This won’t be a long post. I don’t want to labour the point. But I had to make the terrible decision to pull out of the MdS 2018. Hobbling through that inflatable arch and finishing the race with Duffy had been a constant visual in my head for the past two years since sending him a link to the registration of interest form. Experiencing the race had been something I had dreamed of since we discussed it in the school library in the 1990s.
I can’t begin to explain the impotent anger I have felt since I realised that I would be unlikely to be able to take part. It got to the stage where I almost hoped to get mugged so I could vent my fury on someone who deserved it. But a jail sentence would hardly have helped matters.
The only way I don’t descend into a spiral of depression at the moment is to assure myself that it is run every year and I can sign up again. Before that point, there is work to be done on a wonky right leg and general circumstances.
Some perspective also helps. As much as doing this is probably the personal priority in my life, it is still just the pinnacle of Maslow’s Pyramid. I am totally sorted for food, shelter, water, a lovely wife, the ability to earn a living, freedom from being bombed, etc etc that much of the world doesn’t have. If I didn’t have them, I’m pretty sure a middle class marathon in Morroco wouldn’t be much of a concern. To complain of not being able to do a large and punishing fun run would be first world problems indeed.
I didn’t think I could bear to hear anything about the MdS this week, as finishing it would undoubtedly be one of the happiest days of my life. But actually, supporting Duffy is a good substitute. So I will throw myself into that and in the future, when I do make it to the desert, it will be all the sweeter.
