The Race I Didn’t Run

The Month Everything Started to Unravel

I love October; the colours, the races, the ritual… so naturally this year I decided to tackle it with flu, denial, and a heroic amount of stubbornness.

That’s right, this October chaos reigned. I felt as though I was juggling every ball in the universe - running a business, parenting adult children, coaching responsibilities, looking after my grandkids, writing commitments, emotional highs and lows and the quiet pressure I placed on myself to race the same half marathons, in the same time as last year… and the year before that.

I kept telling myself, just keep going, a few balls slipped, of course they did. I frantically tried to scoop them back up, even managed to squeeze a couple under my chin, a few under my armpit. I convinced myself I was still in control, I mean I hadn’t completely dropped them all.

How did I miss the creeping exhaustion?

Hindsight is a generous friend when it arrives too late. And as I lie here on the sofa, nursing a broken ankle (yes, turns out it IS broken), I wonder if I should have prioritised myself more. But of course, we don’t do that do we? We just keep pushing on through.

Just get to Palma, I told myself, three more sessions, two more sessions….I turned up to all of them, not wanting to let anyone down. I’d never cancelled a session in 11 years of my club, Run Verity, I wasn’t about to start now.

The Fever, the “Big Coat” and the Wakeup Call

I wrapped my “big coat” around me, like an invisible cloak hiding the truth - half caught balls and a feverish body. I thought I’d hidden it well, but before I’d finished the warm-up, my beginner’s group weren’t having any of my bullshit insisting that I go home…“what would you tell us?” they all chimed.

Ok, ok… I went home, feeling sorry for myself, touched by their kindness but cross that I wasn’t quite as strong as I like to think I am or more to the point, how I like others to think I am. I crawled into bed… 36 hours before our flight to Palma.

Flu Didn’t Care About My Plans

On the morning of our flight I cried, not because I didn’t want to go, but because I was still too ill to go. Yes, it was the flu, proper flu, the sort where you can’t even binge watch Netflix because your mind, body and soul hurt too much.

My husband sat beside me, torn, I could see his internal debate, he’s a compassionate man so the struggle was real. Mm, his head said, “could I go on my own, leave her to sweat it out? Or should I stay and tend to her every need (I’m sure he soon dismissed this one) I know, I’ll tell her to take a couple of paracetamols, she’ll be right as rain once she feels the sun on her back”

I didn’t let his imaginary closing arguments finish, I meekly said, “Don’t worry, I’ll come, I’ll be fine”.

But even the buzz of the airport, the usual excitement through duty free, a new book, a cheeky chocolate croissant and the excited chatter of the Palma 2025 WhatsApp group didn’t lift me like it usually does.

What should I have done? Taken to my bed for a week, cancelled Palma, told my husband to go without me? Let my members down? Accept defeat, bowed out of my responsibilities to fully restore my health and allow my body to heal? YES YES YES! That’s probably what I should have done!

The sunshine, the rest and the familiarity of beautiful Old Palma Town did ease some symptoms, I collected my number “just in case”, and avoided any direct questions of “are you running?”

The Runner vs The Coach

And this is where the friction lies for so many runners who are coaches. I’m so often reminded of the “what would you say to us” but I shout silently in my head “I’m a runner first and foremost”. And, as a runner, I’m brilliant at persuading and convincing myself that being almost well enough is basically code for “fit enough to run any race and smash it out of the park!”.

I’d like to say that I finally made the decision to pull out of the race the night before the event, but I didn’t. I gave myself another 30 mins after my first cup of tea to “just see” how I felt… but the reflection in the mirror and Jamie’s eyeroll called it. With a final glance at the dejected unopened number and the pile of safety pins, I left the hotel room.

Of course, it’s sod’s law that the only other guests up at the same ungodly hour were on their way to the race. As we shared the lift down to the hotel foyer, I stopped myself from blurting out that I was also a runner and I should’ve also been running…

What stopped me? Probably because when I’ve heard people say that before, I’ve silently raised an eyebrow and thought, “sure you were…”

The Sting of Supporting Instead of Running

It was pitch black as we followed the atmospheric buzz of the carnival, the anticipation that something exciting was dawning with the morning sun. The gentle chatter of relaxed police, the barriers and signage now in position. I couldn’t help imagining tiny elves working through the night, getting everything race-ready in that brief window between the last reveller stumbling home and the first runner heading to the start.

Back to reality, I felt miserable, the pain deepened as I met my daughter Poppie, running her first Palma race. It didn’t help that she was dressed like me, just 25 years younger, buzzing, excited, but unlike the flu, I couldn’t catch this contagious excitement. I slapped on a smile, ate another chocolate croissant and drank a frothy coffee… there, you can’t do that if you’re running. And I didn’t have to queue for the toilet!

I took photos and waved everyone on their merry way. Good luck…

I cheered loudly enough so that nobody heard the quiet voice whispering that should’ve been you, because actually you feel fine….

Another smile, I pretended the medal photos didn’t sting.

The Moment Everything Caught Up with Me

Looking back now, the flu that put paid to my Palma dreams are a distant memory, the chaos continued when we returned home, the balls continued to be juggled, but now with my ankle in a boot and my world temporarily shrunk to the sofa, I keep circling around the same question.

Should I have tried to stop the chaos, was everything leading up to this new moment where the universe literally tripped me up to stop me in my tracks?

Were there so many red flags that I chose to ignore them all, or is my ankle injury simply an accident, a twist of fate, that no amount of rest or foresight could have prevented?

Who knows, but it’s literally, a very uncomfortable space to sit in.