Three kids and flu hasn’t stopped me relishing the challenge of the London Marathon

I signed up for the London Marathon thinking that with three kids, there’s never going to be a perfect time to do this. In hindsight – even with my sunny disposition – I have to admit this may be the worst time ever to take this on.

Training began as soon as I got my place in October. I downloaded an AI coach app, found a plan, and trotted off on a 2km jog. I had not run since falling pregnant with my first-born (now five), followed swiftly by twins (who are almost three). I don’t quite have the same body that ran a sub-four hour marathon a decade ago. Still, having grown and birthed three humans, I know a thing or two about endurance, pain, and being comprehensively humbled.

The hardest part has been a high-stakes game of diary Tetris with my husband. Halfway through my training plan, his job whisked him away for most of the week – leaving me unable to run early mornings or evenings without abandoning small children to fate. Then came the flu. I’ve missed my last five weeks of training and I have partial hearing loss (temporary, we hope). I’m on a course of antibiotics. And, for good measure, my period is due the day before the marathon.

My first experience of a marathon was cheering on a friend in 2015. There was no real plan, and we were all slightly worse for wear, but we spent the day bounding around London, catching him at as many points as possible, shrieking his name, before settling into celebratory pints and pizza – feeling, somehow, like we had run it, too.

There’s something about watching people publicly try their absolute best that I find incredibly moving. The vulnerability of it. Showing up after months of graft, not knowing how it will go, but doing it anyway. And that’s before you even get to the reasons people run – the adversity, grief, illnesses, the stories they carry with them. It’s an emotional, beautiful day – whether you’re running or just there for the beers and carbs. Back then, I was running most days. Inspired, I signed up to Edinburgh and Amsterdam the following year and ran a PB of 3hours 44min.

A decade on, life looks quite different. I’m now a 36-year-old mum whose main running goal is not to wet myself. Genuinely.

We have graduated from the “surviving” era of parenting, but I wouldn’t say we’ve hit “thriving” just yet. We show up consistently for our children – keeping everyone alive, happy, and generally clean – but somewhere between night feeds, laundry mounds, Easter bonnets, birthday parties, drop-offs, deadlines, tantrums, pick-ups and being permanently outnumbered, the idea of showing up for myself quietly disappeared.

So when the opportunity to run London came along, I threw my hat in the ring. What’s one more thing on the to-do list?

Truthfully, I wish I’d done it sooner. I used to roll my eyes when my husband or well-meaning friends suggested I go for a run – do something for myself. At the time, kindness looked like not adding pressure to an already full plate.

But something clicked once I started training. I felt like I’d reconnected with a part of myself I’d lost. A good mum friend calls it “getting your pink back” – like flamingos after raising their chicks. A bit more energy. A bit more joie de vivre. A sense of possibility again.

It was always going to be an experiment: could I get away with skipping midweek runs while solo-parenting, and just cling to the long ones? My husband even got a babysitter so he could join me on a few long ones at the weekend – cheering me along while we exchanged the occasional uninterrupted sentence. Magical.

But ever since I’ve been floored with the flu, it’s not been about making it to the finish line, it’s been about getting to the start. I’ve been downing echinacea and ginger, submerging my body in steaming Vapo salts, taking antibiotics, and Sudafed-ing my way through the days with a twin on my hip and other hanging off my leg (a relocation move has also been an induction into full-time parenting with a side of work in the evenings). A fellow Observer runner (41 marathons, casually) told me it’s better to show up well and a bit undertrained than fit but unwell, so I’ve resisted any panic runs.

Call it delusion, but I am buzzing for it. Being this far off-plan is oddly liberating. I’m ready to soak it all in – and make friends with a few fellow tortoises along the way.

This time round I’m running to raise money for Diabetes UK in memory of one of my best friends, Tara, whose life was cut short very suddenly in 2020 due to complications of her type one diabetes. While I might be a bit out of puff and needing to dig deep, if there’s anyone who can get me through, it’s her – and the thought of my children, who we’re always telling to show up, try their best, and not be knocked sideways by setbacks. Look out for me in a bright orange Observer T-shirt, plodding along next to a man dressed as a deep-sea diver. Hopefully smiling.

Photograph by Katherine Anne Rose for The Observer