Visions of wine and cheese dancing in my head, I put down a deposit for a spot in the race and booked my Eurostar tickets. And, more importantly, justification for a trip to the city of light.
What did I think of running the Paris half marathon? It would be fun! A chance for self improvement. Until one evening in my third year of University an old friend skyped me from her year abroad in France. While my Facebook newsfeed filled up with smug people boasting about their marathons and half marathons and fun runs I did little beyond the occasional yoga or aerobics class. Besides, the collapse of civilisation would mean running out of my asthma medication and then I wouldn’t be running anywhere.Įnd of the world aside, I was happy in the knowledge that after leaving school I wouldn’t be putting my trainers on in anger again. If the rabid hordes of the undead were to move at faster, 28 Days Later speed of knots then at least my end would be swift. so long as they moved at a shambling pace, a la Dawn of the Dead. Still, I was satisfied that should the zombie apocalypse come I would at least be able to run away. I finished the course in a respectable time but was sick on the headmaster’s shoes at the finishing line. I even ran cross country for my house team one year under duress. I am not built for speed, but I can do stamina. Running is the one physical activity I am not actively bad at. I was happy to be set the task of running laps so I could avoid the shame of dropping the netball or the pain of taking a hockey ball direct to the shin. In an effort to get out of games I would routinely “forget” kit. I took a sort of contrary pride in being one of only three people in the whole year never picked to be on a school sports team. Physical Education lessons at school were ritualised torture for someone as unblessed with the powers of coordination as myself.
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