Marathon 7: Not Quite the PB Plan, Toughest One Yet

Oxfordshire was always going to look slightly different. For the first time on the challenge, we were without a local legend to guide us through the week – no insider knowledge of the best footpaths or hidden turns. That meant a bit more guesswork from me… and a couple of very important people stepping in to save the day.

First, two enormous thank yous to my mum's cousin, Sally, and her husband, Colin. With the route plotted online as a best estimate, they spent time in the days beforehand recceing it properly – checking which paths worked, which didn’t, and steering us away from flooded paths and dead ends. On the day itself, they were phenomenal. Leapfrogging round with drinks, encouragement, and – just as importantly – providing showers and a delicious chilli at the finish. Absolute heroes.

The second huge thank you goes to Ed, my old mate, who hopped on a train from London at barely a week’s notice to run the whole thing with me. He kept me company, kept me honest, and when the going got heavy (literally), kept me moving. I definitely wouldn’t have got through it in the same way without him.

We set off full of optimism, and aiming for a PB. The first couple of kilometres through Oxford city centre felt smooth and controlled. All going to plan.

And then we hit the river. Within a few hundred metres, we were wading through knee-deep water. So much for the quick one. A swift reroute cut a corner and got us back on track, but it set the tone for what was to come.

Over 300 metres of climbing – our biggest elevation gain so far – combined with long, relentless stretches of sodden, churned-up footpaths. From about 10 to 13 miles in particular, the ground was heavy, wet and unforgiving. Skating through mud for mile after mile takes a different kind of toll. The legs were working overtime just to stay upright, and it showed. By halfway, they already felt like they’d done the job.

The second half became a test of patience. A couple of steeper hills demanded short walks. Pride parked. Heads down. Keep moving.

But we did. Helped enormously by Sally and Colin’s support stops, and by Ed’s steady presence alongside me, we ground it out to the finish.

Crossing the line at St. Mary's Church was a special moment. Finishing there in memory of my Uncle Peter meant a great deal, and being able to light a candle with my daughter afterwards put everything into perspective. However tough the miles had been, that part mattered.

In the days since, my legs have been reminding me exactly what we put them through. This is the first week the fatigue has properly lingered beyond a couple of days.

We’re in a similar part of the country next weekend, just a stone’s throw away across the county border in Northamptonshire on Saturday 14th February, and the terrain promises to be fairly similar. Hopefully the legs recover in time.

Toughest run to date. But then, no one said it was going to be easy.

Onwards we go!