I promise that this running story differs from my usual sanctimonious smuggery. Stick with me and you may even detect some humility. My latest marathon was a first but in the wrong way; there was no Finisher’s t-shirt or medal on account of my failure to complete the course. The only thing that I acquired last weekend was inauguration into the Did Not Finish (DNF) Club.

This is a lie. I did acquire much more from this DNF than I may have acknowledged at the time, but indulge me in my pity party for a little longer.

If anything my training for this marathon was a little too thorough. Although I was taking myself out of retirement to enter Brighton Marathon and although my left hip was complaining about this decision, I whiled away the months of preparation by wanging on (incessantly) to friends and total strangers about my stoic training schedule, my nifty rotation of running shoes and my new hydration back pack. At this point I should also thank Himself for his tolerance; he never complained about the hours eaten up by running or the pasta mountain I selflessly ate. Until last weekend I had prided myself on always being a completer finisher and in this celebration of honed resilience I clearly forgot that my usual modus operandi is to be a last minute merchant. My ‘goody two shoes’ training resolve may have spooked my body into submission but she got her own back last Sunday by reminding me that it is the body – and not always the head – that holds the score.

I will spare you a mile-by-mile break down of my demise by ‘sprinting’ to mile 17 of the Brighton Marathon where you will find me weaving into other runners, cursing at spectators and losing my signature smile. My saving grace is my support crew of eight gorgeous people who are standing on the sea front ready to catch me . Let us just say that it takes me a while to allow the road to come up to greet me, for I slump over their railings and say, ‘I will be ok in a second, let me just sit on the kerb for a minute.’ They tell me later that I try this little routine about 10 times – sitting down, standing back up, then sitting back down again – before acknowledging that I can only see them in black and white and that there is an outside chance that I may have heat stroke.

Favourite Daughter (FD) gives me her look – I do remember this – and persuades me that this is not going to be my day and that she will walk me across to the beach promenade to find a place to rest. She tells me that it will be an achievement to allow myself to drop out of the event. I think she is making sense because I really want to curl up and go to sleep.

Brighton sea front is special. It is pebbled with little Victorian sheltered benches, and soon I am sitting – sort of in the shade – chatting to other spectators and turning down offers of dextrose tablets and jelly babies as I tell them that I am, ‘full to the brim with water and energy gels and quite honestly might throw up at any minute’.

‘My’ whole crew come across to join us and Favourite Son appears with some iced fizzy water wangled from a local hotelier. I am chatting away to other spectators and asking my friend if she thinks people will want their charity donations back. I then start worrying about my virtual support crew who will be tracking me on the app and I start texting them to let them know that it is me rather than the tracker that is buffering. My friend distracts me by producing some Rescue Remedy from her handbag. I remember dabbing this on my wrist and trying to share it with Favourite Daughter.

The next thing I remember is thinking that my friend will need a refund on this Rescue Remedy for it clearly is not working.

I believe that I am waking up from a little doze and quite frankly I just want to go back to sleep . Himself tells me that I have fainted and that I need to stay awake. He sounds very bossy. I used to be a regular fainter in my youth and remember that ‘back in the day’, my ‘episodes’ were rarely pretty.

‘Did I say anything when I fainted?’ I ask FD.
‘Not a word, you were fine mum,’ she says.
‘You gave a fog horn death rattle and threw your arms up in the air before slumping forward,’ Himself elaborates.

I realise that I have not wilted in a stylish dying swan fashion. My saving grace is that I still seem to have full control of my bladder.

My oldest friend (OF) is holding my hand (she is not my oldest friend but the friend that I have known the longest and it is she who has hosted us for the weekend, supplied me with unlimited pasta, porridge and water and toasted me with a gin cocktail the night before). She is telling me that her husband is calling for an ambulance.

‘Who for?’ I ask.
She barely gets in an eye roll before a paramedic is peering over me:

‘You don’t look like a 61 year old man,’ she says.

I decide to take this as an age-related compliment and believe – naively – that the medics must be searching for a male runner who is in much greater need than myself. I do vaguely note that I appear to have my legs raised on to the shoulders of Himself and that FD is trying to shield me from the sun. I am wearing Himself’s jumper and someone has covered me with their coat – both seem strange because the sun is still beating down.

‘I just need to sleep,’ I tell the paramedic, ‘I am fine. Have you met my family? I don’t want to be rude but I just need to sleep.’

The paramedic appears to adopt the same bossy tone as Himself. ‘Please stay awake. You will scare us if you go to sleep. Keep talking’. Great news about your bladder, by the way’.

If you can forgive the tautology, my second first of the day is my subsequent blue light ambulance journey to a Medical Centre on account of my inability to stand upright and a pretty pathetic attempt at my first cardiogram (my third first?). Again, I do not remember much about this trip – or the cardiogram. FD tells me that at one point she sticks her head through the ambulance door and I say, ‘This is such a fuss about nothing, I just need a wee and a nap – in that order. Why will no-one let me sleep?’.

My learnings from this ‘adventure’:

• I am so flipping lucky with my friends and family.
• I am unlikely to be short-listed for a role in ‘Casualty’ or any other medical drama.
• I can not always control a situation and sometimes – perhaps – there is strength in acknowledging that you just need to give in. This does not apply to bladder control.
• Perhaps you can over-prepare. Perhaps I should have joined OF with a gin cocktail after all.
• Paramedics are the most amazing people. They were called upon far too often last Sunday and there was never a mention of this being a ‘recreational medical choice’. They had to witness some horrible sights, and I love my OF for disappearing to hug one of the paramedics when she saw them having a private weep in the shade of their ambulance.
• Running is much more important to me than I care to admit . Not the times, not the races, but the taking part – and until now – the muscle memory of digging in for resilience. Running will always be important and last weekend it was the support crew who were the champions, walking my feet forward (or raising them up in the air as necessary) and never once saying, ‘you chose to do this’. Crowd surfing was at its best.
• I can not get my head around the logistics of how you would be able to collect your belongings and get yourself back home if you DNF at an event like this and you are on your own. I have attended events solo before – Newport Marathon you were cruel, but I survived you – but at Brighton my crew retrieved my bag, followed the ambulance to the Medical Centre and shoe-horned me back on to the train when I able – eventually – to stand back on my own two feet. I can only recall all this a week after the event and I must have appeared very ungrateful at the time. Sorry chaps.
• The body does hold the score; it needs to be treated like a temple, not crumbling ruins.
• I have the best friends – one even sponsored me after learning about my DNF (I think she was holding out until I publicly admitted fallibility). Others have reminded me that I am not the only member of the DNF club and that other members, rather than wallowing in self-pity and faffing about, work on their come back plan. I see you, Paula.
• Salt & Vinegar crisps are the best antidote to heat exhaustion, hitting the wall, nausea and defeat. My OF’s husband is a hero for the pep talk delivered before I would accept that ambulance invitation, and for the bag of Walkers he financed at Hove Railway Station. Sir I salute you.

I would be lying if I said that the DNF has not messed with my head/pride a little . I will try and find the learnings – humility, feet of clay and gratitude all currently vy for my attention. I need to decide whether this will be my marathon nemesis or whether I need to have one final hoorah at the marathon distance. Meanwhile OF invites me to get over myself and stick some sequins on my Wonderbra to join her in The MoonWalk across London. ‘It is the same distance,’ she argues, ‘we will walk through the night so you can’t make a show of yourself and you are banned from breaking into a jog at any point. I will bring the crisps, you just need to prove that you can stay awake. Promise me you will not try and train for this; you can bring your hydration back pack, but we will not be filling it with water’.

Final learning: Next time I pray the Celtic prayer, ‘May the road rise up to meet you,’ I trust it will serves as a figurative blessing; we have established that this dragonfly does not land delicately. I pray that my next DNF will stand for Did Not Fail/Did Not Fall – or at very least Did Not Faff.