Being a full time student I am lucky that my training times are fairly flexible, and in a general week I would hope to go running about four times, one day of cross training and one day of weights. During the last month the plan is to increase the distances and to train twice on some days.
 

Part of the training was a 54 mile race called the Thames Meander. Below is an account of a competitor whom completed the course in 2003, Theo Theato, I feel she has got the message across much better than I would have so have copied it below.

The Thames Meander is as accurately descriptive as calling Vlad the Impaler fond of toothpicks.

You get the idea, when you first hear the title, of a gentle ramble across grassy towpaths, a piece of long grass between your teeth, Youth Hostel badges pinned to your knotty walking stick, content with your lot, your inner being resonating with the reassuring sounds of country life around you; the lowing of the cows and the 'tink tink' of their bells, the cries of the barge skippers as they ply their trade along the waterway, the cheerful music of a marsh warbler as it flits from stem to stem of the reeds growing in abundance by the river bank. Even a little country vole might be spotted as it timidly peeps from its cleverly disguised nest in a flowery knoll. Perhaps you might be forgiven that on such a stroll you could stop at a country pub for a pint of real ale and Ploughman's Lunch. You can almost taste the cheese and pickle. Afterwards, lying on your back on a nearby hillock, you would watch the clouds shift and change in the fresh summer sky, transforming into wonderful shapes, and you would dream your afternoon away in tranquil bliss... Let us not forget the Oxford Dictionary definition of the word 'Meander.' (It brings to mind the curves of an ancient river, weaving its way through meadows, until an ox-bow lake takes shape over the centuries. Time in abundance, nothing rushed, nature's peaceful, unhurried way...) "To follow a winding course...wander aimlessly...an ornamental pattern of winding lines..."

Well, excuse me, but bollocks!

Can someone please explain to me how on Saturday 15th February, on just such a 'Meander', I found myself nearly 15 hours into the journey, in pitch darkness, caked in filth, carrying a 25lb backpack, wearing a miner's head lamp which had cut out, leaving me blind and stumbling, my knee resembling John Merrick's worst one, my blistered feet looking and feeling like bubble wrap, freezing, shivering, cursing nature and all humanity, my pain receptors screaming like a boy racer's car alarm, my endorphins having abandoned my bruised and numb body, and not even a bloody vole in sight!

The occasion was the 52 mile marathon from Reading to Hampton, along the Thames towpath. It was supposed to be in preparation for the Marathon des Sables endurance footrace. I just ended up feeling like a very lost Postie on a grim housing estate, pursued by dogs, heckled by boozers pointing the way to the caves (courtesy of my lamp and backpack) and suffering like the Messiah on his way to Golgotha to try out the latest acupuncture cure. I was on my own for the most part, bewildered and wondering why I was putting myself through such a momentous struggle. Even now, I can hardly comprehend that this was an elementary jog compared to what we will face in Morocco in April. Substitute voles for scorpions and venomous snakes, a Ploughman's Lunch for freeze dried crap and power bars.

I finished very late, the equivalent of an elderly parent finishing the egg and spoon race on Sports day, just in time to help the Caretaker pack away the folding chairs for the Assembly Hall, leaflets proclaiming the big day blowing around the deserted playing fields. 'Chariots of Fire' it wasn't. No slow motion and stirring anthems. It felt more like 'Platoon' mixed with 'Alien 3'. With a sadist popcorn lady beating me senseless with a Cornetto. I felt a tad unprepared. The wind is never as harsh in your imagination. The pain is never really going to kick in. From behind the security of your Everest windows you envisage striding purposefully past other runners, even smiling a little from the corner of your mouth, your daydreaming alter ego smug and superior, and with more comfortable running shoes. And having seen those little dancing bunnies on TV inumerable times, why the bejeebers didn't I put a couple of Duracells in my torch? I would probably have been skipping in a similar fashion, illuminating my way ahead like an angler fish after its prey, instead of staggering wildly in the dark like a bridegroom on the run after thirty pints and the threat of being tied naked to a fire hydrant.

In one way, this killer of a race, not in terms of distance necessarily but in terms of terrain and weather, did prepare me for one thing. Not the Marathon des Sables though. Now I'm perfectly prepared as a contestant on 'Stars in their Eyes.' "Tonight Mathew, I'm going to be absolutely brain dead. I'm performing as Ozzy Osbourne."

Theo