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.

Mallory Park 10k: Textbook Example of How Not To Pace A Run

The goal of this event was to run a tempo run but as conditions were supposed to be fairly awful I decided I would be happy to drop 10 seconds a mile if necessary …

It all went to hell.

Weather in Rugby = gorgeous blue skies sunshine.

Weather in Mallory Park = tornado season. And bonus torrential rain.

I watched my pace getting slower and slower while my effort stayed about the same. About lap 6 (of 8 laps!!) I got a stitch which hasn’t happened since about school. What am I? 11 and in PE?

Was tempted to walk / drop out. REALLY tempted. Quite a few people were taking walking breaks but the conditions were challenging. The wind was just relentless. I told myself to stop being a fanny and just keep going.

I’ve been a bit under the weather the last few days which probably didn’t help but this was definitely a mental challenge.

However a bonus of the challenging conditions was despite my shocking pace (against what I’d intended to run at) and utterly shite pacing I was first female and got to break the tape.

Massive emotional moment after battling demons and wind (weather not stomach!!).

Never dreamed I’d ever break a tape! Life goal achieved!!

Cracking event from ATW. Easy parking, no loo queues and quick briefing and GO!

Circuit Running: 1 x 20 Mile Plan, 1 x 3.2 Mile Lapped Course and a Dramatic Stomach

When my marathon plan demanded a 20-mile run, I decided very sensibly (I thought) to outsource the motivation to an event. Hence running the Finish Line Run by Circuit Events in Skellingthorpe near Lincoln. New route, other runners and the promise of snacks? I’m in.

 

The drive down was blissfully calm (a rare pre-long-run win), and registration was  simple - a table set up in a field by a sports pavilion. And a normal toilet. No portaloos! No faff, no stress. Hopefully plentiful toilet paper. 

I met another runner called Paula, and we wandered up to the start together, talking about anything except the upcoming race, confirming that runners will chat to absolutely anyone when there’s mileage to avoid.

There was a strong showing from the 100 Marathon Club crowd, including Lucy, casually ticking off her 400th marathon while the rest of us were just trying to remember our gels and where we'd stashed the spare loo roll. I played honorary photographer for a bit before getting my kit sorted and also had a chat to Babs who was doing the 10k at the same event.

Shoe choice had been a gamble. I’d packed multiple pairs because the course description was about as clear as my pre-coffee brain. Turns out it was mostly hard surface: tarmac and solid paths, with just a token 100m stretch of grass to keep it interesting.

I had, however, made some other questionable choices - bringing L’s tri belt, which is L-sized and therefore child-sized. I spent the entire run looking like I’d been hog-tied. However these belts (in the right size!) are actually great for long events as they’re easy to remove as you add or shed layers which is a bonus when the weather can’t make up its mind. Or I can't. 

Weather-wise, it was a deceitful 'looks lovely, feels like the Arctic' mornings. Bright sunshine, blue skies… and a biting wind that made me question why on earth I had signed up for an outdoor event. I could have done this on a treadmill. In the warm. Near a coffee machine. My outdoor run regret was also made worse by a brief flurry of hail. Too late to back out now.

The briefing was short, sharp, and didn’t leave me freezing in a field for longer than necessary - much appreciated.

The course was a straightforward out-and-back from the pavilion. It was pretty easy to follow (even for me), and reassuringly difficult to get lost on. It was also a shared path: a 5-mile hike was happening the same day in the same tiny village, along with random hikers, parkrunners returning from Doddington Hall parkrun, multiple horses, a battalion of cycling clubs and what felt like an entire social gathering of dogs. And yet, everyone was courteous. A great example that shared paths can work without passive-aggressive sighing or having to launch yourself into a hedge to avoid small bitey dogs or Lycra-clad speedsters.

It was nice seeing the same runners on the out-and-backs. There was lots of waving, thumbs up and an occasional high five. It was really nice seeing the smiles and it all felt very friendly and inclusive! 

However there WAS one drama queen. My stomach.

Lap one: emergency stop.

Mid-run: encore performance.

Add in some cramping for extra drama and it wasn’t exactly a ‘flow state’ kind of day.

My fuelling was standard for me and everything had been tried and tested but it was just one of those days. I used Hilltop Honey and Torq gels, didn’t bother carrying water (because of the aid station at the end of every lap), and eventually turned to cola around lap three because everyone knows flat cola is the queen of running fluids. It was the same thing I’d done a hundred times before but today tummy said no. It was also super handy having the aid station (and toilet!!) every 3 miles. 

Speaking of which, the aid station was genuinely solid. Squash, water, cola and a decent spread of pic ‘n’ mix, pretzels, biscuits and even vegan options. Basically a four-year-old’s birthday party but endurance sport-themed. 

I wasn’t at peak performance - running on five hours’ sleep after a late shift but sometimes these runs are less about pace and more about just getting it done and staying in one piece. Without brown shorts.

For the final lap, I whipped out the selfie stick for a bit of documentation (and proof that I survived). The event itself was incredibly friendly - lots of regulars who clearly do these events often, but genuinely welcoming to newcomers. A great mix of ages and a fairly even gender split too, which was nice to see.

I did, however, go slightly over my planned 20 miler. When I hit 20 miles it seemed a shame to stop on such a nice route so I decided to do two more laps for a marathon. Then one more for luck… and to make it an ultra. And an additional 0.25 miles (after the official clock stopped), just to round it up nicely to 30 miles. 

In summary a well-organised, low-key and welcoming event that turned a solo 20-miler into something far more sociable (and more fun plus welcome aid station stops!). Would I do it again?

Absolutely.

But next time, I might bring my own number belt rather than a titchy one. And maybe a less dramatic digestive system. And more toilet paper.

Results were out within about six hours, which was a lovely surprise. The only thing I’d change would be adding a photographer  Such a pretty route deserves better memories than my shaky selfies and photos of the backs of people’s heads.

 

Hilly Hundred 2026: Hills, Barbie Girl and the 3am Alarm

There are very few reasons why a 3am alarm is acceptable.

A flight somewhere sunny.

An emergency.

And, if you’re a runner who has made bad life choices, the Hilly Hundred Relay.

It was that time in May again. Time to dig out the Northbrook AC starburst vest, set the alarm for an appalling hour and prepare my legs for ten miles of running up as many hills as the Cotswolds could throw at me.

Yep.

It was Hilly Hundred day.

For those unfamiliar with it, the Hilly Hundred is a relay involving ten runners, each running roughly ten miles, taking the team over a spectacularly hilly route through the Cotswolds. It’s a proper local running event, with loads of clubs represented, plenty of familiar faces and, importantly, a worrying amount of elevation.

My alarm was set for 0300. UGH.

I needed to leave the house at 0330 to get to Stratford for 0430, which gave me enough time to walk to the start for the 0500 leg.

Five o clock.

In the morning.

Those sorts of numbers should only appear on an airport departure board. Horrific.

I arrived in the car park on time, which was an achievement in itself, to discover that the toilets were locked.

I am almost certain they were open last time.

The lights were on.

The toilets were there.

But they were not open.

So, after a brief assessment of my options, I availed myself of a discreet bush and got ready to race.

Classy.

At the start I spotted the familiar Northbrook starbursts and wandered over to find the rest of the team. Spencer, our club captain and organiser extraordinaire, handed out race numbers and safety pins.

This year though instead of plastic batons, we had trackers.

These turned out to be incredibly useful because you could actually see where your runners were.

They were also approximately the size of a three-pack Creme Egg box. (I'd rather have had the crème eggs)

I managed to wedge mine into a shorts pocket and hoped it wouldn’t drag my shorts down around my ankles somewhere in the Cotswolds. I'm sure that would be a DQ.

Mandatory team photo? Obviously.

Because no running event is complete without a photograph proving that you were all there before everyone disappeared in different directions.

Then we wandered towards the start and assembled in a slightly confused clump. Someone pointed at a lamppost and told us that was the start line.

A quick countdown.

And off we went.

Don’t start too fast, Booker.

Obviously, I started too fast.

Because despite running for years, I have learned absolutely nothing.

The first part of the route is relatively flat and when you have a load of runners setting off together, including some very quick men, there is a natural temptation to sprint off as though the finish line is three miles away.

It wasn’t.

It was ten-ish miles away.

And it was 5am.

My legs and lungs were both reasonably clear on the fact that this was a stupid idea.

Luckily, I eventually settled down and found myself running with Caroline from Spa Striders and a runner from Kenilworth. We weren’t officially a group, but we ran together-ish, swapping positions and generally keeping each other company.

Caroline was setting a lovely pace, so I settled in behind her and let her do the hard work of deciding how quickly we should be running.

She also had supporters out on the course.

And one of them had a violin.

Yes.

A violin.

As we passed, she played Barbie Girl and Celebration.

Beautifully.

Because nothing says POSH RUN CLUB quite like being serenaded with 90s pop hits on a violin at five-something in the morning.

I absolutely loved it.

More of this, please.

The same support cars kept appearing as we worked our way through the route. They would leapfrog us, stop to hand drinks and supplies to their runners and shout encouragement as we passed.

It made the whole thing feel less like a race and more like a big, slightly bonkers run with friends.

And that is one of the things I love about Hilly Hundred.

There are runners from loads of local clubs, so you’re constantly seeing familiar faces, club colours and people you haven’t seen for ages.

Hills. Obvs.

We rallied up the first hill through the village and as we approached the summit I thought I could hear a cuckoo.

One year, I’d watched swans flying through the mist over the river as the sun came up. It was one of those little running moments that you don’t forget.

This year was completely different.

It was already light.The sky was blue. And it was becoming increasingly obvious that it was going to be a warm day, but the Cotswolds looked BEAUTIFUL.

However, my legs were beginning to twig that I’d entered my body into some sort of agreement involving hills. And running. They were NOT impressed with this.

Caroline dropped back, or perhaps I finally found another gear, on the big hill out of Luddington.

I tried to encourage her to come with me, but she told me it was my turn to be chased for a while.

Fair enough.

Apparently this was how our running relationship worked now.

I carried on and, interestingly, I could really feel the benefit of the strength training I’d been doing.

Normally, hills are where my legs start sending grumbling. But this time I felt strong.

Not 'I enjoy running uphill' strong.

Don't get carried away.

But strong enough to keep pushing without feeling like my quads were about to dissolve.

I caught up with the Kenilworth runner again and we ran together for a while. I’d changed my watch from directions to distance remaining and he kept asking me how far we had left.

So I became the human Garmin.

Eventually he dropped back a little and I carried on.

With a couple of miles to go I knew there wasn’t much left in terms of serious climbing. The only real incline was up towards and over a railway bridge.

I reckoned I could manage that.

The last 2.5 miles of this leg always seem to go on forever and this time was no different. It’s mostly dusty roads, hedges and the gradual realisation that your legs have done some actual work. 

There isn’t loads to look at, and although the distance isn’t particularly intimidating on paper, it feels considerably longer when you’re tired. And there have been hills and people are waiting for you. 

Eventually I came around the final right turn onto the lane and then there was the long, gradual drag towards the final left. It’s only a slight incline, but slight inclines have a remarkable ability to become enormous when you’re ten miles into a hilly run.

The final stretch to the finish is only about 400 metres.

It feels SO much longer.

Fortunately, Northbrook runners were lining the hedges, cheering everyone in.

I spotted a group of starburst vests ahead. YASSS!

One of them dashed forward and I crossed the line, tracker handed over to Mollie.

Job done.

My watch said 1:12.

I’ll take that.

FROM RUNNER TO PASSENGER PRINCESS: 

Now came my second job of the day.

Support crew.

Joanne was driving to the end of Leg 2 to support Mollie with directions and water.

I was passenger princess AND iin charge of the laminated route directions.

This was possibly a mistake. Massive mistake. 

The directions contained helpful instructions such as:

“At crossroads with sign to Chipping Campden SO.”

I am, of course, renowned for my exceptional navigational skills.

*cough* Not.

Fortunately, the instructions also included pubs.

And I am very good at finding pubs.

Joanne, meanwhile, was an absolute whizz at finding somewhere to park.

We would leap out of the car, grab a bottle of water and run over to Mollie as she came through.

She looked incredibly strong and was running really well, which made supporting her very easy.

Mollie didn’t have the route on her watch, so we’d also offered to stop at junctions and direct her.

This was actually quite fun.

We got to support her properly, rather than simply sitting in the car waiting for her to appear.

Then we reached Chipping Campden.

And the road was closed.

There was a fair on.

Cars couldn’t get through.

Runners could.

So I memorised the next few directions, hopped out of the car and waited for Mollie while Joanne tried to find a way around.

And actually, it was lovely.

I’d recovered reasonably well from my own leg and Mollie was chatty and running strongly.

Because the road was closed, the main road was almost completely empty.

We ran right down the middle of it, looking at all the beautiful buildings and houses in Chipping Campden.

It was one of those unexpected little moments that make these events so enjoyable.

Eventually we met Joanne on the other side and I hopped back into the car.

THEN the hills from hell ...

Mollie’s second leg appeared to contain approximately every hill in the Cotswolds.

There were two particularly enormous climbs out of Chipping Campden and into the Cotswold hills.

They looked horrendous.

I wouldn’t have enjoyed cycling them and I certainly wouldn’t have fancied running ten miles over them.

Mollie, however, just kept going.

We drove ahead, following the directions and trying to work out where we needed to be next. Eventually we reached what we thought was one of the final directions.

The sheer confidence with which we announced that Mollie had approximately 1.5 miles to go was impressive.

Unfortunately, our confidence was misplaced.

The road went on.

And on.

And on.

It was DEFINITELY more than 1.5 miles.

By the time we reached the penultimate crossroads, I was beginning to feel REALLY guilty.

Sorry, Mollie.

At the final crossroads there was another hill towards Snowshill and the finish.

Because OF COURSE there was.

And she smashed it.

At the finish we caught up with a few Northbrook runners I hadn’t seen for a while, which was lovely.

And that was another Hilly Hundred done.

It shouldn’t really work.

A 3am alarm.

A 5am start.

Ten hilly miles.

Locked toilets.

A Creme Egg-sized tracker stuffed into your shorts.

A violin playing Barbie Girl.

And then several hours spent driving around the Cotswolds trying to work out where your runner is while pretending you know what “SO” means on a laminated map.

But somehow, it is brilliant.

I love the atmosphere.

I love seeing all the local clubs out.

I love the support.

I love the scenery.

I love the ridiculousness of it all.

And despite the early start, I somehow come away every year thinking that it was one of my favourite events.

Which is dangerous.

Because if Spencer reads that, he’ll probably sign me up for next year.

So let’s just keep that between ourselves, shall we?

Marathon Eryri 2025: Undertrained, Overfuelled and a Surprise 3rd Place

Which is utterly ridiculous when you consider that I arrived at the start line exhausted, undertrained and overfuelled.

The holy trinity of bad decisions.

I’d wanted to run Marathon Eryri (previously known as Snowdonia Marathon) for years, so when the opportunity finally came around, I was insanely excited.

Unfortunately, my training did NOT go to plan.

My longest training run had been 16 miles, about three months earlier, as part of my Summer of Speed training. It was all going to plan until COVID came along and enthusiastically threw a massive spanner into the works.

So my marathon preparation wasn’t textbook.

To make matters worse, I’d only driven back from Stansted that morning after a flight back from Portugal. I dropped my bags at home and then carried on to Wales.

On the way, I passed a car with the number plate DNF.

I chose to interpret this as a coincidence rather than a warning from the universe.

GETTING TO ERYRI

Registration was super easy. I parked, ran in, collected my number and was back out again in no time. I even bumped into Jennifer, who I knew from Instagram, which was lovely. I finally reached my accommodation in the dark and crashed out in my room. 

RACE DAY 

I had a surprisingly reasonable night’s sleep (who knew exhaustion was so effective!) and didn’t have to get up until 7am. I didn’t even have to leave until 8:30.

A lie in on marathon morning? Whaaat?

I’d was wearing a run top I’d picked up from Vinted the day before, some shorts, my sage green jacket and gloves.

And road shoes.

Because, in my defence, I thought this was a road marathon.

Spoiler ... was not.

Getting to the start, I was less organised.

I parked bloody miles away.

I hadn’t realised quite how far away, so by the time I actually reached the start I’d already walked around 4.5km.

Including a massive hill.

Excellent.

Still, there were I found a public toilet (OPEN!!) with no queue, which is the marathon-day equivalent of finding a winning lottery ticket.

Even better, I found the coffee van, joined the queue and got chatting to a bloke doing his first marathon. What a marathon to start with! 

Then someone bumped into me.

It was Rich, my running buddy.

We’d managed to find each other completely by accident.

I’d already dropped my bag off, so I went and sat in Rich’s car near the start. He’d arrived later than me and taken a gamble on a closer car park which had paid off.

Sometimes being late is a strategy.

We sat in the warm car, drinking coffee which was a lovely way to chill out before a race. Then we could leave last minute, walking with the rest of the crowds towards the start, where the Welsh national anthem was being played and the atmosphere was incredible.

The mountains surrounded us and there was that particular pre-race buzz where everyone looks simultaneously excited and slightly terrified.

We decided to run together. Neither of us had a goal, just to get the run done and have a nice time, so we started by the six-hour pacer.

I had absolutely no time goal and the plan was simply to run to feel.

If I felt good, I’d run. If I didn’t, I’d slow down.

I knew there were three enormous climbs and I wasn’t going to be disappointed if the mountains meant I would be running 5 or 6 hours. 

This was supposed to be fun. Marathon running is a choice. 

The first climb up Pen Y Pass was spectacular. It winds on up the side of the pass, with high mountains on each side and water rushing down the side of the mountain in spectacular waterfalls. The rain had been fairly relentless and parts of the road was already flooded. 

We passed a tent on the side of the mountain, (hope it was well pegged down!) and lots of people cheering and huge views stretching around us. It was definitely dramatic scenery!

The weather, which had started cold but bright and clear, was changing.

The wind picked up.More rain arrived. And then the HEAVY rain arrived.

Hoods went up. Gloves went on. 

And the rain still managed to find its way into every sleeve, pocket and other location that according to the jacket manufacturer should have been waterproof. I run in a vest in pretty much all weather, but there was no way I was taking my jacket off. I've heard skin is waterproof but wasn't going to test it out on the top of a mountain in Wales.

I couldn’t tell whether the water running inside my sleeves was sweat or rain. I was definitely a bit damp. 

Rich had decided to take the big climbs steadily because he was still recovering from his Ironman.

I felt good, so I carried on at my own pace.

It’s difficult when you’re running with someone, but on a long race you really do have to run your own race.

I had no idea what pace I was doing.

I didn’t know what my finish time was going to be.

I was just running. Look at me all happy (and ill prepared) in my road shoes. 

I briefly considered taking the jacket off at the top of Pen Y Pass when the long climb got a bit warm and the spectators were at their most enthusiastic but then the wind hit me and the sleet started. 

Nope.

Jacket staying on. And the hood was staying up. Yes. Am an absolute fanny.

And then came the descent.

And the sleet. 

And we then turned off the road and it got more FUN!

This was the point where I realised my definition of a 'road marathon' and the organisers’ definition of a 'road marathon' may not have been entirely aligned.

Slate.

Gravel.

Puddles.

Mud.

Chaos.

I loved it. BLOODY LOVED IT. 

It was easily one of my favourite sections of the whole race.

Give me chaos and mud and I’m happy.

Running my own race. In my road shoes. Like a twat. 

At some point, I realised I hadn’t taken my gel at mile six because I’d been distracted. I mean there were mountains and things to look at. 

So I had it at mile seven instead and then continued roughly every three miles.

I was using Torq gels and High5 carb drink, which seemed to work really well.

I didn’t refill my carbs during the race because I had enough with me, and I didn’t take any water or food from the later aid stations either as I’d brought everything I needed.

I also discovered that my phone was becoming useless. I managed a quick enthusiastic video going down the trail descent (Because it was SO MIUCH FUN!) and then the phone went NOPE.

The rain had soaked it so thoroughly that eventually it wouldn’t even unlock for the photos I so desperately wanted to take. There were MOUNTAINS!! Waterfalls! Good stuff! But this was probably for the best because by that point my face was probably not suitable for public consumption by then anyway. it was full of sleet, dribbled gels and probably snot. Delightful. 

Technology: 0

Welsh weather: 1

The support was brilliant. There were kids at an outdoor centre shouting “OGGY! OGGY OGGY!” at the runners. We shouted back. “OI! OI! OI!” Massive cheers. There were people ringing cowbells from passing cars. People standing outside their houses. Cars were honking. People were shouting encouragement. And there were spectators out in absolutely horrendous weather. It was bloody lovely. 

Then at around mile 17, the temperature seemed to drop dramatically. The rain was coming down heavily and the wind was absolutely freezing. I'd expected it to be chilly at the end of October, but this was something else. The sleet was pelting down and the wind chill really made it feel very cold and I started wondering whether the organisers might shorten the race because the conditions were becoming so challenging.

Rich made the decision to pull out although I didn't find this out until much later. He had been feeling off earlier and eventually the cold became too much. He got to around mile 17 and called it.I was gutted for him, but he’s done enough endurance events to know when it’s time to stop.

Meanwhile, I was carrying on but my hands had started swelling from the cold and the knuckle lines on my fingers had basically disappeared. It looked very odd and apparently I was now part human, part water balloon.

I’d started the race with gloves on, but eventually everything became so wet that I took them off and shoved my hands up inside my sleeves as wet gloves are basically tiny portable fridges and my hands were warmer without them.

Somewhere around this point, I also needed a poo. of course I did. I spent ages keeping an eye out for toilets.

I found none.

The Welsh mountains had many things. Toilets were not one of them. Luckily the feeling went away. I think I just have neurotic bowels. Mile 19 of a marathon isn't ideal. 

Around mile 21, the support was even more incredible.We came through a village and people were lining the road, shouting and cheering. It was like being a running celeb - amazing! AND it was pouring with rain and people were standing in this awful weather cheering us onwards!

I felt like I was in the Tour de France.

A very wet, very cold, much less aerodynamic Tour de France.

One bloke told me I had the brightest socks he’d seen all day.

I was wearing pink camouflage socks with neon yellow ROAD shoes.

Subtle.

And then came the final hill.

Mile 22.

Bloody hell.

It was steep.

Really steep.

My little legs were absolutely knackered by this point and the rain had turned sections of the trail into a combination of mud, stones and the slipperiest combination of both I'd found.

I slipped at least five or six times.

I was wearing road shoes, as me being the utter incompetent I am had thought this was a road marathon. 

A man went down in front of me. But fortunately he landed in soft mud and got straight back up. But with a nice splatty little mud pattern on his bum. 

I started using landmarks to break the climb up. I’d pick a telegraph pole or a gate, hike to it, then start running again. I wasn’t thrilled about walking. I really didn’t want to. But the hill was so steep and my legs were so tired that it was either walk some sections or potentially roll back down it.

I passed the race photographer while walking. Of course I did. Absolutely typical. My one race photo that I thought I might get and I'm walking. 

I'd also spotted a 4-hour pace flag somewhere in front of me. Huh. I'd thought THAT ship had long since sailed. I wondered if he'd given up the pacing as I'm sure I wasn't on for a 4 hour time. However, it made a good little marker and I gradually began reeling the quill flag in and trying to catch up.

Then it disappeared. Bother. 

And then I spotted him again. 

He was walking too, so I wasn’t entirely sure whether this was part of his pacing strategy or whether he’d also decided that gravity could do one. I decided that I would pass him just IN CASE he was on pace ... you never know!

The descent ...

Over the top and back on the slippery mire of mud, grass and slippery, slippery stones. Ice rinks have NOTHING on this. There were people falling over in all directions. Carnage.

And finally, I reached tarmac.

I’ve NEVER been so happy to see tarmac in my life.

There was about a mile to go.

Unfortunately, the tarmac was insanely steep.

The rain was still coming down and I was genuinely worried about falling backwards.

So I leaned forward and absolutely hammered it.

I ran down the hill like a lunatic.

The spectators loved it.

There were huge cheers as I flew past, presumably because I looked like I knew what I was doing.

I absolutely did not.

I was just trying not to fall over.

Luckily, the finish line was basically at the bottom of the hill.

Because I did not fancy running any further.

Especially not uphill.

I crossed the finish gantry and saw 3:53 on the clock.

I knew I’d started quite a way back and it had taken me a little while to cross the start line.

Which meant…

Sub four.

YES. YASSSSSSS!

Across the line and I went straight into the café.

Tuna mayo sandwich.

Coffee.

Fancy.

The plan was to warm myself up and replace some calories. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten that eating after a run makes me incredibly cold. So I sat there shivering, eating my sandwich and questioning every decision that had brought me to this point.

Then I got a message from Rich. He’d checked the results. I’d finished in 3:50:45. And I was third female in my age category.

Third.

I genuinely had no idea.

I’d gone into this race with no time goal, barely any marathon training and the vague intention of having a nice day running around Snowdonia.

Somehow I’d ended up 3rd.

So, Marathon Eryri…

3:50:45.

3rd Female Vet 45.

Not bad for someone whose longest training run had been 16 miles three months earlier.

And someone who had driven from Stansted to Wales the day before.

And someone who had accidentally done 4.5km just getting to the start.

And someone who thought it was a road marathon.

And someone wearing road shoes.

And someone who spent the last few miles slipping around in mud.

Genuinely I absolutely loved it.

The weather was brutal.

The hills were brutal.

The final descent was borderline terrifying.

But the scenery was incredible, the support was brilliant and the whole thing had that wonderfully chaotic feeling that makes races memorable.

I went in undertrained, overfuelled and with absolutely no expectations.

I came out with a sub-four marathon, a massive grin and a completely unexpected 3rd in AG.

Sometimes the best races are the ones where you have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen.

Although next time, I might bring trail shoes.

Just in case.