Tag Archives: Marcothon

Marcothon Madness, Every day in December, UK & France

Peter Bell

In Ashford kent being chased by a WW1 tank at 5.30 am

After a fairly disastrous Great North Run, I decided I needed to set myself a challenge to keep running over winter thus avoiding the seasonal crawl into a corner with a duvet and a big bar of Cadburys. I set up the thousand miles group with the aim of running 20 miles a week from October 18 to October 19 completing an annual total of 1000 miles. I quickly fell behind as tightened Achilles and 45-year-old knees said no to a 14 mile round trip to riverside park run, I needed something different to cramming miles into the weekend.
As December approached I was still behind on my target mileage. Then onto my facebook page popped «Marcothon ». The December running streak challenge. The simplest of rules, 3 miles a day EVERY day in December.

I’m not sure Marcothon is supposed to be enjoyable. Perhaps just motivating! What is it about us mad runners that we commit to these stupid challenges and don’t want to let down strangers by quitting the challenge early. Now I was no stranger to this. I had completed it 2 years ago, and it’s no mean feat. The cold, the damp the darkness and the myriad of different Christmas events and associated demands of “dad take me here, dad take me there.” The millions of microbes lining up to give you some sort of gruesome winter bug as all around you the family cough sneeze and splutter.

So spurred on by the international hoards of Marcothoners on social media I set off for the dullest runs of my life. 3 boring miles around the estate every day. People call them junk miles but at least I was out!

The pattern continued as I tried to run every street in Newton Hall just to give me another pointless purpose to this madness. I even joined Strava; blown away by many Marcothoners attempts to draw festive patterns as their route map. I only managed a tiny Christmas tree then lost interest.

By the time we reached the 23rd of December both myself and K9 companion Cookie with her associated Barkothon were still in it to win it! But then came a feat of planning as I was off to France for the Festivities with that side of my family. The morning of the 23rd was in a hotel in Kent followed by the ferry. How was I going to fit it all in? I slept in my running kit and at 5:30 am ran through the unfamiliar streets of Ashford even tangling with a World War one tank. Done! Next-stop la belle France.

Whenever I’m in France training is easy. With miles of tree-lined canals and all the time in the day to run, my first five miles took me to my favourite spot. The museum of the French Resistance. I have become over the years an expert in the battles that took place between the exceptionally brave Free French resistance who took on the might of the Nazi army. Led by British trained French SAS soldiers and (Special operations executive) agents they held superior forces in place during the days around D-day to prevent the Nazis from sending their forces to the beaches. Having encountered a tank the day previously I took the opportunity to have a selfie with the Anti-tank gun that sits in the grounds of the museum.

Christmas day was relatively sensible with an 8 am run around the town and back in time to play Santa. At least it was Santa as in France they have the Anti Santa Père Fouettard who only delivers the smacked bums to the naughty children.

The following days consisted of fresh bread, cheese, chocolate and all the things I shouldn’t eat balanced only slightly by around 400 calories per run.
As the final day approached I actually dragged my feet around the canal and associated sites taking as many photos as I could but finally finishing the final 3 miles outside the church in France where 14 years ago I was married. Done! I sprinted home knowing that was it.

If running be the food of love, run on, Give me excess of it that, surfeiting,
the appetite may sicken and so die. That strain again, it had a dying fall.
O, it came o’er my legs like the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing and giving odour. Enough, no more.
Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
I was knackered!
[ sorry Shakespeare]

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