Did you know I ran a marathon for my fiftieth birthday gift to myself? My family will no doubt inscribe this on my tombstone because that was the most frequent utterance out of my mouth for over a year.
In my twenties a marathon wasn’t something I ever considered, let alone aspired to. Ironic, isn’t it? My knee joints were soft and pliable, in their prime for being relentlessly pounded for hours, but instead my main form of cardio was dancing with my friends in ridiculous heels. I admired the marathon as a feat, for sure, but I didn’t really start running until my early thirties, and even then it was pyramid runs on a treadmill as part of a broader gym routine. I wasn’t a runner.
Enter motherhood. Running became a way to be outside in the fresh air. Entering events gave me deadlines and a plan (love me a plan) for getting across a finish line. My cherubs were two and four when I signed up for a 10km run with my bestie. It was a course along the beach in support of a women’s breast cancer charity. I ran with women who wrote the names of the women they were running for on their shirts, and was swept up in an almost overwhelming wave of emotion thinking about women fighting for their lives. The sense of accomplishment when I crossed the finish line felt incredibly empowering to this mother of daughters. I quickly signed up for another 10km and in this race I found myself running just ahead of someone being paced, and instead of running my own race, I got caught up in theirs. ‘Slow down, we’re going too quick, slow down’ was a mantra some bloke kept repeating to his client, and for some reason, rather than trusting myself, I slowed down. I crossed that finish line supremely pissed off with myself because I had barely raised a sweat: it felt far too easy.
Then came my 39th birthday. You know what comes after that, don’t you? Four. Oh. Forty. In my twenties I wanted to hike the camino for my 30th. Instead, I launched a business, promising myself I’d do it for my 40th. At 40 I was the mum of two small kids, and wasn’t prepared to leave them for a month, so instead, I thought I’d do my own private pilgrimage and run a marathon. On day 2 of my training, conveniently the 2nd of January, I was running along Beach Road when I heard, then felt, an almighty snap in my knee. I dropped to the ground like I’d been shot and was helped up by an elderly football legend.
I said goodbye to the very idea of running full stop, let alone a marathon.
Then, I met Jaqui. The night I met Jaqui, her leg was wrapped in a full brace after a knee construction which slowed her only momentarily. Jaqui was (is) not only a runner, but an ultra-runner. She takes herself off into the bush and runs and runs and runs. Thirty kilometres here, 120 kilometres there. I watched her feats, and admired her strength but also her vulnerability and her courage and wanted me (and my daughters) some of that. I asked her if she’d help me with a half-marathon. She wrote me a detailed, week by week plan that took me and my older daughter (15 at the time) over the half-marathon finish line at the MCG with Jaqui running by our side, cheering us on, including a memorable 10km isolation run around the backyard which was as manic as it sounds. Then, she wrote us a plan to take us to the Gold Coast for another half-marathon, where we were much faster, and I crossed the finish line on my 49th birthday. I knew I had more in me, so for my 50th, I asked Jaq for a marathon training plan.
This is where things got real…
I won’t bore you with all the details but let me say that eighteen weeks of consistent effort saw me waddle for 42.2km with one of my dearest friends by my side, where we laughed and sang and at one point played air saxaphone. I sprinted around the MCG to the finish line with a spring in my step that made it look like I won the whole damn thing, beaming at my family, crying hot salty tears that actually stung thanks to dehydrated tear ducts. Hand on heart, it was one of the best experiences of my life.
If I had to compare, it was also easier than writing a novel, but there are many similarities in these herculean feats:
Training/building a habit
The main difference between a half-marathon and a full marathon isn’t the distance. It’s time on the feet, which means impact on knees and ankles and muscles and ligaments, oh my. Jaq’s plan saw me building slowly, slowly, to the point where I could run for three and a half hours relatively effortlessly from a cardiovascular perspective. In my months (upon months!) of training for all three events, the runs didn’t focus on distance. I never had to aim for a specific distance. Instead, I ran for time. Thirty minutes. Forty-five. Ninety. And so on. It was about movement against time. Following a plan and tracking everything I did.
When it comes to writing, there’s a lot of advice out there. What’s most impactful for me is creating a routine and goals that give me consistent habits aligned to where I’m at in a process. In the heady days of a first draft, I go for a daily word count, which means if I miss a day I can just make it up on another day. When I’m revising or writing draft 2, however, I blend a weekly word count goal with time goals. I’m someone who’s better if I touch my draft every day, if possible, so I might go for a daily goal of one hour in the morning. I do that, and I’m happy.
Look for inspiration
In my running life, it’s Jaq. She blows me away with her adventures and I want to be her when I grow up, ignoring the fact that I’m over a decade older.
In my writing life, it’s writers and books. I read fabulous YA and other fiction that inspires me with the way words are wrangled and reminds me why first and foremost I am a reader who loves story. I’m also a bit of a chameleon, so if I know I want a certain ‘feel’ or vibe to my work, I’ll read books that fit that vibe. For example, if I want something that drapes an ethereal cloak over childhood memories I’ll read something like The God of Small Things.
Safeguard emotions – all of them
I didn’t tell my parents I was running the marathon until the week before. I didn’t want to hear any negativity, no matter how well meaning. Dad would have said something along the lines of ‘that’s the distance between here and the southernmost tip of the mainland!’ I had enough voices in my head casting doubts.
That said, I wanted some rationality. At one point, after a three and a half hour run that saw me shy of thirty kilometres, I sent a message to Jaq:
‘You’ve seen my time and distance on Strava. Be honest with me. Can I realistically do this?’
Her response:
‘Eff yeah, you can! It’s all in your head!’
Her reassurance, her belief in me, gave me permission to believe in myself.
After a manuscript assessment of Summer, in Between by Writers Victoria, I confessed to my writing bestie that I wasn’t sure I had the skill, the expertise to write the story the way it deserved to be written. She gave me a talking to along the lines of Jaqui’s. Again, her belief in me, in my abilities gave me an inner strength.
On the flip side, the moments of elation were just as plentiful. In the context of running: ‘Look for the joy,’ Jaq had advised me, and everywhere I looked, I found it. Some buddhist nuns wearing Air Jordan high tops and laughing loudly at 5.30am on the Capital City Trail. Time with music and books, and startling other people by either audibly gasping (books) or momentarily forgetting being in public and singing tunelessly along (music). Taking photos for tourists on the Princes Bridge next to Federation Square. A toastie on the train after running into the city along the Yarra, with a lap around the Botanic Gardens to suck up some time.
In writing, it’s celebrating finishing a tricky scene with a text to the writing bestie. It’s brainstorming ideas with other writers. It’s putting up a selfie with deranged hair, tired eyes and a cheesy grin on IG next to *those* words, The End, and experiencing an avalanche of love, support and camaraderie in return.
Honour thy body
Not gonna lie- running for hours upon hours hurts. Years later, my toenails still look terrible, mostly because the second they grow back I hammer them with something else, like a big hike. My training program meant that I built slowly, so I got through it with no injuries other than absent toenails, but I nurtured myself. After every run, I had electrolytes while dousing my joints in ice gel. I bathed like a Victorian duchess and I also spoke to my body while in the throes of punishing it, giving it compliment after compliment.
Writing also can hurt like a mofo. I have an alert on my apple watch that gets me up at least every hour to move. I pair that movement with hydration, walking to get a decent gulp of water. This is a trick from an executive coaching mate who advises her clients to never keep water bottles on their desk but to physically move their body to go get a drink.
I also invested fairly heavily on my office set up with a decent chair and big monitor. When I don’t use them, I feel it.
When I hear people describe writing and then a book as similar to running a marathon, I nod. I’ve done both. They both take endurance, grit, an enormous amount of self-belief to get through the hard times, and the very best people in your corner, believing in you, holding your hand, metaphorically, and literally if the need arises. I’m so grateful to those people. They made the process easier, and a whole lot more fun, and I have a medal hanging above my desk, as well as my book in bookstores (or it will be come September 2025), tangible reminders of my strength and perseverance.