Far be it for me to offer updates on my latest foray into the world of ultra-running, for last year I promised retirement once completing anything over 26.2 miles. (I achieved this ‘first’ last May – proving something to myself in the process and ruining a perfectly adequate body and running vest by falling over and mud-sliding down the Thames path).

Sadly however, not only is my short term memory bad, but so is my short term memory.

About a month ago I realise that by signing up for exactly the same ultra event, I have broken this promise in a moment of weakness. Entering races online, late at night with a glass of Malbec for company, is the runner’s equivalent of compulsive, keyboard shopaholicism. I decide that a DNF is preferable to a CBA approach so cram in some last minute training and reflect on my learnings from last year, namely:

• Try not to fall over in public
• Make the most of the ‘free’ snacks en route.
• Do not wear any new kit for the first time on race day.
• Research the actual mileage beforehand (i.e. convert 52k into an imperial measurement rather than winging it)

Last year, posing for my finisher’s photograph in my sponged down muddy top, little do I know that this same pic will later feature as part of my profile – another late night Malbec moment when, after vowing that I will never romance again, I stumble on a dating site which promises to match actively single lonely hearts. As I cannot find another photo that demonstrates that I can be active and smile at the same time, I upload this dubious muddy shot as evidence and hope that my short term memory will serve me well next morning.

As luck will have it, this photo attracts a fellow romantic weirdo. Fortunately for me, he is a cyclist not a runner, and is so short sighted that he clocks my smile rather than my mud slinger’s vest in the photo. In summary, we have been ‘walking out’ for a while now (he is not a runner and I refuse to get on a bike, so walk we must), we are not in ultra dating territory yet, but our training plan is going well, and by admitting to this in a blog, I offer a soft launch of our new and active (by oldie standards) ‘status’.

Fast forward to last weekend and I find myself in totally new territory for I am about to run the same ultra marathon again, but this time with my own support crew.

I arrive with one lovely cyclist (the same cyclist referenced above; I try not to be too greedy) and he seems genuinely excited after consulting the course map and working out that he can meet me at every food station and get some ‘lumpy’ cycling miles under his belt in between. Should I tire of the official smorgasboard of running snacks on offer, this cyclist pedals with his own full range of cycling fodder; it has been a revelation to discover that cyclists ‘do’ nutrition differently to runners. My eyes have been opened and my head – if not my wheels – could be in danger of turning.

In addition, I am not forsaken by my regular running husband (he who is responsible for getting us into this ultra marathon frame of mind in the first place, but does not drink -or supply – Malbec so cannot take accountability for this year’s race entry or my new foray into the dating world). He insists on meeting up at mile 14 and running the middle section of the race with me. He has a badly injured shoulder so I am impressed at his stoicism. Admittedly he has paid for his place before the injury so it makes economic sense to inhale Haribo and Kitkats if they are offered en route. I jest; I am overjoyed to see him because by mile 14, even with my shocking memory, my internal chatter is becoming boring and repetitive.

My ultra learnings this year:

• Falling over will remain part of my ultra experience, but I discover that I can still face plant (bruising my chin, taking the skin off my arm) and keep a running vest mud-free (good to know if I ever need a new profile pic – best to keep ‘my’ cyclist on his cleats).
• Pretzels are the food of the gods. I run nearly 33 miles on these salty ambrosial offerings last weekend and selflessy leave the Tangfastics for my running husband. We do not go rungry.
• While new kit is not to be encouraged on race day, my last minute decision to wear the new pair of running socks I impulse buy the day before the race, proves to be a great one. Not one blister is formed in the making of this ultra marathon.
• Mind games work. I tell myself that I am running 35 miles, not 33 this year, and finishing ‘early’ feels like a luxury. Mentally, if not physically, I am stronger. (As evidenced in my new running photo which accompanies this blog – look how I smile as I sprint past that moving car).

This year at the end of the race although I probably could keep on running – no really, I have two ‘spare miles’ in reserve, see above – I find myself looking forward to flinging off my trainers and catching up with a certain cyclist who has stalked me around the whole course with impeccable timing, patience and navigational skills (again, the same cyclist referenced throughout, for I really have no energy to be a serial dater). ‘My’ cyclist is waiting for me at the finish line and must have an olfactory disorder because, although I smell rank, he is happy to greet me with a celebratory hug and an impressive array of surplus snacks.

There is nothing short term about this ultra running business, but I seem to be strangely addicted and ‘in’ for the duration; I aim to reflect this same approach in my dating life. I may even consider having a shower if this hybrid duathlon coaching experience remains this positive. For those who know me best, no doubt you will be ignoring the mileage and acknowledging instead that I have achieved a more important feat in the completion of this year’s ultra marathon; it has been a long time coming, but I have finally acknowledged that accepting support is a sign of strength not weakness. Long term gains which are hopefully now etched into my shocking short term memory..