“Just over two hundred.”
“I’ll double it. Send me a form and I’ll make sure my book group chip in as well. They’re not short of a few pounds. They all had BHS caps from me and I know for a fact that two at least have been seen wearing them. My medical emergency was a wake-up call to them all.”
Each new pledge sealed her fate more firmly. One of the kids in her class asked if it was true that she was going to run a marathon and some of the others wanted to know what a marathon was. A good teacher never misses an invitation to explain something, so she found herself relating the legend of the messenger Pheidippides bringing the news to Athens after the battle of Marathon, saying, “Rejoice, we conquer,” and then expiring. Seeing the children’s troubled faces, Maeve realised she’d got carried away with the story. She should have left out the last bit. “I’ll be all right. Mine will only be a half marathon,” she was quick to add, as if it was as easy as getting on a bus.
The next morning, three different parents phoned and offered to sponsor her. Two were under the impression she would be running from Marathon to Athens, but they still agreed to back her when she put them right. This thing was taking off without much effort on her part. Well, the fundraising was. The foot-slogging was another matter. She dreaded any of her sponsors seeing her dismal progress along the canal path. She was running in short bursts interspersed with walking, and there wasn’t much difference between the walking and the running.
She admitted in the staffroom that she hadn’t improved much since starting and she was beginning to think she was physiologically incapable of running more than a few yards at a time. Amid the sympathetic voices only one had any practical suggestions and that was Trevor, the Toby jug man. Allegedly a maths specialist, he’d ended up teaching most of the PE in the school because with his solemn delivery he wasn’t much good as a classroom teacher. Typically of him, he’d mugged up on methods of exercise. He asked about her training runs and said it sounded as if she was hitting her lactic threshold. Those short bursts of running flooded the body with lactic acid, which resulted in the fatigue and stinging sensations in her legs. With practice, her system would compensate and allow her to move with less discomfort into a different gear that regular runners take for granted. There would always be a lactic threshold if she pushed too hard; she had that in common with every Olympic athlete who sprinted at the end of a race. “Don’t give up,” he said. “Your body will understand what you’re asking it to do and will adapt. Keep a diary and you’ll be encouraged by the improvement. Make a note of how you feel and what you achieved. Weigh yourself regularly, too, and keep a record of the pounds you shed and how much less you’re carrying.”
“What do you mean — the pounds I shed?” she told him. “I’m a size twelve. That’s not obese. It’s not even big.”
Typical bloody man, analysing it all and talking down to her like one of the kids in the reception class, but he hadn’t meant to sound as pompous as he did and he may have had a point. The science was a comfort.
Buoyed up by the thought that nothing was seriously wrong, she went for an evening run that didn’t go any better, but she consoled herself thinking of all the Olympic athletes battling with the same lactic threshold she was. “We’re all in this together, kiddos, and you’d better watch out. I’m on a learning curve.”
One day in the staffroom, Trevor asked how the training was going.
“Can’t complain,” she said. “No, that’s a lie. I can complain and I do, every step of the way, but I haven’t given up yet.”
“Would it help if I followed you on my bike?” he said. “I could look at your action and maybe give you some tips on style.”
The thought of it! “I’m not ready for that, Trevor. If I ever get to the point of worrying about style, I’ll let you know.”
As her daily stint got more ambitious, kit became an issue, and not just because she could scarcely move around her tiny house for soggy, washed garments hanging from chairbacks and door handles. She was starting to suffer discomforts that would only be remedied by proper running shoes and a sports bra. Secretly she wondered how liberating it would be to run in shorts and a top. The sensation of fresh air against her limbs would be too good to miss — when she felt brave enough.
A visit to a shop called Runners Need was a revelation. Buying trainers isn’t a matter of deciding which colour you like and trying them on. She was filmed running on a treadmill and had her foot plant, stride and running pattern analysed by the young assistant dressed in sports kit and cap. Predictably she was a special class of runner requiring special shoes — and the bra wasn’t cheap either. The hell with the overdraft.
There were hidden costs as well. Against all expectation, her appetite had increased. She was packing pasta at an alarming rate and raiding the fridge for snacks. The food bills went up and so did her use of electricity and water for showers and laundry.
On a sunny morning five weeks into her practice runs she had a surprising experience when instead of forcing herself forward she began to move freely. The effect didn’t last more than a hundred yards, but for Maeve it was a boost, a glimpse of what might be possible. Trevor would say her metabolism had started to adjust to the demands she was putting on it. Her own reaction was less clinical. There’s an old saying: it’s dogged as does it.
She had just over six months to become a runner. Because the race was in April, her serious training would have to be through the winter. Getting out in freezing weather would need true dedication.
Early in November her mother phoned. “Are you still planning to do that dreadful marathon, dear?”
“It’s a half marathon, Ma.”
“Whatever it’s called, it’s a lot of running.”
The thought crossed Maeve’s mind that her obstinate parent had softened her heart and was planning after all to sponsor her.
Not so.
“I’ve been thinking about Christmas.”
“Already?”
“You know how difficult it is buying presents for people. When the time comes, I can never think what to get. How would you like one of those trays with a cushion attached that sits on your lap when you have a meal in front of the television?”
Mother, you slay me. “I don’t get much time for TV these days. When I’m not preparing lessons, I’m out on a training run.”
“Now the evenings are drawing in, you won’t be able to run.”
Try and stop me. “What I’d really like is a nice warm top and leggings and I’ll be ready for anything.”
Smart thinking, an invitation to her mother to show that she cared while sticking to her principles. A date was made for a shopping expedition to London and she was taken for lunch at Selfridges, lectured on the perils of heart strain and taken to the in-store Sweaty Betty, where she ran her fingertips over a mind-boggling array of tops and finally chose some powder blue thermal tights and a matching hoodie. Mother couldn’t understand why the tights had reflective panels; she still believed nice girls weren’t ever on the streets after dark.
Maeve didn’t like to look at the price labels, guessing the gear must have cost as much as ten padded trays. Then her mother had to be persuaded not to visit the stationery department and buy Christmas wrapping paper. When the need was explained, she handed the gift over for immediate use, but not without saying, “If you come to your senses and give up the whole idea of running before Christmas, you can still wear it to go shopping. People do. I’ve seen them.”
Maeve was starting to believe in herself as a runner. When another jogger approached, she would raise her hand in recognition. And with the more professional image came the acceptance that she must demand more from herself. The diary confirmed it. Instead of “I managed a full two minutes of running” she was writing: “Half a mile twice over. Quicker recovery.”