By Daisy Buchanan, author and marathon runner
I believe that if I can run the marathon, anyone can. I’m not particularly fit or fast. I grew up feeling scared of exercise. I hated PE lessons. Running, I thought, was for confident, sporty people who look good in shorts. It was not for me.
But over the years, I started dabbling. Every so often, I’d do a Couch to 5K and enjoy it. Like many people, I fell in love with running over lockdown and discovered that it helped, when I was feeling anxious. I live by the Kent coast, and I found that running by the sea was soothing and distracting. I stopped worrying about being fit, or fast. I focused on the way it felt to move my body, and how much I enjoyed being outside.
When lockdown lifted, I didn’t keep it up. I missed it. It was hard to make time to run, and life kept getting in the way. But as my 40th birthday loomed, I was filled with the urge to set myself a big challenge. The 2025 London Marathon would take place six weeks after my birthday. Running the marathon would be an exciting way to start the new decade. I knew I wanted to run for a charity, and around the time of my big decision, several friends were receiving alarming, bowel related health diagnoses. Running for them seemed like the least I could do – it was a tiny way to help. I was also aware of how lucky I was to be able to run. Instead of focusing on what my body couldn’t do, I felt very grateful that it might be able to meet the challenge I was going to set it.
And oh my goodness, what a challenge. The self-doubt started to creep in when I signed up for my first half marathon, running from Herne Bay to Whitstable and back again, at the start of November. I learned a lot, during that run. I discovered that a fuelling strategy is not an optional extra. (I can still taste the Maoam I discovered in the pocket of my hoodie, eight miles in – it’s one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten. I realised that when I’m anxious, frustrated and getting pelted by rain, I can get through it by putting on a podcast. (Thank you, Richard Osman and Marina Hyde, you made everything much more bearable.) I discovered that I needed to think carefully about pacing, and that ‘slow and steady’ was a better mantra than ‘Try desperately hard to keep up with everyone else until your lungs go on strike’. Most importantly, I learned that there is always time for a pre-race loo break, and your future self will thank you.
After the half marathon, I had no idea how I was going to manage a whole one. I was starting to fall out of love with running. Luckily, I had the Bowel Research UK group chat. Every day, I could talk to some of the warmest, most inspiring, interesting funny runners that I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet. We all had different reasons for running, and as I learned about how Bowel Research UK had touched everyone’s lives, I became more and more determined to keep shaking my fundraising tin. I felt as though we were all running for each other. We all cheered for each other. It was exciting to watch my new friends getting faster and going further. We commiserated when injuries and illnesses stopped us from training as much as we wanted to. We shared ideas, snack recipes and techniques. Sometimes we ranted, because there were days when running was hard, and we hated it.
The Bowel Research UK team did the most brilliant job of supporting us and sending out resources. I was very excited to receive my blue and orange vest and my iron on name transfer. (And I’m still very proud that I managed to iron my name on straight, without burning the house down.) The fundraising target might seem daunting – but don’t be scared. People will be so excited for you, and so grateful that you’re running a marathon, and they don’t have to. People are also forgetful and disorganised, so don’t worry too much if your friends and family take a bit of prompting. The donations will come thick and fast in marathon month.
The big day was horrible and amazing, magical and memorable. It’s like nothing I’ve ever done in my life. I’m epileptic, and I struggle with excessive sensory stimulus. I get overwhelmed quite quickly, and I was quite anxious about the shouting and the crowds. I couldn’t picture myself at the finish line – I could picture myself fainting, having a seizure or experiencing some dramatic IBS. It’s completely overwhelming, in the best way. It’s like running through a massive festival, while headlining that festival, with over 50,000 bandmates. The kindness of the crowds, and their energy and joy, is unforgettable. The signs are hilarious. I was worried about practical things – finding and meeting my crew of mates, along the way – but they made it to every marker. (Bowel Research UK gave everyone a very warm welcome at their stand at Mile Sixteen.)
When I was running, it wasn’t possible to feel too anxious, because every single scrap of my physical and mental energy was reserved for getting one foot in front of the other. I tried very, very hard to get 26.2 miles out of my head. I could only take it mile by mile, water break by water break, high five by high five. When I reached the finish line, a nice volunteer had to tell me that I was allowed to stop – I was slightly delirious and convinced I had another 100 metres to go. I don’t know what I said to the poor man who gave me my medal. I don’t think it made any sense. (My cousin had been tracking my progress on the marathon app. She managed to catch me finishing on TV and sent me a photo!)
Training for the marathon took over my life. But I’m so happy that I did it, and I’m so grateful for the support from my fellow runners, Team Bowel Research UK and my friends and family. I couldn’t have done it alone – and no-one wants you to run alone. If you run, you’ll be stunned, in the loveliest way, by the number of people who want to support you and find different ways to cheer for you. And if you want to run for a charity that does brilliant work and really goes the extra mile to support their runners, I can’t recommend Bowel Research UK hard enough.