Over dinner with a friend last week, halfway through a bottle of Merlot, I noticed her eyes starting to glaze over as I spoke. Normally, I’d be offended – but it’s something I’ve experienced a lot lately, and I’ve only got myself to blame.
I was in the middle of telling her a story about my latest running route, which is a slightly different version of a run I’ve been doing for years – down the country lanes near my house, but rather than cutting through the footpath in front of the fields, now I take a sharp left and go round the farm, doubling back behind the houses and adding at least six miles… sorry, were you starting to nod off?
It’s official: I have become a marathon bore. Since signing up to run a marathon at the end of next month – and my husband, sons and friends will all attest to this – I seem to have undergone a deeply dull personality transplant. All I can talk about is running: running kit, running routes, running snacks, running times. I’m like Paula Radcliffe, minus the charisma (oh, and the talent).
It’s important to point out at this stage that I am not an athlete, and I am certainly not a runner – at least not a good one. I never did sport at school, was always the last person picked for teams and only took up jogging (in the very casual, Sunday morning sense) in my twenties in a bid to stay in shape without having to give up biscuits.
Since then, I’ve slogged my way through several half marathons (here I go again) and once, before having my two kids, ran the Berlin marathon, at the very slow pace of four hours and 45 minutes. Now, at the grand old age of 35, I’ve decided I can conquer 26.2 miles once again. But, this time, it seems to be taking over my life – and I can’t talk or think about anything else.
I seem to have undergone a deeply dull personality transplant. All I can talk about is running: running kit, running routes, running snacks, running times…
First, there’s the training, which entails four runs (three short and one long; I’m up to 16 miles at the time of writing) and a gym workout every week. As a working mum-of-two, it’s not easy to squeeze all this in: it entails painfully early mornings, making important phone calls mid-jog, and a precarious childcare juggle that asks far too much of my benevolent mother-in-law.
All this running makes me extremely tired, meaning bedtime is now strictly 9 p.m. and I can’t make it more than half an hour into a film before dozing off on the sofa. At weekends, I’ve found myself cancelling social outings, saying no to late-night events and deliberately scheduling everything else around my runs. Spontaneity is an absolute no-go: I need to be able to plan my route the night before. Nothing will come between me and my Strava stats.
Not that any of this matters, as – realising how dreary I’ve become – nobody wants to spend time with me anyway. Be it aching muscles, split times, training plans, blister plasters, cramps, energy gels, camelbacks or running podcasts… my conversational skills have really taken a hit. My own mother rejected a call from me the other day, and my husband has been known to feign sleep as I witter on about running when he’s in bed.
To make matters worse, in these cash-strapped times, I’ve been spending a large chunk of our savings on marathon-related paraphernalia: a new pair of Nike trainers (£115); fleece-lined running leggings from Sweaty Betty (£100); a snazzy armband to hold my phone (£22). In total I’ve shelled out well over £300 on stuff that promises to make me run faster, train better and look cooler while doing so. It under-delivers on all three (and reading this will be the first time my husband finds out how much I’ve spent).
I joke, but the ramifications could be serious – not just for my social life, but for my marriage. According to an old-but-alarming 1997 American study, those who undertake ‘serious leisure activities’ such as running are three-and-a-half times more likely to get divorced than average, inactive couples. In addition, a small survey in Boston found that 40 per cent of married runners who rack up 70 miles a week (way more than my 30-40 miles) get divorced. While it’s far from definitive research, experts agree there is a high divorce rate among those in endurance sports (including marathons and triathlons).
As psychologist and fitness coach Pete Simon explained in a recent interview: ‘When you have an athlete training for [long] distances it is not uncommon for them to put in 15-20 hours of training a week for months on end. This puts a great amount of stress on that person’s spouse, especially if they have kids and a job on top of everything else.’
I am, at least, aware of how boring I’ve become. I can only hope the art of conversation returns on the other side as swiftly as it seems to have left my exercise-addled brain. It’s all for a good cause, though, as I’m running in aid of Prostate Cancer UK – and I’ve promised my husband, kids and friends it’s the last marathon I’ll ever do. They’ll just have to put up with me for a few more weeks – that’s 30 runs… or a couple of hundred miles to go.
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