up to the race I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. After a nervous night’s sleep I emerged from our Travelodge in my running gear - trackie bottoms and a t-shirt, with boobs strapped so tightly to my chest that they resembled one long, bolster cushion.
As the crowd of racers gathered on the leisure centre’s athletic track where the run would start, I side-eyed the other competitors and began to twig that I may have been misled. Of course I knew that some folks would be running. But there were gangs of ‘elite runners’ at the front of the crowd who had flown in from all over the globe. I thought we’d all be having a lovely stroll, okay there’d be a few show offs who accelerated to a gentle jog, but I definitely hadn’t banked on real live athletes.
The starting gun popped. Everyone else belted off eagerly, propelled by the force of determination. The crowd of competitors moved as one, bobbing forwards like a choppy sea. I stood still as a rock, parting their flow. It was too late to change my mind, so I set off. I made a plan in that second to jog round the running track, and keep on jogging until I was away from the small groups of supporters, then I'd walk.
By the time I’d done the circuit my face was puce and my breathing sounded like an lilo being blown up by a foot pump. “Nope, fuck it” I thought and continued to lollop along. After I got to mile three I slowed down to a spritely walk. My knees throbbed as did the meaty muscles at the front of my thighs.
Shall I sneak off?
Mile nine and a dilemma approached simultaneously. I became aware that the small gaggle of people, bringing up the rear, those who were actually less equipped for this race than me, had dwindled to couple of limping lycra-ed gents whose seventieth birthdays must have been but a distant memory. Should I sneak off, use the five pound note I’d secreted in my greying trainer and hunt down a taxi or should I keep on plodding? I gave this some serious thought. As one foot heavily slapped in front of the other it dawned on me that the mile eleven marker had been and gone.
The relief that flooded my body when I passed mile twelve gave me a surprising boost. I felt giddy with relief even though I saw St John’s Ambulance packing up their table at the track where we had started and would finish. My spirit wasn’t dampened, even when I realised the giant ‘FINISH’ sign was being dismantled by a bloke up a ladder.
I glanced behind me. No one. Not the elderly folk. Not even that person dressed in an enormous squirrel costume, which must've had him sweating cobs. No one. That meant I was last. There were 1,300 entrants and I was last. In that moment of realisation I was swept away by my own reaction. I felt euphoric. I felt strong. I knew I was going to be last and I kept on going. At that moment I felt like a total badass warrior woman.
The bloke up the ladder, having spotted me purposefully marching towards the bright orange banner, held it in place. The few remaining St John’s Ambulance crew wandered over to the line and the red haired lady from the nearby burger van stepped down from her griddle. I was overwhelmed by the enthusiasm small crowd of strangers waiting to cheer for me. I don’t think they pitied me, I think they respected my new-found determination.
As I passed under the banner, a whoosh of emotions blurred in front of me. I mouthed ‘thank you’ to the small group of kind supporters then slumped down on a nearby blue plastic chair. A bloke with a clipboard wandered over and handed me a circular disk of metal on a blue ribbon. It was my medal.