Registration opens on the fifth of July, when I’m on holiday, so there’s still a slim chance that the race will fill up before I get back, If it doesn’t, I’ll sign up.
Bugger. It suddenly feels very close indeed.
I’ll hopefully be doing some of my training with a group of friends who have already made plans to run the race (friends, I note, who are all far fitter than me, and who all have races of varying descriptions under their belts already). When I told them the date had been announced, there was mild panic, while everybody worked out whether they’d have time to train for it. The race has previously been held in November, when it’s much cooler, and the expectation was that there would be plenty of time.
The experienced runners are panicking about the short notice and getting their training plans sorted. I’m still trying to build up strength in a recently broken foot, and haven’t risked more than a mile’s jog yet.
That’s not the worst of it. The group is going to follow Delhi by heading off across India to run in the Mumbai marathon, dates to be announced but previously held in January. Steph, who I always thought a perfectly lovely sort but who clearly takes her pleasure from inciting cardiac arrests, has convinced me to join them. Her argument seemed logical enough at the time. If I can run a half marathon after three months, I should be able to run a marathon after six.
Pulled apart and put back together again, the same logic can be expressed as “If I can survive a fall from fifty feet, I should be able to survive a fall from a hundred with a bit of practice.”
What I should have said is that I don’t know if I can run a half marathon after three months training. That’s sort of the point.
What I actually did was nod, and say I’d go along too.
Bugger, bugger, bugger.
Six months to go from chain-smoking, broken-footed reprobate to marathoner.