grumpyf1

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 t...

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (well, Oxfordshire, actually) I ran a half marathon. I say “run”. I walked a bit. Oh, OK a lot. Nearly all of it, yes. It was hideous. Within the last 2 miles you had to pass a pub, where all the people who were actually quite good at running, and had therefore already finished, had assembled to drink to their extreme nippiness, and cheer on the slow-coaches. Smashing. Advancing years, and a pathological fear of exercise, mean my running days are limited to a dash for a train. Even then I need oxygen and a muscle rub. The ticket inspectors say that isn’t their job, but they need to consider their customer’s needs, before calling the police. I am therefore flabbergasted that anyone can run a whole marathon, especially since they got renamed to “Snickers”. (Actually, now I come to think of it, that may have something to do with those athletes that had already completed the half-marathon back in the mists of time, watching me wheeze my...