mara...huh?...what?

I managed to let the London Marathon slip by with nary a word in passing; a couple of kind inquiries on, I realise that I should have announced more widely my last-minute decision to withdraw from the event on account of the problems I've been having with my right knee. It wasn't an easy decision, not least because a heck of a lot of pride was invested in getting there, running, and maybe even surviving to the finish line alongside my faithful running partner.

Fate's intentions differed, of course, which saw my GP and I agreeing that attempting the run with my leg in its current state might permanently screw things up in the longterm. Too proud to ignore that? Hmm, let me think. The rationalist within recognises that there's always next year, the one after that, and the one after that, and in a dozen different cities to boot. So why was it so hard to watch without feeling intensely sad whilst thrilled beyond words? Rhetorical of course; I understand at least something of human nature.

Travelling down to London to support my partner in masochism through to the finish was no hardship by any stretch; I was deeply moved by the sheer joviality of the event, not to mention its magnitude. The atmosphere was truly electric, and neither blustery showers nor chilling winds were enough to dampen the spirits of any spectator, and we were out in the tens of thousands. I felt immensely proud of him, and every other person who ran, or tried their best to run, the distance, whether for themselves or for their greater causes.

People you'd never expect to see running a marathon were, well, running a marathon, and it was an inspiring, uplifting thing to see. It made me feel stronger just cheering them on.

Congratulations to everybody - here's to your next, or first..!

The title is a mildly obscure homage to Peaches fans... let's fuck the pain away