26.2 miles - I did it.

I have never seen so many unflattering, red faced, sweaty pictures of me as I have in the last few days on facebook. And I love every single one of them.
It was 26.2 miles of endurance, stubbornness and sheer determination as hundreds of us took to the streets of Derry on Sunday to take part in the Walled City marathon.
Each picture tells a story. The excitement of starting off at the Everglades, exhaustion at John Street, battling the Bay Road and the endless torture that is Fahan Street.
Running a marathon is something I never thought I’d be able to do. When I joined Star Running Club ten months ago I couldn’t even run for 60 seconds without gasping for breath. But I had one goal in mind. I wanted to be able to run the Foyle Hospice Female 5k in 2016.
I’d done everything my coach Seamus Crossan (pictured) gave me beforehand. Saturday mornings were filled with long runs out ‘The Line’, the back roads of Donegal and an infamous visit to Inch Island where we all got lost and swore we’d never run again.
My first 13 miles on Sunday went according to plan. But at mile 14 I came down with dehydration and was for giving up. A disgusting cocktail of flat coke and salt given to me by running buddy Mickey Curran turned out to be my cure and I managed to keep going.
It was the people of Derry and the marshals who kept the runners going. At every corner people handed us icepops and sponges. Scores of people set up hoses and sprinklers to keep us cool. I met up with my old school friend Caoimhe Gallagher who I haven’t really seen in the twenty years since we left Thornhill, and we had a blast running through the sprinklers on Limavady Road.
Fahan Street and the Diamond proved to be my toughest test, but the people of Derry were still there cheering us through the pain. That feeling you get when they put that magnificent medal round your neck is something you can’t really describe. I can’t believe I’m now part of the 1% of the population who have run a marathon.
When I started this journey last year, I had only one goal in mind. I wanted to run the 2016 Foyle Hospice Female 5k that I WALK every year. That 5k finally takes place this weekend.
The medal I get this Sunday for finally being able to run it and fulfil my goal will mean every bit as much to me as my WCM medal.

Me and my coach Seamus Crossan.

Another long run

Tomorrow we're doing another long run.
That's what Saturdays have become about.
But we're tired, most of us have an injury and if the marathon was tomorrow we'd just be glad just to get it over with. Because doing the marathon is the easy bit, it's the training that'll get you.
So this week we are "only doing 16 miles."
Yes that's all.
If I'd said that four weeks ago, I'd have laughed.
But surprisingly I'm looking forward to the 'short run' tomorrow.
Mostly because I'd might survive without losing another toenail (they're overrated anyway).
Might even chance a glass of wine tonight - because next week it's 22

An Inch is a lot bigger than you think!

As I write this column the countdown app that my daughter installed on my phone is telling me there’s just 37 days, 18 hours and 14 minutes left until I run my first ever marathon in Derry on June 5. And I’m officially panicking.
I’m not really sure how I got talked into doing the marathon. I only started running last August with the goal of one day running a 5k. But somehow I’ve become one of those people who have ditched their Friday night glass of wine “because I have to be up in the morning to do my long run.”
I now own more running clothes than normal clothes, and my non running friends roll their eyes when they hear me talk about my latest run as I go into explicit detail, inch by inch, mile by mile.
Last weekend I paid a visit to Inch island, not for a pleasant family day out, this time for full on marathon training. Saturday morning was my first attempt at a 20 mile run.
Inch is a picturesque spot in Donegal, but one I’ve only ever driven through before. And by our calculations the distance from the Strand Road to Inch Island and back should have been 20 miles. That is, until we got lost.
I’ve since found out that instead of taking the path to Little Inch, we took the path to Big Inch. A mistake we don’t intend making again. My running mates and I found ourselves running the gauntlet over some of the toughest hills in Donegal. There may have been some cursing, there was probably some crying and there was definitely some moaning.
We slagged our coach for giving us the wrong the directions (he actually didn’t, but details like that don’t matter when you’re lost), and we considered thumbing a lift home before two of our team members came to rescue us on the Buncrana Road.
Plunging myself into an ice cold bath when I got home confirmed any thoughts my family had that I have gone completely mad. And I think I have. But I have five more weeks of this madness before it ends.
Marathon training is hard, it’s painful and it’s exhausting. So when you see runners out on the road preparing for June 5, beep your horn at them and give them some encouragement.