Thank fuck, at last we’d just ran past the 20th marker, my feet hurt, my legs hurt, I was out of breath, I was so sweaty, it was running down my face, down my whole body, my face beetroot red and my body hot like I’d been laid on the beach in baking sunshine for hours and hours with no sun cream on, I was roasting hot, I felt like I was dying, like I couldn’t go on any longer. Enough. I’d had enough and death seemed like a good way out.
All these thoughts were racing through my mind:
"Why am I doing this?
Whose idea was this?
I want to stop
I want to go home
Do I want to stop to pee?
Maybe I should walk the rest of the way
I wish I’d brought money to get a taxi home
I wish I’d stayed at home
I am going to be in so much pain tomorrow
Do I need the toilet?
Why am I doing this?
Mum… I think I’m dying…"
Why am I doing this? I’m doing it because I want to get fitter, I’m doing it for me, I want to feel fit, feel amazing, I want my amazing legs to look like they are amazing and fit.
This is a massive effort though, as each marker passes, 21, 22, 23, we keep pushing towards the end, we are getting closer and closer to our finish point, there go 24 and 25, and it feels amazing, I think I might cry!
All the weeks of training all for today. All those early mornings and long Sunday runs out pushing myself, ourselves, to the maximum. All those times is doubted myself, I never thought I’d make it, I wanted to give up so many times but I didn’t. Headstrong and stubborn, I kept going.
I can see 26 getting closer, lampost number 26…
Our 2.2 mile jog around the park is complete.
I’ve done it, I’ve made it all the way round Bellahouston Park without stopping to walk.
This was all HER fault, yes I’m blaming you mum. For dragging me out (or did I ask? I don’t remember asking) that January morning in 2000. I remember that day so well. I loved it, even though I thought I was going to die.
My mum, Mairi, taught me how to run when I was 20. Not a trainer or a coach. Just my mum. She taught herself how to run while I was away travelling, on my return I wanted to join in.
My running journey started with a trip to Achilles Heel, in de Courcy’s arcade. My first trainers were purchased and the running began.
One lampost at a time. Walk one, jog one. I was so unfit. I never thought I’d make it the entire way round that park but eventually we did.
We all start somewhere.
Elle Morrison, Forward Fitness, Glasgow
