Love Rugby 5K: Wrong Park, Right Pace

There are many things I want to get right when I'm pacing a 5K.

My pacing strategy. My timings. My motivational speeches *cough* ("Stop whining and just keep running"). Most importantly, making sure I don’t get distracted and sprint off at the start and leave half my runners wondering why they’ve paid good money to be abandoned by a woman in a fluorescent vest.

One thing I probably should get right is the location of the start line.

Unfortunately, I managed to balls that bit up before I’d even collected my race number.

 

My morning began with a gentle trot towards Caldecott Park, which I is where I confidently believed the Love Rugby 5K started.

On the way, I passed a couple of likely lads enjoying a few cans of cider at approximately half seven in the morning. Each to their own. Some people have porridge. Others have Strongbow. And some of the more insane ones are running. 

I arrived at Caldecott Park and thought things seemed a little quiet. Then I spotted a sign telling me I was at the 2K point of the event.

Hang on a minute ...

A quick Google later and I discovered that the actual start was at Whitehall Park. A couple of kilometres away.

Excellent. Nothing says professional pacer like accidentally adding an extra couple of kilometres in because you haven’t read the race instructions properly.

So reading the instructions is not optional. Who knew?

So off I trotted towards Whitehall Park, turning my carefully planned warm-up into something a little more substantial.

Still, at least I was having a proper warm up.

Thankfully, I arrived with plenty of time to spare.

Everything was in full swing, so I headed off to register, collected my race number and timing chip and had a look around.

And I have to say, for a free event, the organisation was brilliant.

Closed roads. Chip timing. Free race photos. A proper event atmosphere. All the things you’d expect from a race AND without an entry fee. Nice.

I caught up with friends from Northbrook AC, Rugby Tri, Twitter and Daventry Runners, including Becky and Dan. A proper sociable start to the morning and one of the things I love about local events: seeing all your running mates!

Even made a friend in the toilet queue! Had a chat with a lady in the queue who had started running in April and was now training for her first 10K. 

The toilet queues were moving at a reasonable rate but the portaloo hand sanitiser situation was a bit lacking. Toilet paper was available though, so we weren’t entirely abandoned to the wilderness.

You take the wins where you can.

My pacing equipment for the day consisted of a bright yellow vest emblazoned with a massive number 25.

Subtle, it was not.

There was, however, one enormous improvement on some of the pacing kit I’ve encountered in the past.

No quill flag.

If you’ve ever seen a pacer carrying one of those enormous flags, you’ll understand the potential difficulties. Doorways become an obstacle course. Trees suddenly seem to be positioned specifically to attack you. Portaloos become a logistical nightmare.

And I have the attention span of a gerbil, so anyone in my vicinity is in constant danger of being accidentally impaled when I forget I have a flag and bend down to tie up a shoe or something.

The humble vest is a much more sensible arrangement.

I spent some time at the Rugby Tri tent chatting to a few potential triathletes, alongside the other pacers waiting for the start. I’m always happy to encourage people to give triathlon a go. It’s a perfectly reasonable sport, provided you don’t mind spending all your money on kit and voluntarily entering open water with several hundred strangers who are intent on kicking you in the face.

Eventually, all the pacers were called forward and introduced according to their target times.

Then it was my turn.

I was heading up the 25-minute section.

The start horn sounded and we were away.

My job was simple enough in theory: run at the right pace, keep an eye on the time and help people get across the finish line in around 25 minutes.

In practice, pacing involves quite a lot of talking.

Fortunately, talking while running is something I’ve had plenty of practice at. Sometimes with other people. Sometimes to myself. Sometimes to the sheep. Or cows. (Or though usually this is more along the lines of "OHMYGODSTOPCHASINGMEYOUBUNCHOFBASTEWARDS")

I found myself running alongside a chatty chap who was returning to running, as well as a pair of runners tackling their first ever 5K race.

It was a really nice mix. People returning after time away, people chasing a target and people discovering the excitement of racing for the first time.

Everyone has their own reasons for being there, and as a pacer, you’re trying to help all of them get the best out of their morning.

It was already pretty warm, so I spent much of the run chatting away, offering encouragement and calling out the kilometres and miles as we went.

There’s something reassuring about knowing how far you’ve come and how far you’ve got left to go. Especially when your legs are beginning to question the wisdom of your life choices. Such as entering running events in the morning when you could otherwise be drinking a nice cup of tea and having a sit down. 

With a mile to go, I reminded everyone that we had approximately eight minutes of running left.

“You’ve had longer dentist appointments!”

I thought that was a fairly solid motivational speech. 

Although, given how many people are absolutely terrified of the dentist, perhaps it wasn’t quite the reassurance I’d imagined.

Still, we carried on.

The atmosphere throughout the race was fantastic.

The route was lovely, too. A bit twisty and turny in places but with a really nice mix of scenery as we made our way through the park, along the main street and past the theatre.

It was a proper community event, and the local support was brilliant. There were loads of people out cheering the runners on, which always makes a difference. 

You can be having the worst run of your life, questioning every training session you’ve ever completed (and all of the ones you haven't!) and wondering whether taking up competitive knitting might be a better use of your time. Then someone on the sidelines shouts your name or gives you a cheer and suddenly you find another gear. 

Well ... at least you don't like to stop running in front of someone who now knows your name,  

But that’s the beauty of it. The runners, the volunteers, the spectators and the people who turn out to support their local event all contribute to the atmosphere.

Love Rugby certainly lived up to its name.

One of my favourite moments came just after my 'motivational speech' and was with a young lad who was working hard to achieve his sub-25-minute 5K. He was clearly pushing himself, and as we approached the finish, he had a couple of walking steps.

And that’s totally cool. Sometimes you need a moment to regroup, catch your breath and remind your legs that they’ve got one last job to do.

And then he surged past me. YASSS!

Off he went, digging deep and finding that extra bit of energy to push towards his target.

Watching someone fight for a goal like that is one of the best things about pacing. You can offer encouragement, keep them on track and remind them that they’re capable of more than they think, but ultimately they’re the ones doing the work.

I really hope he got his sub-25. He certainly looked determined to grab it.

Moments like that are a lovely reminder that a 5K isn’t just a 5K. For one person, it might be a gentle Sunday morning run. For another, it’s a return to fitness. For someone else, it’s their first race. And for someone chasing a time, those final few minutes can mean absolutely everything.

Being part of that, even in a small way, is a privilege.

I crossed the finish line, and I got to enjoy one of the other important aspects of race day.

The medal.

Rather than the usual bit of metal on a ribbon, the Love Rugby 5K medal was made from slate. But here’s the clever bit: you can remove the ribbon and use the medal as a coaster.

A COASTER.

Genuinely one of the coolest race medals I’ve seen.

I love a decent medal, and I particularly love it when someone has put a bit of thought into making something different.

Most of my race medals end up hanging somewhere or being shoved into a box, occasionally brought out to remind myself that I have, on occasion, done something vaguely athletic.

This one can sit on the coffee table and protect it from a mug of tea.

Practical and pretty. What’s not to love? Plus TEA.

The Love Rugby 5K was a brilliant event, and I was genuinely amazed that it was free.

The organisation was excellent, the course was enjoyable, the local support was fantastic and the atmosphere was exactly what you want from a community running event.

I got to catch up with friends, meet new people, encourage a few runners along the way and watch people working towards their own personal goals.

And I got a coaster.

What more could a girl want?

Perhaps a better understanding of which park I'm supposed to be running to but I can’t have everything.

A huge thank you to everyone involved in organising the event, all the volunteers, the spectators and the other pacers who helped make it such a great morning.

I’ll definitely be back.

Next time, I’ll even try to get to the right park first.

No promises, though.

Book Review: Crave: The Hidden Biology of Addiction and Cancer by Raphael E. Cuomo, Ph.D.

*I was sent a PDF copy of the book to read. It were sent to me for free and I didn't get paid to review it. It’s an unbiased review – I’m saying exactly what I think as usual …!*

What if your daily habits were doing more to your body than you realised?

We all have our vices. Mine include running silly distances for fun (and snacks), spending an unreasonable amount of money on triathlon kit and telling myself that another creme egg is essential fuel.

But what if some of my seemingly harmless everyday habits were having a much bigger impact on my health than I realised?

That’s the question at the heart of Crave: The Hidden Biology of Addiction and Cancer by Raphael E. Cuomo.

And it’s an interesting question.

When I think about addiction, I think about drugs, alcohol, nicotine and substance dependency. Cuomo takes a much broader look, suggesting that addiction is woven into far more aspects of modern life than we might care to admit.

Sugar. Ultra-processed food. Social media. Constant phone checking. Caffeine. The need for stimulation, distraction and instant gratification.

Sound familiar?

The book explores how these behaviours activate the brain’s reward systems, particularly dopamine and how repeatedly satisfying those cravings can influence other biological processes within the body. The author examines the relationship between chronic inflammation, hormonal changes, metabolic health and immune function, and how these factors may contribute to an environment in which diseases, including cancer, can develop.

It’s a fascinating premise and one that made me stop and think about some of the things I have come to regard as perfectly normal.

One of the things I found particularly interesting was the discussion around our increasingly addictive society. We live in a world where everything is designed to grab our attention, keep us entertained and encourage us to consume just a little bit more. Food manufacturers engineer products to make them irresistible (*cough* creme eggs), social media platforms are designed to keep us scrolling (thanks Instagram reels about triathlon) and workplace cultures often reward those who sacrifice sleep, downtime and pretty much everything else in pursuit of productivity.

Nowadays being permanently exhausted and permanently available is something we are told subconsciously to aspire to. 

The chapter on digital dopamine was particularly relevant. How many times have I picked up my phone to check one notification, only to emerge forty-five minutes later having watched twenty three reels, read three news stories and learnt something completely unnecessary about a stranger’s thoughts on pronation?

The book encourages us to consider whether these behaviours are genuinely choices or whether some have become habitual responses to boredom, stress and discomfort.

Another interesting theme is the relationship between food and addiction. Cuomo explores how ultra-processed foods are engineered to stimulate our reward pathways, often encouraging us to eat for reasons other than hunger. He discusses the impact of repeated blood sugar and insulin spikes, inflammation and metabolic dysfunction, and how these processes can influence long-term health.

Importantly, the book doesn’t simply point the finger at individuals. It also considers the environments in which we live, the commercial interests that profit from our habits and the societal pressures that encourage us to seek instant relief rather than long-term wellbeing.

I think this is an important distinction. It’s very easy to tell people to make healthier choices, but considerably harder when the world around them is seemingly designed to encourage the opposite.

Perhaps the most reassuring message comes towards the end of the book. While Cuomo discusses the potential consequences of repeated unhealthy behaviours, he is also keen to emphasise that biology is adaptable. Our bodies can respond positively to changes in routine, nutrition, sleep, movement and stress management.

It’s not about achieving perfection or never enjoying a pint of cider, a creme egg or an episode of Dexter (my current (late to the party!!) binge). It’s about recognising patterns, understanding our cravings and making choices that support our long-term health rather than constantly chasing the next little dopamine hit.

I did feel that some of the connections between everyday habits and cancer risk were presented quite assertively and I would have welcomed a little more distinction between established scientific evidence and emerging research. The relationship between inflammation, metabolic health and cancer is complex, and not every behaviour discussed has the same level of evidence behind it. It’s certainly a subject that deserves careful consideration rather than a one-size-fits-all conclusion.

That said, the book raises some thought-provoking questions.

Crave wasn't necessarily a comfortable read, because it encouraged me to look at my own habits and question whether some of the things I do every day are really serving me as well as I think they are.

It also left me with a rather important reminder: health isn’t about what I do occasionally. It’s about the patterns I repeat, often without even thinking about them.

And perhaps that’s the biggest takeaway. We don’t need to eliminate every little pleasure from our lives or become obsessive about every mouthful of food, every hour of sleep or every minute spent looking at a screen. Heaven forbid we turn that into another addiction.

But perhaps we could all benefit from being a little more mindful about what we consume, why we consume it and what our bodies might be trying to tell us.

A thought-provoking read that made me look at some of my everyday habits a little differently.

My verdict: An interesting and challenging exploration of addiction, modern lifestyles and the biology of long-term health. One that might just make you put your phone down, step away from the creme egg drawer and have a little think about your choices.

Although I’m not promising to give up the creme eggs. Let’s not get carried away.

Amazon Link: Crave

Author's Website

London Marathon 2026: 9.5 Toenails & ‘OGETHE’ Is My Favourite Place

There are many things I LOOOVE about the London Marathon.

The atmosphere … The crowds … The music ...The motivational signs ...

That the entire city LOSES its fricking mind in support of 59,000 people voluntarily running 26.2 miles. AND we paid to do it.

What I DO NOT LIKE is getting to the start.

OR staying in a hotel which has 56 stairs to my room.

OR sleeping next door to someone who apparently believes 4:30am is an appropriate time to START ramping the party up.

… but I'm getting ahead of myself …

The journey started with train chaos. Because of course the trains weren't running on time. It's England.

A train was cancelled, which meant the next one was already rammed when it arrived. I wasn’t entirely convinced I was even on the correct train, but fortunately it DID arrive at Euston and after making someone move their belongings, I even managed to get a seat.

Winning already.

The tube was insanely busy but I managed to wangle myself, my rucksack and my suitcase on, much to the disgust of the normal Londoners who were horrified at a further influx of Marathon tourists. But they were of course, far to cool to tut at us.

Eventually I made it to Earl’s Court with the intention of dropping my suitcase and heading onto the London Marathon Expo.

My hotel was the Wembar, which was incredibly discrete because it was hidden behind scaffolding and building works. Marvellous.

Inside though it was clean-smelling and the staff were helpful. Suitcases duly dumped in reception (as too early to check in) and I was back on the tube where despite the busy-ness I managed to get a seat on both trains with the help of my well-practised and perfected RBF (Resting Bitch Face). Another win.

THE EXPO

Number collection was reasonably painless and before long I was officially in possession of a race number and therefore committed to running 26.2 miles whether I fancied it or not.

Of course, I bought a vest at the Expo.

£45.

Forty-five quid. For a VEST. After all those years as a child refusing to wear one, I am now paying forty five quid for one.

My Mother would be laughing her ass off.

I justified it by reminding myself that I still regularly wear the Adidas vest I bought for the 2014 marathon.

Therefore, technically, this was an investment.

I popped over to the Stroke Association stand as although I have a GFA place in the race, I have also been raising money for the Stroke Association and wanted to wear one of their bands during the race for Dad who is very poorly from a stroke, so having that little reminder with me around the course meant a lot.

I was quite thirsty but was too tight to pay £3 for a can of coke at the Excel. They can get stuffed. They're normally about £1. Didn't they know I was skint from spending all my money on a running vest?

.. And back to the hotel.

Back at the hotel, they’d texted me the door codes, which was helpful because all of the staff had evaporated.

I found my room and it was right at the very top of the building. THE TOP.

Fifty-six stairs.

FIFTY SIX.

Because who needed fresh legs for a marathon anyway,

The room itself was tiny and slightly grubby, but it did have an inspirational sign. Rather than the usual LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE bollocks, this establishment had opted for the rather less familiar:

‘OGETHE is my favourite place to be.’

'OGETHE'.

Not a tourist destination I’d ever heard of nor a place I was particularly desperate to visit. I assumed the sign was supposed to say TOGETHER, but someone had lost the T and R somewhere between the factory and the wall and the hotel management had decided that replacing them was an unnecessary expense. Meh. Close enough.

Either that or OGETHE is a magical land where the Wi-Fi is free and the snacks are plentiful.

Adding to the room’s general sense of psychological unease was an owl print hanging at an angle that suggested it had just received some devastating personal news. It was impossible to straighten because the nail on the back of the frame was in the wrong place. So the owl remained permanently pissed, staring into the middle distance like it was questioning how it ended up on a hotel room room.

Which got me thinking. Was the owl drunk? Had it been on the sauce with the bloke who made the sign? Or was there some sort of underground owl-tipping scene in London, equivalent to the cow tipping in rural communities?

I lay there wondering whether I was overthinking this or whether someone had put some kind of drugs in my cup of coffee earlier.

Either way, I wasn’t feeling especially inspired to live, laugh or love. I decided to have a cup of tea.

Then I discovered that the sink was too small to fill the kettle, so I used my only other option which was to fill it from the shower.

After checking the shower head carefully for pubes first.

Obviously.

I enjoyed my cup of tea and headed across to The Blackbird in Earl’s Court for dinner and two pints of fizzy cola and an evening wander in Brompton Cemetery which was beautiful in golden hour.

Perfect.

It was quiet, peaceful and a really nice way to spend the evening before the madness of race day. I had a nice hot shower and got into bed at about 8pm.

Then the people next door started laughing, shouting and partying.

And kept partying.

At 3am the music started up properly.

They were still going at 4:30.

My alarm went off at 5.

Excellent.

RACE MORNING

I don't know what I was complaining about. I'd had almost 30 minutes sleep and the shower was cold because the water refused to warm up.

I decided to reframe it as cold-water therapy. Meant to be good for you, right?

I walked to Earl’s Court station.

It wasn’t open yet.

Of course it wasn’t.

Shit.

But eventually we were let in and I met 2 other girls heading to the start: Lee and Lou and we chatted and it was a really lovely start to the day. So exciting! It really felt real now.

The only problem was that all of our phones were giving us completely different routes to the others. For the same start areas.

Lou and I followed Citymapper and got off at Embankment to go to Blackheath. Lee followed ChatGPT and stayed on until London Bridge. This was not the moment to discover which AI was right. I just decided to trust what I'd used before. I waved goodbye to the girls and we had a hug before heading off to our start pens.

I had A PLAN. I had gone this way last year and popped into the local cafe 'Madeleines' for a coffee and a wee.

And I needed a wee.

Desperately.

Then the plan went wrong. Crowd control measures meant we all got diverted around Madeleine’s and the Costa bathroom was closed. Which I found out AFTER I'd ordered and paid for the coffee.

There was not a single convenient toilet anywhere. ANYWHERE.

And it was open parkland. Not a single convenient bushy bush anywhere. I genuinely don't think I have EVER needed a wee more.

Eventually I got the pink start and was let in. I would have RUN to the toilets but I was capable only of a hobble.

Luckily there were loos right in the entrance - female urinals! And no queue! Great idea.

Except there was no toilet roll.

Luckily, I’d come prepared.

This was a significant improvement on the 45-minute toilet queues I’d experienced previously at the London marathon.

The men’s toilet queue, meanwhile, appeared to stretch approximately to France. Karma.

AT the start, I bumped into a club buddy, Andy Burston and we had a lovely, chilled-out pre-race chat. We even bumped into Ant Smythe from the tri club and we got a quick photo. It was warm, sunny and relaxing.

It was a really nice way to start the morning. No panic, no frantic rushing around, just chatting and waiting in the sunshine.

Then it was time.

Andy and I set off together, although he was chasing the pacer and disappeared ahead fairly quickly

I had originally been thinking about sub-3:20 for my race goal and based on how training had gone, I knew I had a shot but I didn’t want to go out and try to bank time early.

My plan was roughly 7:35–7:40 minute miles and then see what I had left and aim to speed up in the second half.

I don’t plan negative splits but my body seems to assess the situation as I go along and at the start of a marathon it apparently thinks:

“Yes, this is about right. We’ve got loads of running left. Go slow”

And somewhere around halfway it goes:

“Right. Apparently we’re doing this. Let’s get on with it.”

So that was the plan.

Controlled. Patient. Don’t cock it up.

I love the support at London. The first few years I had done it, there were places where there weren't supporters but this year there seemed to be people everywhere.

SO MANY PEOPLE.

I had laminated my name and pinned it to both the front and back of my kit this year, hoping it would survive the showers better than last time. Where the felt tip I'd so cfarefully drawn had run.

It worked! I was being called by name constantly. Most of them were probably just reading my name but I didn’t care as every shout of “Go Sarah!” felt like someone had personally decided I was worth cheering for.

I was buoyed around the course on a ridiculous ride of goodwill from complete strangers.

And honestly, what a bloody privilege.

My kit was pretty simple:

ASICS Metaspeed Tokyo shoes, which were soooo comfortable and a brilliant red/orange/pink colour so good for the family to spot I hoped, my black skort, yellow and black lightweight vest and my Ironman visor. As can't NOT be a kit wanker for a day, right?

I’d decided against sunglasses because last year here were patches of shade and I really didn’t want a repeat of last year when I got distracted and tripped over at mile 19 and dropped my drink.

I’ve learned some things.

Not many.

But some.

The signs were brilliant. Some were motivational. Some were questionable. Some were deeply concerning. But they were ALLLLLLL appreciated.

Some of my favourites:

“Pain is temporary. Strava kudos is forever.”

“Why? “(Then, just behind it) “Why not?”

“I pooped myself so you don’t have to.”

“Don’t trust a fart after mile 16.”

“Run if you think I’m sexy.”

“Run if you think Spurs are shit.”

“My wife is fast as fuck.”

“Chafe your dreams.”

“Your ex would have finished by now.”

“Run like Prince Andrew is behind you.”

“Fuck Tinder. What’s your Strava?”

“Garmin will say this is unproductive.”

“What would Goggins do?”

“This is bloody tough. But so are you.”

“Tap here if you’re fucked.”

“Think your feet hurt? My arms are killing me.”

“I trained for months to hold this sign.”

“All toenails go to heaven.”

“Chafe now, wine later.”

“I don’t know you but I’m proud of you.”

“Run like your mum used your full name.”

And my personal favourite:

“Pick a cute butt and follow it.”

There were also Barbie signs, football signs, signs telling us to get off Hinge and, inevitably, several variations of “Where are you all going?”

Where was I going? I had no idea. I was just following everyone else.

THE FIRST HALF

At around seven miles it started getting a little bit pinchy.

Which isn’t ideal.

Seven miles is EARLY.

But my legs still felt good, so I decided to ignore it. This is an excellent strategy if you don’t want to acknowledge a problem. I then forgot about it. See. It works.

I spent most of the first 20 miles somewhere near someone called Stuart, completely unintentionally. Our pace just happened to match and we kept ending up alongside each other and I kept hearing people shouting his name.

There were supporters everywhere. Literally everywhere. People standing on bus stops. People holding ridiculous signs. People banging drums. People playing music.

The Rose of Denmark was absolutely rocking, with some brilliant tunes, incredible bass, ska, jazz and even bagpipes and drummers along the route.

I was smiling so much that by about mile seven my face actually hurt.

This was ridiculous and wonderful.

I could see the Shard in the distance which meant Tower Bridge was coming. One of my favourite bits.

There is something about running towards Tower Bridge that never gets old.

It is one of those London Marathon moments that makes you forget that you’ve been running for an hour and probably still have a couple of hours at least to go.

I completely missed the Tower of London.

Again.

FFS.

I did, however, see the elites coming back the other way around mile 12. I missed the front pack, which was strange because I normally see them. Of course, it turned out I was running faster this year.

So were they.

The elites coming past looked much further into their pain cave than I felt. They were much further into the race than I was. But it looked tough.

I knew I was working hard, but it felt controlled. Comfortable-ish. A little pinchy.

But nowhere near the absolute horror show I could see on some of the faces coming the other way. Hope that wasn't how I would feel at that point.

As usual, I broke the race down using my gels. I had eight Torq gels and took a salt tablet with each one. I’d put the salt tablets into a little paper teabag bag because I hadn’t brought a small container.

Not exactly sports science. But it worked. Who knew that teabags had other uses than being dunked in a cup of milky water?

I also had water at every aid station. The volunteers were handing out sports bottles rather than cups, which I absolutely loved because I could hold onto them and sip as I ran. I drank at every station. The weather was warm and I definitely needed it. But my fingers didn’t swell up, which is usually a problem for me on long runs.

So another win.

The mile markers, however, were another story.

Mile 16 didn’t look like a proper marker. Mile 17 marker seemed to have disappeared. Then we switched to kilometres for a bit.

Which is absolutely unacceptable.

Do not make me do maths during a marathon.

I’m already trying to multiply by three to work out when to take my gels. I don’t need kilometres too.

At around mile 18 I put my headphones in to get a boost although initially I wasn’t even sure they were working because the crowd noise was so loud.

That’s London.

You don’t need music. The crowd is the music.

THE SECOND HALF

At mile 19 my watch showed 7:50 min/miles.

I was genuinely surprised as the mile hadn't felt any slower and I'd been running nice 7:35 min/miles. I assumed the tall buildings were throwing the GPS off and tried not to stress about it.

At mile 20 I started to push a little. Carefully as I didn’t want to blow up. It was warm, I was going well and there was absolutely no need to get cocky.

Mile 21 brought me back alongside the runners heading out towards Canary Wharf. This is always one of my favourite points because suddenly I'm on the side heading towards the finish. Practically on the finishing line, right??

Everyone else is going the other way. They’re still full of hope.

I am full of determination, gels and mild existential dread. And all the farts that I dare not let loose in case it is NOT A FART.

Mile 22 was for Julian, as usual.

My watch was a long way off the course markers, so Julian got approximately a mile and a half just to make absolutely sure.

At around mile 23 my breathing went a bit weird. I decided it was probably anxiety rather than anything physical and tried to distract myself by looking for dogs.

There were no dogs which was incredibly unhelpful.

I then became distracted by the fact that there were no dogs.

Excellent work, brain.

I’d written a word on my hand in sharpie before the race: 'Courage.'

It was for Lily.

When things got hard, I looked at it and in the final two miles, I looked at it a lot because this was the point where everything started to hurt.

The legs ... The lungs ... The brain.

The little voice suggesting that perhaps walking would be a perfectly reasonable option. I didn't NEED to run it ALL. Just take a couple of easy steps. It will be fine to do that.

But I’d trained for this.

I’d put the BLOODY work in.

And I had someone to think about. I looked at my hand 'courage'.

So I kept going.

Every time it got a bit pinchy, I smiled a little more. Smiling makes it hurt less. Or so I tell myself. And if you smile, people smile back which makes it feel easier too. 

And I moved towards the edge of the road so the supporters could see my name and shout it.

And every time someone yelled “GO SARAH!” I got another little boost.

The Embankment lasted forever.

AGES.

It was brilliantly supported, though, which helped. There was also no human poo after the tunnel this year which was nice.

And then came Birdcage Walk which, as usual, appeared to be approximately a million miles long. Although, to be fair, it wasn’t quite as long as last year.

Progress.

There wasn’t much of a sprint finish this time but I gave it what I had and crossed the line.

Done.

London Marathon 2026.

3:19:22.

A new PB.

And a negative split.

I’d wanted sub-3:20.

I’d run 3:19:22.

And somehow I’d managed to execute the race almost exactly how I’d hoped.

Controlled first half ... Faster second half.

No spectacular blow-up. No death march.

Just a long, steady squeeze of the pace until there was nothing left to squeeze.

And I still had 9.5 toenails. Whoop!

Chicken wings for dinner in a park. Perfection.

On the tube platform, an old man asked me if I’d won. I told him nope but two runners had broken two hours that day which was a new world record. I was absolutely nowhere near winning.

But I’d won my own little race.

I’d run a PB.

I’d broken 3:20.

I’d negative split a marathon.

I’d survived the toilets.

I’d survived the party hotel.

I’d survived the crowds.

I’d survived the maths.

And I’d survived with 9.5 toenails.

Most importantly, though, I loved it. 

From the first shout of encouragement to the last few painful metres, London reminded me what an extraordinary thing the London Marathon can be.

Thousands of strangers shouting for me. Music everywhere. People holding signs for runners they’ve never met.  Children holding their hands out for high fives. Complete strangers calling my name.

And 59,000 people all voluntarily doing something that is really quite hard. 

My face hurt from smiling and my 9.5 toenails were complaining, but what a privilege. What a bloody privilege to run the London Marathon. AND to come away with a new PB.

3:19:22.

I’ll definitely take that.

Even if I did miss the Tower of London.

Again.