Running down a dream

Imagine you’ve just run 13 miles. What are you feeling as you cross the line? I think I’m closer to understanding than I’ve ever been.

Last Sunday was a very busy one if you work for Brathay Trust, the Ambleside-based charity that works to inspire children and young people to make positive choices that will last a lifetime.

Their biggest fundraising event of the year took place – The Brathay Windermere Marathon. This year was the first event to also feature a Half Marathon and, relieved of my usual duties of wandering around with a camera and trying to look busy on social media, I got to hand medals to the finishers of the 13.1mile race.

Poised with an arm-full of medals, I got to place the prize over the heads of the runners who wanted it, or hand it over to those who didn’t fancy me getting too up close and personal.

I’m sure it would have been easy to lapse into a conveyor-belt routine of: Say “well done”; place medal; point to water; Next!

But I couldn’t do that. All the runners were doing this for their own, different, reasons. A personal challenge, to beat their best time, as part of a fitness regime, their first ever race, their 100th race, to raise money for Brathay or another charity close to their hearts, in memory of a loved one, to prove a point to themselves or someone else... the list is endless.

So I tried my best to make sure each and every one got a warm smile, a “welcome back” and as much of my time and attention as I could fit in, or they wanted. Some definitely didn’t want it – caught in the maelstrom of emotion they just wanted to be left alone.

In that moment of crossing the line, I saw exaltation, defiance, joy, pleasure, pain, happiness and everything else in-between. And after 13 miles of being in control, crossing the line seemed to flick a switch for some. Momentarily, they were uncertain and confused, trying to instantaneously change back from running machine to regular person as the adrenaline ebbed away and normality kicked in.

I was honoured to be able to witness that – and share it. The tears, the sweat (there was a lot of that!), the hugs, and the chance to agree, wholeheartedly, and in that brilliantly understated British way, that yes – that was indeed bloody hard work.

There were such a lot of genuinely lovely people too; warm, friendly, polite and funny. Even the stragglers limping home at the end were wonderful. I hope the lady with the mascot soft bunny came back later to pick up a medal for him/her too.

It was truly amazing, and inspiring, to see how much crossing the line means, in so many different ways, for people. The memory of that will hopefully stay with me for far longer than my sunburnt neck.

Thanks for letting me intrude on your moment. See you next year?

This post first appeared as my "Thank grumpy it's Friday" column, in the North West Evening Mail, on the 27th of May 2016, where it was re-titled as "Proud to say I love to medal". Fair play - that's a good one!

You'll no doubt be delighted to hear that the sunburn (which was slightly more on one side of my head than the other - which is a great look) has now resulted in a gently peeling left ear. Easy, ladies. I'm bringing sexy back.

Nice to also not that, following his 1st F1 win and my subsequent column, young Max Verstappen appeared to have shown up in Monaco in the mistaken belief that the barriers were made of jelly. Whoops.

(CD A:Z: Frankie Goes To Hollywood's "Maximum Joy" compilation. Relax. Don't Do It.)

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