Glass half full

And so it begins ... the first half marathon of the season, my favourite distance, and it's all uphill for the first five miles. Apart from the anger of my toes as they turn black and throw off their nails it's going well. The sun is out. It's neither too hot nor too cold. More importantly there's no head wind. There's a good crowd but not too many; enough to be anonymous but not have people get in your way. Along the roadside there are the bangers of pans and the kids happy to high-five complete strangers as they puff by; there are the bearers of sweets and fruit whose oranges are gratefully received. I'm not sure the bananas were a great idea though ... 100s of skins on the road are a comic accident waiting to happen.

Despite the hills, this was the first time I finished a Half without any walking and there is a certain pride in getting better. I've learnt that it's all in the stride. After being beaten by two giant leprachauns in the Dublin marathon a few years back I realised that keeping the same steady pace is the way to go. I've also taken up chi running. To all those that used to laugh at my flat footed plodding apparently it really is the way to go and the rest of you have probably retired from shin splits after sprinting your way around too many courses.

After the event a fellow runner drives me to the station, explaining that the knickers in the door pocket were his daughter’s which made me feel a bit better about hitching a ride with a strange man (plus I beat him by four minutes). As we chatted he noted a familiar feeling: 'You know, when I'm about a few miles into a race I think to myself, am I actually enjoying this? I'm not sure I actually like running. But I like the feeling when I finish'. So true.

We give up Saturday and beer, late nights and a social life, and there’s never any guarantee. You could train hard for weeks and then just have one of those races where everything goes wrong from the start. It turns out to be 27 degrees. You just can't get into your stride because of the crowds. Something’s not right in the legs so every mile feels wretched, ground out till the end. Just that little bit tired or tense, or didn't eat, drink the right amount of the right stuff, then swearing 'never again'.

Why, as one fellow runner was telling me, after being hit by a car and breaking his leg in four places, did he come back and run another five marathons and has now completed over 50 Halfs? We wreck our knees, ankles, feet and hips. I shed toe nails by the dozen. I have to do planks and squats in between running days just to be able to do it (it's all in the core I finally learnt after years of physiotherapy). I hate warm ups and cool downs but I am older and wiser and love my knees despite making them run 40-60 km a week on hard road in training periods. I hope that by the time I’m in my 60s, 70s, even 80s, I will be one of those runners whose muscles just remember what they have to do.

And why? Because we all love that feeling when we finish.