At the weekend a group of us went up to Manchester to supposedly give support to a mate who ran the Manchester Marathon. What that actually involved was us not seeing him until after the race, despite having arrived in Manc on the Friday night.
We had a proper northern weekend. We ate shite, didn’t really sleep, we spent a fortune, met birds, lost birds, bought stuff we didn’t need, got thrown out of Revolution for being too rowdy, and then felt pretty awful yesterday, and of course it was foul weather. We were out on the road cheering Paul on, not long after some of us, me included, had gone to bed. Someone even drove us there – but I won’t say who for fear of getting him into trouble.
But then the race. Oh shit! Now I’ve run a few half marathons in my time, and it’s pretty damn hard work. I’ve even turned in decent times, but I’d never even consider doubling the distance. Some of the people finishing looked in a really bad way, even those who were coming in just over three hours, I felt quite emotional at it all, and not just because I wanted to be asleep so badly. These guys were cold, disorientated, sometimes quite messed up, and the organisation was awful too, great big queues to get their clothes back.
Big long sleep on the train home, and then straight to bed at 4.00 when I got to the flat. Still feeling ill, but probably better than many of the runners!