Unfinished Business
One DNF, one battered ego, and one more shot at the TCS London Marathon. Will it be a medal, a pint, or another awkward conversation in a foil blanket? A runner’s honest story about second chances and stubbornness.
By An Anonymous Runner
The first time I ran the London Marathon, I didn’t finish. Not because I was injured, not because I was heroically sacrificing my body for charity, but because I simply couldn’t be arsed to carry on. Somewhere around mile 19, just after a bloke in a rhino costume overtook me for the third time, my legs folded, my will evaporated, and I cried in front of a very kind St John Ambulance volunteer who looked about 17 and very unsure about how to handle a grown woman sobbing uncontrollably into a foil blanket.
I’d like to say that moment broke me, but in truth I was already broken. I hadn’t trained properly. I had the nutritional strategy of a Labrador with access to a Deliveroo account. I thought “it’s just running” and that sheer force of will would carry me through 26.2 miles. Turns out it’s not just running. It’s running for hours, in public, while your toenails turn black and strangers shout your name on repeat like they’ve forgotten who you are.
I took the Monday off work. I’d booked it optimistically, months before, picturing a well-earned lie-in, sore but satisfied, with a medal next to the kettle and legs like wet planks. On Tuesday, I returned, medal-less, with a limp and the haunting memory of a DNF beside my name in the results app. My colleagues had been lovely. They’d sponsored me. They’d signed a card. Someone had brought in flapjacks. “How did it go?” they asked. “Did you get your time?” “Where’s your medal?” they said, not unkindly, but with the hopeful energy of people who had already bought into the ending. And I had to explain, again and again, that I hadn’t finished. No disaster. No injury. Just a quiet, undramatic collapse of energy and hope on a roadside near Poplar. No one was mean. No one laughed. But I still felt like I’d let everyone down. Mostly, though, I’d let myself down. Which is of course unreasonable. But also very human.
So why am I writing this piece? And why am I not putting my name to it? Partly because I still haven’t finished a TCS London Marathon. And partly because there’s every chance that, by this Sunday evening, I still won’t have. It’s a very real possibility, and one that fills me with dread.
Maybe next week I’ll update this story with a photo of me, red-faced and sweating, crossing the finish line. One with a medal in hand, grinning into the sunshine, surrounded by my family, who are travelling down from Yorkshire just to watch me shuffle through the capital. Maybe even one in the pub afterwards, pint in hand, at the table my girlfriend has pre-emptively booked for dinner. Or maybe there’ll be no photo at all. Maybe I’ll be in another foil blanket, on another pavement, having another deeply awkward conversation with a teenage first aider. Who knows. (UPDATE: We do know! More info at end!)
So why am I going back? Because I have unfinished business. But also because the London Marathon, for all its hype and horror, is addictive. It is a bizarre and brilliant thing to do to yourself. And as much as I resent how much it takes, I also respect it. It doesn’t care who you are. It strips you down, then makes you queue for a banana.
This year, I’ve done things differently. I’ve trained. Not perfectly, not religiously, but seriously. I’ve turned down pints. I’ve seen more of the canal than I ever wanted to. I’ve run long, lonely miles through retail parks and out-of-town housing estates. I’ve eaten enough porridge to make it political.
I’m still not a runner. I don’t glide or stride or experience any sort of runner’s high. I trudge. I wheeze. I count every kilometre and bribe myself with Percy Pigs. But something’s shifted. There are days, now, when it feels manageable. Not easy. Not fun. But like something I understand. Something that makes a strange kind of sense.
Somewhere along the way, I’ve found my people. Not in a club or a group chat. Just quietly, over time. Friends who’ve started running too. People I know only by their pacing and their jackets. Runners in the middle of the pack who nod at you on wet Sunday mornings, who get it. Not the fastest. Not the flashiest. But consistent. Stubborn. Just there.
I’m running for charity again, because it matters. This year, I got my place through the ballot, but I’m still raising funds for Cancer Research, a cause that’s close to my heart. Somehow, I’ve raised an eye-watering £2,200. It’s willing me on. It means the pressure is on. I’m running for those who can’t, and that sits heavy in the best kind of way. When things get ugly at mile 20 — and they will — I know exactly who I’m carrying with me.
The TCS London Marathon in 2024 raised a record-breaking £73.5 million for charity, the largest single-day fundraising event in the world, beating the previous record set back in 2019. There’s something uniquely moving about being part of that — thousands of people, all running for different reasons, stitched together by one long, aching route through London.
Some wear names on their vests, some carry photos on their backs. You see grief, pride, joy, purpose, all laced into the rhythm of trainers on tarmac. It’s impossible not to be affected by it, even when you’re just trying to keep yourself moving forward.
In 2024, 578,000 people applied to run the TCS London Marathon. About 50,000 got in. I recognise how lucky I am to have received that email congratulating me on my spot. This Sunday’s race is set to be the biggest in the event’s history, with more than 56,000 finishers expected, making it the most popular marathon in the world and likely to break the Guinness World Record, overtaking the TCS New York Marathon’s 2024 total. It’s a historic moment. Statistically, I should be part of it. Around 97 percent of those who start the London Marathon do finish. But I also know how easy it is to end up in the other three percent. The line between finishing and not finishing is thin. It doesn’t care how many people are watching, how historic the year is, or how good your playlist might be. I’d like to be part of the 97 this time. I’m doing everything I can to be. But nothing is guaranteed. And maybe that’s exactly what makes it worth doing.
determination
I keep showing up because somewhere in all of this, I found something I wasn’t really looking for. A routine that grounded me. A reason to go outside when everything else felt stuck. A version of myself I don’t always like, but I trust. One who doesn’t give up just because the last time went badly. Somewhere along the way, the training stopped feeling like punishment and started to resemble peace. Not always, but often enough to matter.
The day itself is ridiculous and brilliant. London turns out. People cheer. Drummers and brass bands and children holding up signs that say, “You trained for this longer than Liz Truss was Prime Minister.” You pass kebab shops and cathedrals. You run through boredom, panic, euphoria and pain in a single stretch between Limehouse and Blackfriars. You see people limping and laughing and crying and carrying each other, and you realise you’re one of them. Part of this big, weird, moving, miraculous mess. And if you’re lucky, you come out the other side and see Buckingham Palace and remember, even just for a second, that you’re doing something kind of mad and kind of amazing.
I keep showing up because somewhere in all of this, I found something I wasn’t really looking for. A routine that grounded me. A reason to go outside when everything else felt stuck. A version of myself I don’t always like, but I trust. One who doesn’t give up just because the last time went badly. Somewhere along the way, the training stopped feeling like punishment and started to resemble peace. Not always, but often enough to matter.
The day itself is ridiculous and brilliant. London turns out. People cheer. Drummers and brass bands and children holding up signs that say, “You trained for this longer than Liz Truss was Prime Minister.” You pass kebab shops and cathedrals. You run through boredom, panic, euphoria and pain in a single stretch between Limehouse and Blackfriars. You see people limping and laughing and crying and carrying each other, and you realise you’re one of them. Part of this big, weird, moving, miraculous mess. And if you’re lucky, you come out the other side and see Buckingham Palace and remember, even just for a second, that you’re doing something kind of mad and kind of amazing.
Whether I finish or not, I know now that I’m part of something. Something chaotic, pointless, brilliant. A kind of joyful collective delusion that you can wake up one day and run 26.2 miles and somehow that means something. And surprisingly, it does. It means you tried. It means you believed in something enough to put your body behind it. It means you wanted to test yourself and were brave enough to try in public.
Because even if it all goes wrong again, even if I find myself crying under a bridge in Bermondsey, I’ve already learned something. I’ve learned how to keep showing up. I’ve learned that you don’t have to be good at something for it to matter. You just have to care enough to try. To keep lacing up. To keep going, especially when you’re not sure you can.
So maybe I’ll finish. Maybe I won’t. But either way, I’ll be there. I’ll turn up, stand on that start line, and do the thing. I’ll try again. And honestly, that might be enough. For now.
UPDATE: Our girl did it! Team Glorious were cheering her on as she crossed the finish line in an impressive 4 hours 46 minutes! No foil blanket in sight! Iconic behaviour that has raised an epic £4,432 for Cancer Research! GLORIOUS!
Whether you’re running, clapping from the sidelines or just here for the free pizza and beer- read our Glorious Guide to the TCS London Marathon HERE.
Let us know your marathon story over on IG here: @glorioussport
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