This Girl Can't part 3 - another open letter to Hull Marathon

Dear Mr Haskins,

Thanks for your prompt response to my open letter, I was really encouraged to read it. I did Tweet you the link too, but I'm glad Liz Edgar's message got your attention.

It's clear to me that we have a lot of common ground; we are both passionate about running as a sport and about the Hull Marathon becoming a brilliant event. It's a real opportunity to showcase Hull, isn't it? Let me reassure you that my ONLY motivation is to maximise participation.

I am glad you raise the point about the Hull Marathon being a new and unprecedented event; this is exactly why I have spoken out at this point. You have the power to make whatever changes you wish before people start thinking "well no-one raised this before, so it's not really a problem." As a slower runner, I can see that some of your procedures and policies do make the event, as it is planned, inequitable. I'm reassured to read that your are committed to include all runners regardless of ability. I hope we can find a solution together.

Other cities host marathons with 8 hour cut offs (including London) so it is evidently not impossible. I challenge you and your team to find a creative solution that makes the Hull Marathon become the festival of running it truly could be. Afterall, 1% of the general population complete a marathon in their lifetime. What a shame if, having become one of those 1%, you can't run in your own, local marathon because they deem you too slow. You mention that residents may be unhappy about road closures; I suspect that they'd find it incomprehensible that, if the city roads are shut down, some willing and able marathoners would be excluded from the event, especially those with pluck and balls.

I have two main points in response to your letter.

1) Your information is contradictory. You say I will be able to complete the marathon and be received at the end, and given an official time, medal and t shirt. Brilliant, thank you. Can you confirm that *all* of the course will be open to me? Your runner information states that, if I am asked to leave the race because it looks as though I won't meet the six hour cut off (Pedestrian Status, as your website calls it) "at this point some parts of the course may be closed to public access." This reads to me that you can't guarantee that all of the course will be open to me to run in.  Will it be? If not, I respectfully suggest that it doesn't matter what happens at the end, because I'm not going to be allowed to get to that point.

It's important you clarify this to me, the other slower runners who may well not be aware of the 6 hr cut off, and any marshalls who may interpret the rules rather more aggressively on the day. You need to be aware that, with the website as it is - still accepting estimated marathon completion times of between 6 and 7+ hours and no mention of the cut off on the Ts and Cs - there are going to runners who have already signed up, who have no idea that they may be disqualified mid race.

Assuming just 1% of the 4000 places will take longer than 6 hours to complete (and it could be much higher) that's 40 people, running at the same sort of pace, who will feel utterly humiliated at being told they can no longer run. 40 angry people who have already run ?15 ?20 ?22 miles, who find that part of the course has been shut. That's a lot of angry runners all at once, in one place. And they'd have every right to be furious;

A) being disqualified mid race is humiliating. Slow runners deserve the same respect and dignity as the elite.

B) Slow runners invest their time, energy and money into training for your race. I paid for my place in December, I've already been training for 18 weeks. That's 18 weeks of childcare, 18 weeks of blood sweat and tears. 18 weeks of belief and self doubt. Countless hours gaining sponsorship, hours away from children, hours asking relatives and friends to accommodate your training.

If we take a brief breakdown of just the financial costs -

Entry fee - £35
New running shoes - £120
New Sports bra - £32
Childcare (average of 5 hrs a week for 18 weeks @ minimum wage) - £585
Sports gels / nutrition for long runs and the race, etc - £50 approx
Overnight stay before race - £100
Transport to race - £50

You're probably looking at around a financial investment of around £1,000 per runner just to get to the start line. You can see why people might be cross.

Can you guarantee me that, at the point I am disqualified - or made to take on Pedestrian Status - I will be able to cross the finish line?

Because if you can, I'm in.

Although I'm not hugely sure what the point of disqualifying anyone is, if they can then finish and get their medal, t shirt and official time. But that's up to you. You say I can't run on the paths as the distance might not be accurate, but you won't extend the road closures either. This sounds to me like you *won't* let me finish, and the comments about finishing are tokenistic. I'll let you decide on that and get back to me.

2) You have not addressed the issue of the website. I maintain that it is still not clear enough that there is a cut off. I implore you to add this to the home page, and the Ts and Cs as well as Runner Information. I also ask you, please contact anyone who has already signed up and estimated their time will be 6 hours + and explain to them, in advance of the race, about the cutoff. There is no excuse for hoiking people out in public on the day.

Please can you also stop taking payment from people who will take 6 hours + to complete, if you can't guarantee they will finish. You are not setting out terms to bar entry, you are setting terms to disqualify in race. I bring you back to my point about dignity.

Finally, I appreciate your second offer of a refund or a relay place. I'm going to decline again; I want to run the marathon I paid for. You are making the mistake of assuming I need to run a competitive time in order to be good. I run for the sheer, unadulterated joy of running. I am a marathoner. You can keep my money.

I really hope to hear back from you with good news. You have the power to make this happen. Maybe, if you ask your Marathon Makers, a few would be happy to work later and support slower runners, or work shifts? Maybe we could have this discussion on local radio and ask people what they think? Especially since there are ways you could be inclusive that don't involve extending road closures and inconveniencing volunteers. Also, make this a policy and you have my cast iron guarantee that I will volunteer as a marshall for 12 hours + next year, if necessary, to allow all runners to join in.

Let's make this an amazing event! I'll help however I can, for free.


Best wishes

Claire x

PS no idea what happ

This girl can't part 2 - Hull Marathon's Response

Just wanted to say how blown away by the support I've had on here, Facebook and Twitter. As of now now, 9pm on the 20th July, this page has received over 5,000 views and innumerable retweets and messages of support. I am utterly blown away.

Claire x

_______________

Today I received the following response from Philip Haskins, the race director of the Hull Marathon. I have been thinking about how to tackle this and have decided to post all correspondence here. This is simply because, having called Hull Marathon out on their inclusivity stance, I feel it is fair to give equal weight to their response, in the interests of fairness and clarity. I have no axe to grind, I just want to maximise participation.

I will post my response to this letter a bit later this evening, when I've written it (LOL!) I've just got the kids to bed and had my dinner. I was feeling a bit stressed today, so my lovely husband took me to Sweatshop to buy me some new Mizuno Wave Riders to help with my marathon training. This is the man who ran 3 miles back, after finishing his own marathon, to find me and run the last 3 miles of my marathon in with me so I didn't have to do it alone. Yes, I want all of Twitter to know what an awesome guy he is ❤️

And here is the response from Hull Marathon:

Dear Claire,

Thank you for your blog post which was shared to our site by Liz Edgar.

Naturally, we were disappointed to hear of your feelings about our event and your participation, but would obviously like to address some of your points. 

Firstly, it is wrong to say that we don’t want you to participate. We recognise that there will be a broad spectrum of abilities taking part and, as you say, it’s often those people towards the back end of the field who are most worthy of support and encouragement. We are keen to see people use the event as a platform for motivation and self-improvement, people very much like yourself.

Secondly, it is totally wrong to say that the website in December was a two page site. Rather, it has been up with the 20+ pages you see today since mid October 2014. The part about the cut off time, in Runner Information, has been there since the website launch as well. 

Thirdly, the 6 hour cut off time is primarily about road closures and is in no way a reflection on the running ability of those taking part. A large closed road event like this will have significant impact upon the lives of many local residents, many of whom will have little interest or sympathy with marathon runners and it is only fair that we take into account their interests as well. Equally, we will be asking many of our Marathon Maker volunteers (between 400 and 500 of whom are likely to be marshals on the route) to be giving up their time on the day. We will be asking them to arrive early and, as with the residents, we think it unfair to be asking them to extend their duties indefinitely. 

In an ideal world we would love to keep the roads closed but as mentioned above, it is a balancing act between the needs of runners and local residents. We have to draw the line somewhere and, like other major marathons with a largely urban profile such as Chester Marathon and the Manchester Marathon, we have gone with 6 hours. This is especially the case for this first year of running the event when we have no yardstick to compare with and are keen to make sure that everything goes according to plan, though like other aspects of the event, we will review this policy post event.

Furthermore, if you do finish, you will get a time, plus all the other things the other runners will receive such as medal and t-shirt, and there will be people there to receive you at the end. You will not be abandoned.

We note your alternative solutions and will give some consideration to them, but allowing some runners to go off first would require longer road closures and longer stints for volunteers, as the safety of these runners would need to be given the same priority as other runners. The second one i.e. running on paths, would incur the likelihood that an inaccurate distance would be run. We are keen to maintain the integrity of the measurement and the route and can’t have one route for some people and another for others.

My team and I are currently working very hard to make this a good event for both the city and the runners and have tried very hard to be as transparent as possible about our planning and delivery of this event. We are sorry that you feel we haven’t been. As previously mentioned, given the depth of your feelings on this matter, we would be happy to consider a refund. Or you can transfer your entry to another runner. Another alternative might be for this year to consider taking part as a member of a relay team, as many people are doing, and then in future years when your training is more advanced, to take part in the full event.

Again, our cut off policy on this is certainly not a reflection on your efforts which I can see are an inspiration to others, but I hope equally that you can see our point of view as well in trying to deliver a good sporting event which balances the interests of everyone taking part; runners, spectators, residents and volunteers.

Feel free to ring me if you wish to discuss further.

Kind Regards

Philip Haskins

The RB Hull Marathon

Dear Hull Marathon, AKA This Girl Can't

This is an open letter to Hull Marathon. Please feel free to comment, share, Tweet etc if you support my stance.

Dear Hull Marathon,

My name is Claire. I am a 41 year old local woman. I have been running for 2.5 years and I train in all seasons and all weathers, pounding the local streets. In July 2015 I was chosen as a poster girl for the national #This Girl Can campaign.

I'd imagine I would be exactly the type of person you'd want to be included in your marathon, to be held on September 13th of this year. I was very excited when I bought my place, on New Year's Eve last year. The website was a two page site, that was happy to take my money, and had no terms and conditions on (or at least no race cutoff. I'd have noticed that, given my last Marathon took 6hrs and 50 mins, I'm sure.) So I paid, and, a few weeks ago, I started training. On Thursday I hauled my (not insubstantial) ass around 16 miles of Holderness countryside, and I have a date in my diary next week for 17. I've put my hopes, dreams, blood, sweat, tears and money into preparing for your race.

Imagine my surprise to hear that you don't want me to participate. I am too slow! Yes, despite the fact that your website is still allowing people whose estimated completion time is 7 hours + to pay for a place, and there are no terms and conditions listed (these are the 2 pages I look at when booking a race place), it is hidden in Runner Information that I must be able to complete the marathon in six hours or no banana.

And it is quite literally no banana too. You say that, at any point in which I'm deemed to slow by race organisers, I will simply be asked to leave the race. I can become a Pedestrian, which is awfully generous of you, and collect my bags and race mementoes at the end, but you will withdraw marshall support and first aid (and presumably bananas too, and water.)

That's OK. I can bring my own bananas and water. No biggie. Seems a bit, erm, aggressive though.

This bit makes me laugh though. I can assume "Pedestrian status" at the point in which you ask me to leave the race (DISQUALIFY is the word they use, no?) and "at this point you are no longer in the race and can continue at your own risk" (FINE - well, not fine, given that I've paid and all, but...) and then "at this point some parts of the course may be closed to public access." So I can't complete, can I?

I have paid for my place and you are saying that I can't finish. If I have the temerity to take on pedestrian status, as I will, I can assure you, you reserve the right to close a part of the course so I can't finish. You also point out that you will not display my time in the final event results, which feels a bit, you know, like I'm embarrassing to you.

'Hull woman runs slowly' shocker.

Before you tell me this is about road closures and how you don't want people like me AKA "fatties") to inconvenience the general public, let me make two suggestions.

1) You start off the slower runners first. Anyone who is expecting to complete in 6-8 hrs goes first. Hell, it's chip timed, we're not going to win. I bet we'd even stay to the left to let faster runners overtake. We don't want to spoil the event, we want to participate.

2) You allow 6-8 hour runners complete the marathon by running on the paths. It'll only be for the last 10 miles at most. I run on the paths when I train, this is fine with me. I'd like to be included in the official times, though, given that I actually finished. The hare and the tortoise both finished the race.

Now I'd like to put the case for why you should include slower runners.

Running is an awesome sport. Ultimately, you only compete with yourself. It's free! Four years ago I weighed well over 20 stones. I had a chronic illness and I needed crutches to walk. Then I lost eight stones. (I've put on a bit since, given that I'm menopausal and awaiting a hysterectomy, but that's OK, I did not expect my journey to health to be straightforward. I'm still working on it! I've been medically cleared to run too, if that's your next thought.) I am doing OK for where I am on my own journey. Maybe, in a year or two, I will be able to run a sub 6 hour marathon, but, for now, I want to compete. I can run 26.2 miles. I've paid. Please let me.

I've spent many hours racing at the back of the field. Whilst the elite racers give it their all for 2 or 3 hours, we're giving it our all for 7 or 8! Marathon running is an endurance sport. Us slowcoaches are masters of endurance.

We are lively, full of character, supportive. The back of the field really demonstrates the very best about humanity. We encourage each other. We run alongside runners raising money for charities close to their hearts - showing names and photos of deceased friends and relatives, often tragically young. Runners who will endure substantial discomfort in order to raise money to help others.

The back-of-the-pack runners hold stories of amazing personal challenge; weight lost, running despite lack of support, through the jibes of errant children, through injury and disability. Through emotional, social, and psychological barriers as well as the physical ones.

Hull has one of the highest rates of obesity and lowest rates of adults participating regularly in sport. Whilst many of us (myself included) can admire the achievement of the elite runners, it doesn't inspire us to change our own behaviour that much. I'm inspired just as much by the horse that wins the Grand National, as I have an equal chance of being like them. What does inspire others to have a go is someone a bit like them. Someone they can relate to. I think you're missing an opportunity to celebrate the achievements of *all* runners, and the chance to provide a springboard to encourage new runners to have a go too. What a wonderful legacy of the Hull Marathon that would be!

At its bare bones it comes down to an issue of equality (dare I say - discrimination?) The back runners are, disproportionately - older runners, women, new runners, charity runners, those recovering from illness or injury, those with disabilities (obvious and hidden), walkers, run walkers and so on. Are you able, both legally and in good conscience, to exclude these people? Because, if you are, I suggest you make it explicit on the front page of your website (and your Ts and Cs) and stop taking payment from people who estimate they will take over six hours to finish. It's disingenous (and many more things besides.)

This is a public event, supported by the council (who, one might assume, would be compelled to support equality in local events.) I'm not asking to pop round the the race organiser's barbeque and have a bite of his sausage. I want to run in the event I've paid for. If I hadn't noticed the cut off and emailed the race organisers I'd still be none the wiser and would be unexpectedly (and it would be dreadfully humiliating) told on the day that I had to stop.

I have made this point by email and you offered me a refund. I do not want a refund; I am a local runner and I want to run my local marathon, the one I have paid for. I will be turning up, and I will be completing as a pedestrian if necessary. I'll bring my own bananas, water, medal if needs be and I'll run on the path.

This girl most certainly can, and she will. I am sorry if that is inconvenient. I'm not just doing it for myself - I'm making the case for the inclusion of ALL runners who want to be there. 20% of London Marathon runners finished between 5 and 8 hours.

You know what they say - never mess with a woman who runs 26.2 miles for fun. A 14 minute mile is as far as a 9 minute mile. I can endure this.

I'd be very grateful if you would reconsider your stance.

Many thanks

Claire Boynton

The More Things Change...

When I started this blog, six years ago, I was having a nervous breakdown. We use that term lightly these days but it was a proper, broken brain, type scenario. It was scary. I did not know that I could break. I did not know what to expect. There were a lot of lows - a lot - but I did get through it and my life became wonderful. From genuinely not expecting to live through the breakdown, however dramatic that sounds, I ended up giving birth to my beautiful daughter, Florence, restarted my career in teaching, lost 8 stones and took up running. It felt like my happy ever after.

However, since September 2014 I have been off work with anxiety. It'd been an odd year - I could feel the black dog breathing down my neck from January for no particular reason. I got into running and went from running 10k (6 miles) to a marathon - 26.2 miles. That was a lifetime high as, until 2012, I always thought I was pretty much allergic to exercise. However, something, generally, wasn't quite right. It came to a head at the end of the summer when the school I work at was taken over by an academy chain. It was a soul destroying few weeks. The skills I had, and the job I loved (engaging disaffected teenagers) was no longer considered a priority. I was moved into an area I had little experience in or enjoyment of, and the work hours ramped up massively. I did three weeks of 80 hours of work, on a 3 day contract. My 3 children still needed all the day to day things that they ever did. I was in the thick of marathon training. I was spending weekends driving all over the country looking at prospective universities with Jonathan. My parents weren't in the best of health and both needed me to drive them to numerous hospital appointments. Something had to give.

I could feel the old symptoms creeping back: the whirring brain that never switches off. The crying. The constant feeling of panic and uselessness in your stomach. So, I quit. I walked away. I went and cried on my lovely GP who signed me straight off work, and I handed my resignation in the very next day. My health was not worth sacrificing - especially not for the £1.15 an hour (net) I had been working for.

I took the photo above on the day I realised that I couldn't go on anymore. I have plenty of pictures of me looking like a strong woman in 2014. I wanted to post this one to remind myself that I can break. However, I was strong enough to walk away. I decided that I would put myself first and I did. I'm pretty proud of that.

Since that day, well, things have been a bit variable, to be honest. I am still signed off and still struggling with anxiety which can feel all-encompassing some days. Some days I don't want to leave the house. But I make myself. I am keeping myself busy because I have been here before, and I know I will heal. It will just take time. I still have my beautiful daughter, and she is more amazing than I could have ever imagined. I still have my fantastic boys and my wonderful husband. I have my health.

From now on, this blog will be a reflection of my life now. It probably won't be as craft-focussed as it once was. I still love to craft, but don't get much opportunity. To be honest, I don't actually mind if nobody reads this, because the very act of pouring my soul into the void is healing. Plus, it's a kind of personal archive that I think keeps a more dynamic record of my life, warts and all, than a photo album or a diary.

So, what will I blog about? Parenting, for sure. Right now I am pretty obsessed with decluttering and reorganising our home. I still love to cook. I am learning to live on a budget (using YNAB - 'You Need A Budget' app) which is why I have migrated my blog from Typepad to Blogger (who could overlook a saving of over £60 a year?!) Cleaning - I am just a little obsessed with Flylady and Obsessive Compulsive Cleaners. Cooking - feeding a family of five on a budget of 5p is not an easy challenge. Plus I am trying to eat healthily, lose weight and shift the last 4 stones I want to lose.

It may seem a bit strange, but I don't actually feel terribly negative about my situation generally, even if I feel bad somedays. Maybe its because I not only healed before, but my life became so much better. I always knew the black dog would snap at my heals again. I know that I will probably have to dance this dance with him for the rest of my life. I also know that I am rich in love and, bearing all this in mind, having little money really is nothing to worry too much about. It's circumstance, not destination.

Care to share the next part of the journey with me?

Claire x

Interior Design

What colour cushions do I need for my dining room? And how many? Just a couple on each sofa, or an abundance?

I am the very model of indecision. Any advice on artwork for the plain walls also appreciated, as what we have no longer goes.

Our house is a 150 year old cottage, which has been extended well beyond it's initial footprint within the last 10 years. This means that some rooms are traditional, with fireplaces and features - and we've decorated with a cottagey, shabby chic style in those rooms. However some, like the dining room, are quite modern and I don't think the shabby chic thing works as well. The wallpaper in the dining room was inspired by my collection of retro crockery. This whole retro style is new to me, so I am lacking in confidence a bit. The walls are a plain, neutral grey-beige (Dulux Egyptian Cotton), the sofas are cream leather and the table, sideboard and skirting boards are oak. Therefore, everything else is very neutral.

All ideas appreciated :-)

 

"I decided to go for a little run...."

Running a marathon was never something in my bucket list. In fact, I remember clearly the first time I even thought of it. I had just graduated from the 'Couch 2 5K' programme, and I looked in the mirror and thought “if I carried on like this, I could probably run a marathon one day!” It was a sort of joke as, frankly, I was the most unsporty person I had ever met.

Couch 2 5K was still a novelty and I was quite astounded that I had managed to complete it. I sort of started because I was curious – and a little bit hopeful, the way you are at the start of a diet. I hadn’t really expected to finish. This was why I got up at the crack of dawn to run, and why I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing. I half expected to prove to myself that I could not run as, deep down, I knew this to be true, as surely as night follows day. Except, eventually, I proved to myself that I could. I could run for 50 minutes without stopping. Yes I was slow, and wobbly and breathed like a wheezy old steam train, but I could finish it. I was losing weight and I was genuinely enjoying myself. Who would have thought that? Certainly not me. And so, with wry amusement, I carried on, wondering where this could lead.

There was a lot of running between then and the time that I signed up to do the 2014 Yorkshire Marathon, a year later. I still was slow, but faster than I was, and I had lost a lot more weight. I was still running 3 times a week, on average, and had worked my way up to long runs of around 10 miles. I was mostly sure, still, that I could not run a marathon. But I could not evict that sparkly little voice that said “but, my dear, what if you could?” Besides which, it was my 40th year. I wanted to do something to invest in myself and it needed to be difficult in order to be rewarding. So I went for the one thing I knew I could not do.

Nothing masochistic there, then.

I awoke on the 12th October 2014 at 5am, with the cold grip of terror around my throat. It was dark, it was foggy and there was not a bit of me that wanted to get out of bed. I knew, KNEW that I could not finish, and felt heartily foolish for ever thinking it might be possible. Worst of all, I had told people, TOLD PEOPLE! What sort of idiot does that? This sort. This overgrown, still overweight runner who gets beaten by pensioners. What on earth made me even think I could do this?

To be fair to myself, the weeks leading up to the marathon had not been on Hal Higdon’s Novice One plan. I am a teacher. I sweated out long runs all through the balmy summer holidays, nearly vomiting in the heat on occasions, to make sure that I was marathon-ready. During the last two weeks of the holidays I peaked at a 20 miler, and then ran two half marathons in four days the week afterwards. I was feeling confident. However, in the true spirit of sod’s law, things went tits up. My school was taken over and my job changed beyond recognition overnight. I was suddenly not working the 3 day week contract I had been expecting (and had factored in to my training plans) but 80 hour weeks. I really wanted to do my best, but it was slipping away from me, like sand through my fingers. I realised I had cried every day for a month. The old symptoms started to re-emerge – hot flushes, rollercoaster tummy, heart pounding, feeling nauseous. I knew it was time to go to the doctors.

Even though I was desperate not to, I cried all over my doctor who, sensing my humiliation, signed me off for a month. The thing with anxiety is, though, that by the time you recognise the symptoms, the process has started. The beast has awoken. You can’t switch it off. Time off work and medication really do help, but the black dog is awake and sniffing about and whispering in your ear. Then it becomes a real battle.

‘If you were any good, you’d have stuck to your training plan.’

‘you can’t do it, you know you can’t. You're wasting everyone's time.’

‘you’re making a massive fool of yourself. They’re all laughing.’

Mentally I was 20 stones again, disempowered, on the sofa. How could that woman – me – run a marathon? It was impossible.

I asked my doctor, hoping, I suppose, for her to confirm that a person signed off from work should not be so preposterous as to run a marathon. She said that I was signed off with a mental illness, not a physical one, and that exercise was good for dealing with stress. She saw no reason why I should not continue to exercise at a rate I was used to. In fact she encouraged it.

 

Sat on the ‘park and run’ bus in York, we were driven towards our chilly doom. The fog was so thick you could not see through the windows. 70 adults sat quietly, shivering in lycra, the nervous energy palpable. Dressed in my running kit, running jacket, gloves and charity shop fleece that I would abandon at the start line, I was agog and most impressed by the lady wearing only her vest. Runners are at once the softest, kindest people I have ever met and hard as nails.

The bus journey passed oh so quicky, and suddenly we were dismounting at York University, the familiar thud-thud of the pre-race PA system vibrating the ground. The old excitement began to build. Except it wasn’t summer, it was thick fog! And it was bloody freezing. I didn’t fancy hanging around eating bananas and queuing for an ice cold portaloo. As I followed the stream of neon runners, like a trail of ants, hundreds upon hundreds of them, my heart began to sink. This was going to be dreadful. What was I doing here?

We checked in our bags. I had packed everything I thought I would need afterwards – a change of clothes, a hoody, two towels, fluffy socks, Crocs, an entire pharmacy, half a ton of bananas. I was beginning to sense I might have overdone it. Then there was that moment when you check in your wordly goods to a stranger, and walk away with only the things you stand up in – and no money or car keys. I felt vulnerable and a long way from home.

We made our way to the Jane Tomlinson Appeal area. To my sheer joy it was not a tent, as had been the case in the past races we had run for them, but a warm, centrally heated ROOM! Best of all, were clean, warm, flushing toilets with NO QUEUE. Let joy be unconfined at such luxury! I was delighted. Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Dom and I hovered about for a good 40 minutes chattering nervously. We rearranged our trainers. We ate bananas. We fiddled with our iPods. We checked our Garmins over and over again. Gloves or no gloves? Running jacket or not? Time ticked by. I felt sick to my stomach. Soon enough, we were on our way to the start line. I heard my name shouted and called round to see my friend, Karen, and we gave each other a massive hug. It was just what I needed. We wished each other well and carried on.

Dom said goodbye as he was filtered towards the pen for the faster runners. I felt my lip wobble as he waved and ran off. I was alone. I made my way to the back of the start line, to zone 5, at the very back. I had expected it to be full of cartoon characters and the elderly. I had, somewhat arrogantly, assumed that I would not be last. I was wrong. I eyed my compatriots suspiciously. They all looked pretty good to me – young and fit. Were they injured? Who knew. Why were they in zone 5? It seemed that everyone was going to take this very seriously, and I had foolishly imagined it would be like the London Marathon I had seen on telly, or the 10ks I had taken place in. There were no teddy bears, no gorillas, no men with fridges on their back. Just me. Dithering inside and out, feeling a million miles from home.

Suddenly, the human wave surged forwards. Walking, then stopping. Walking then stopping. Competitors grinning at other competitors, chipping in on each other’s conversations. Matt Dawson, the ex England Rugby player, was on the PA system making light hearted chit-chat and calling out people’s names. As a fundraising idea, I had asked my friends to choose a song for my playlist for a £1 donation to the Jane Tomlinson Appeal. As the runners surged forwards, and a walk turned to a jog, my iPod started to play ‘Chariots of Fire.’

And then - I was running a marathon.

The first part of the course was downhill. “It’d be great if it was all like this” I quipped to the bloke next to me, thinking it obvious it was a joke. He looked at me like I was an idiot. A few moments later, I bumped my elbow into someone behind me, as we all jostled for position. “Sorry!” I called. “Sorry!” she called back “I guess I’ll be doing a lot of this!” I laughed heartily. As she ran past, I realised she was blind. I cringed. This moment was only to be excelled later in the race when I saw a figure looming through the fog. “Look! Someone in fancy dress!” I shouted.

“I am a Vicar” he replied. Oops.

Chariots of Fire made way to a little bit of Motorhead and things started to look up. The crowds around York were plentiful, and everyone was cheering and waving flags. I started to feel a sense of occasion. After about half a mile, my breathing started to get less ragged and my body started to settle down to its familiar rhythm. I was trying to run slower, endlessly slower. I didn’t want to start off too quickly, and I knew that 10 minute miles were ridiculously quick for me. Calm down, Claire, calm down. Ribbons of runners streamed past me, each trying to find their own pace. Before long the back of the pack had thinned out and there were just few of us running along silently at the same pace, in the mist and the cold and the damp.

“Hi” said a voice behind me “fancy a running partner?” A woman with a kind smile, younger than me, was at my side. I discovered her name was Robyn and she had travelled down from Newcastle by herself on the train to run this marathon. Her train had been cancelled and she had to catch one an hour later, only narrowly making the start of the race. I said hi, and we started to run together, chatting. Agadoo played in my ear, then Chase and Dave. My friends are bastards. Robin laughed. We worked the crowds. Everyone cheered, and we high 5-ed all the children. I had my name printed on my blue Jane Tomlinson shirt, and hoardes of people were shouting “COME ON CLAIRE!”, “you can do it, Claire”, “You’re doing brilliantly!” whilst thrusting jelly babies and Haribo into our hands. The marathon photographers were calling our names and snapping pictures. I have never felt more like a rock star.

As we passed York Minster, I spotted Mike Tomlinson. I was impressed, and somewhat in awe as I am reading Mike and Jane’s book at the moment, so I sort of feel like I have a connection with him, in that weird way you do when you spend time reading someone’s book. I said hi, and he came over and pressed his hand against mine. It was a small gesture – a slightly too long hand press, a momentary connection of eyes. A small gesture that whispered ‘well done, keep going, I can see what this means to you, these events are about people like you.’ I felt ten foot tall.

Village after misty village passed slowly by. We thanked spectators and marshalls for their support, we accepted sweets and we gurned at children. The mist settled into droplets on my eyelashes, making everything seem like it was in soft focus. We quickly developed friendships, shared confidences, told our stories. There is nothing like running to shortcut to your deepest emotions.

By mile 8 I was struggling. We were running in woods by this point, and there seemed to be an increasing number of inclines. We were running at 11.5 minutes per mile and it was a bit quick for me. I was starting to feel a bit stressed and my joints were starting to creak. I was also surprised that I was struggling so early in the race, and started to think the black thoughts of doom. I was convinced that this was because I hadn’t trained enough.

Thankfully, at that point, we met Katy. I recognised Katy from the Vale of York Half Marathon in September because I had chased her down for several miles before overtaking her. It would be fair to say I recognised her more from the back than the front.  Katy joined Robyn and I and we continued, a merry band of 3, chatting and running and making merry in the misty Sunday morning for the next few miles. I was very glad of Katy’s company, not least because she was a bit slower than Robyn and gave me chance to get my breath back.

During this time I regained my composure and felt really strong, powering out a good couple of miles at a decent clip (for me, at least.)  Robyn seemed to be frustrated by the lack of pace. I urged her to run ahead, but she didn’t want to. “I’ll never leave a man in the field” she said, over and again. I reassured her that it was fine, she should stretch her legs, and I would catch up with her later. Eventually she started to stretch out the distance between us.

The miles were starting to pass quite quickly. 9, 10, 11, 12 – we were nearly half way! Just past the half way point there was a place where the runners ran on both sides of the road and I spotted my brilliant friend, Rachael, which was a real boost. We threw our arms around each other and it felt brilliant. Rachael looked good, but a little grey faced and I was a little worried about her. Soon enough we were at the 14 mile cheer station and there I saw Aunty Pauline, snapping away on her camera, although I was not feeling very photogenic, admittedly. There was a band playing here, and a dodgy Elvis DJ.

“You’re doing really well!” called Aunty Pauline “I’ll see you at the finish!”

She was a vision of smiles and home.

It felt like a long way to go. Katy and I ran onwards, chatting, now the deepest of friends and compatriots, determined to lift ourselves and each other out of any gloom that passed our way. We gossiped, laughed and became increasingly sweary as we got tired. We cheered each other on. We shared secrets, jelly babies and pain killers. We smiled and thanked the marshalls and supporters. We agreed that without each other, we might be tempted to give up. We kept saying aloud “we WILL finish,” “only a few more miles and we’ll be counting single numbers” and we SMILED.

Before long we came across Robyn again, and a friend she was walking with, Rich. Robyn was limping and it she told us that her hips were sore. She had had an accident during her training and had only managed to train up to 13 miles, so she was well beyond her longest run. Sensing that she needed the company I walked alongside her. We laughed as the spectators kept shouting “Come on girls!” ignoring six foot – very obviously male – Rich.

It was evident that Robyn was really struggling. Not only was she limping, she was wincing with every step. We were on a long, slow incline. I asked her if she wanted me to get help. “I am not giving up!” she said, time and again. “I want my bling! I have come this far, I am not giving up.”

We fantasised about the menus of fast food restaurants and what we would eat when we finished the race. The Jane Tomlinson Appeal tent promised a free pint and slippers. I talked a lot about that. However, I was worried. Robyn really was not looking good and there was 11 miles still to go. Each step was causing her to cry. Still she would not give up. I was beginning to worry about myself too – my hips were sore and starting to stiffen up. I needed to run to loosen them off a bit. Besides which, the sweep car was visible, and I really did not want to be told to give up. I had trained for months for this.

Robyn’s earlier words rang in my ears: “I will never leave a man in the field.” I could not run ahead, could I? She was in pain. But if I didn’t, I might be swept up and have to give up my place.

I gently suggested to Robyn that I needed to run. “I’m so sorry, Robyn” I uttered, apologetically and full of shame. “I am going to have to run on. My hips are stiffening up.”

“OK” she responded. “I will try to run too.”

My heart sank. She howled with each step. My dreams of finishing were evaporating. I had been walking slowly with Robyn for half an hour.

Suddenly I had a flash of courage. We were all trying to persuade her to stop, but she was determined to finish. “I am going to get medical help,” I said.

And I ran backwards. Back down the hill, back to a passing policeman on a motorbike. Back down the road I had just run, knowing I would have to turn around at run up that hill again, covering that patch for the third time. The policeman told me to tell the sweep car. Back to the sweep car, to explain that a woman was injured and needed help. Back, back, back. My heart aflutter with panic and misery.

And then I looked at the task ahead. I was at the back, at the bottom of a long, steep hill. Of course! “What does the Fox say” was ringing in my ears for the fourth time as I guilded my loins, picked up my courage, rejected the urge to cry and ran for all I was worth up that massive bloody hill. Again. Everything hurt.

Shit. I really needed to make up some ground.

Eventually I caught up with Katy and we exchanged anxious glances. She wasn’t daft. She knew as well as I did that we were in trouble. As the four-by-four passed us with our injured friend on board, we put down our chins, swung our arms and charged our tired bodies forwards at the greatest speed, power walk or shuffle we could muster. We didn’t speak. We gave ourselves the goal of reaching a couple of marathon power walkers who had passed us long minutes before. We reasoned that they would have a strategy and would be walking at exactly the right pace to avoid being swept up. The road was long and the dreaded mile 18 approached. The wall. The part where it all comes undone.

My mood was not improved by seeing someone doing a poo in a field, or by looking at a dead rat underfoot. But – BUT – we were doing it! We had made up ground! We were marching forwards at quite a good pace now, alternating jogging with power walking. We were trying to work out the maths, but our addled brains were struggling. We were averaging 15 minute miles. That’s not bad! We reckoned we could finish before being swept up, if only we kept this up.

Around 18 miles the sun came out and we started to feel elated. It was going to be OK! We were doing it! Where was this bloody wall? Nowhere, that’s where! We were going up another long, slow hill, but it was all going to be OK – WE were going to be OK. We were going to finish! As my mood soared, weird things started to happen in my head. My eyesight was a bit odd. I felt elated - exhausted and sore - but elated. This was not what I had planned for. Everything had become a bit fuzzy around the edges. The sky was twinkling. Then I realised that the sky was moving into funny shapes. I was hallucinating. My phone buzzed with text after text after text with friends who were wishing me luck, telling me jokes, telling me they were running with me in spirit. Katy was there, my soul sister, my marathon family, driving me ever forwards. The dappled sun lit the beautiful Yorkshire countryside and I started saying ever more bizarre things.

“I wonder what those horses are thinking?”

“umm…” replied Katy

I have never been so happy in my entire life.

 

It wasn’t long before things became difficult. By 20 miles, I was starting to slow down. Katy was charging ahead, full of vigour, and I was starting to worry about my left hip flexor. Was it just sore? Was I pushing it too hard? We had been doing a lot of power walking, which was a great way to cover ground quickly and rest the running muscles, but I had not done power walking in my training and it was beginning to show. With reluctance, I let Katy run off into the distance. The crowds had thinned out now, and I was on my own.

I was much, much too close to the end to give up. Just a 10K to go! I had run so many 10ks before, but a 10K is over an hour of running at my best pace, not the wearing trudging that I was managing now. An hour. A whole hour more of running.

I remembered something I had read by Hal Higdon. I imagined reaching deep inside myself with a cup and scooping up the last of my energy. With each step I chanted

“I’m tough”

STEP

“I’m strong”

STEP

“I’m still moving”

STEP

“I can do this”

STEP

Over and over and over. I trudged, robotically, for a good couple of miles in this zone. "I'm tough, I'm strong, I'm moving." There were still spectators in their gardens but I couldn’t really hear what they were saying to me. One toothless old man said “Keep going, my love. It doesn’t matter if you’re slow, you’ve covered the same distance as the rest of them. Keep going!” He had a flock of geese in the front garden of his bungalow. I think. I commented on them, and he looked at me strangely. Were they there, or was I still hallucinating?

One lady called “you’re doing so well, Claire! Keep going! You are almost a MARATHONER! How does that feel! You’ve nearly done it! I am so proud of you – a MARATHON! That’s brilliant, you must be so proud!”

I sobbed.

So did she.

 

I kept moving. At mile 22, just before the mile marker flag, I heard some one from the pub garden shout: “Oi, mate! You’re going the wrong way!” and a cheer.

And there was my wonderful husband, grinning like a loon, running over to give me a hug. He still had his marathon number on, having finished two hours before. He had run back so that I did not have to run those final two miles alone. I have never been more pleased to see anyone in my life.

Those final two miles passed really quickly as he told me how his marathon had gone. We were back in the city now and it all suddenly seemed fun again. People were sat drinking beer in the late afternoon sun, and were all smiles and encouragement. Before I knew it, I was approaching the finishing straight and Dom peeled off to run alongside me.

About 100 spectators were still there, cheering the remaining stragglers on. I was entirely alone running down the finish straight. The announcer read out my name and said “this is Claire Boynton. She entered the Yorkshire marathon as part of a fitness campaign. She was 40 this year and wanted to do something to celebrate her birthday”

All eyes were on me, and I was feeling rather small.

“In 2011, that’s 3 years ago, she used to be over 20 stones. Oh my God! She’s lost over eight stones in weight! That’s incredible! Come on, Claire, you’re nearly finished. Oh my God, this is incredible.”

I sobbed. Big, snotty, chest heaving, unattractive, heart rendering sobs.

I was here. At the finish line.

By the power of my own two feet.

 

 

I was a marathoner.

 

How to lose a lot of weight (100lb, or 7 stones and counting, in my case)

It amazes me to say this, like I’m having some sort of
wonderful dream that I’m about to wake up from. But, the truth is that I have
lost 101lb or 7 stones and 3 lb so far, in about a year. Little old me! Me who
has been fat her whole adult life, and who has been on every diet going. Yet one
of those endless tries at weightloss worked, even though I suspected they were all going to end in
misery. Yay! Don't give up!

Let me tell you, there is NOTHING special about me. If I can do
it, you certainly can.

This is me on the 24th August 2012, and the 24th August 2013:

In my experience, people who ask this question want me to
answer that I’ve found a magic tablet / supplement / diet plan, and the weight
has fallen off quickly and easily. I bloody wish. Sadly, the “secret” of my
weightloss is no secret at all. 

If you want to take away a headline, then this is probably
it:

To lose 100lb, you
need to do what you do to lose 1lb, but for longer.

Like, durr. We all know that. But, do you KNOW that? Really
know it in your heart? Because, in my experience, people tend to expect that I
have dieted harder, been more extreme, found something new. But it doesn’t work
like that. You didn’t get fat overnight, you aren’t going to get thin overnight
either. You need to change your habits. Long term. Long. Term. But you know this.

Whilst we’re about it, I’m not keen on the word ‘diet’
either. I haven’t followed any commercial diet plan, been to classes or had hypnotherapy, or read a certain book. I have no beef with other weight loss
plans, I suspect its about finding one that suits you. This time, for me, I
have NOT DIETED. I have eaten healthily and counted calories. I've just eaten sensibly.

Tip 1) Don’t diet. Eat
wholegrain, eat your five a day. Try not to eat too much meat, but enjoy it
without guilt when you do.

Tip number two would be this. And
yes, you are reading right.

Tip 2) Eat cake every day. Yes, really. Yes, I
have eaten cake every day and still lost seven stones. Pinky promise.

Counting calories is just magic, I promise. Don't dismiss it because its not as fashionable as Dukan, or 5:2 or whatever. A
calorie is a calorie is a calorie. You could eat just Mars bars every day - if
you stop when you get to your allocation, you’ll still lose weight. It might
not be sustainable long term, but it works. This means that NOTHING IS OFF
LIMITS. Yes, that’s right. Take a minute to think about it and let it sink in.
You don’t have to give up anything. You can have whatever you like and you can still lose weight. Even 7 stones. 

For me, I have a wicked sweet
tooth. My normal diets usually go like this: start hugely committed and stick
to them rigidly. Fight that darned sweet tooth. Have some success. Get a bit more
laid back. Fancy something I shouldn’t have. Dabble with the banned food. Maybe
gain a pound or stay the same. Thereafter, for the next few weeks / months, I
can be found face down in the banned foods, scoffing as though my life depended
on it. My self esteem goes through the floor as, yet again, I have failed, yet again.

Well no more, my friends. What I did was to work out exactly
what I needed, and what I could give up on. Wine I liked, and crisps, but I can
generally give those up without too much stress. Chocolate, cakes and biscuits?
Not a chance. These are my weak spot. So I have them every day. There are a few
rules. I count EVERY calorie, especially the treat ones. I only treat myself
once a day. It's better to go out for cake, because the rest of the cake isn't whispering to you. If I can substitute a treat for something that hits the same spot but is
more filling, I do that. A great example is Nutella on crumpets as a mid
afternoon snack. It has roughly the same number of calories as a bar of
chocolate, but actually fills me up more whilst still satisfying the craving.

Prioritise the cake (or whatever your 'thing' is) – its what keeps you on the wagon. Its
much harder to fall off if you allow yourself to eat anything you fancy. Do
this every day. Enjoy it. Nothing is banned. I even allow myself wine and crisps on occasions.

Tip 3) Write
everything down

As I type it’s the end of August 2013. I have written down
every single thing that has passed my lips, with the exception of two days (that
I regret when it was my children’s birthdays) since January 2013. Every single
thing. It keeps me accountable. I love ‘My Fitness Pal’ which is available as a
web site and app. It is a database of calorific values and helps you record
what you eat. It’s a GOOD discipline to get into. Do it and do it religiously. 

Tip 4) Weigh
and measure

Yawn! I can hear you from here. Weighing portions is so
unfashionable. We perceive it to be a massive bore. You know what? It takes
seconds. It keeps you on the straight and narrow. It helps produce pretty
graphs in My Fitness Pal. Trust me on this; just do it.

Tip 5) Exercise

I’ve just lost 50% of the audience, I know. You know this
stuff. I was the MOST unfit, 20 stone lump of womanhood, seriously, I couldn’t
run for a bus. I was almost 40, mother of 3, morbidly obese. Don’t tell me you
can’t exercise, because you can. I know you can because I did.  I downloaded the Couch to 5K app (C25K, I used
the Zen Labs one, but there are loads and they’re all the same) and I had a go.
It was not a pretty sight, but I did it. Remember this:

It’s never easy, but
its always possible. Nothing worth doing is ever easy.

You can do it. All you need is a decent sports bra and, once
you’re sure you’re going to stick with it, a pair of proper running shoes – but
I didn’t even buy these for six weeks. If its too hard, repeat a week. If I can
do it, you can. 

Within five months, I was running a 10K. Looking knackered,
and a bit grey, but I did it. A year ago I would have laughed in your face if
you’d told me I would run a 10K, but look! Here I am! I'm about a stone lighter now too.

And that’s the basics. I am hoping this blog post will be useful
to those who are trying to lose weight, and will be a place I can refer others
when they ask me what I have done. Of course, I can only speak for myself. If
you have any questions, experiences, tips or suggestions, please will you consider leaving
them in the comments section below?

 

Good luck with your journey. Your health is the most
precious gift. Hard is the new black, yes? You can do it too.

 

Claire x