A Bitter Pill to Swallow

I've been really emotional over the last few hours, trying to come to terms with everything. Writing is how I've always found clarity, so I wrote this for myself, and after reading it back I feel I need to share it with those who have or may be in the same place and can find some sort of peace in it too.

The 2026 London Marathon. The race I didn't run.

Yesterday I was meant to be lining up with thousands at the start line of the London Marathon. Sixteen weeks of training. The kit laid out the night before. Bib number, watch, gels on the kitchen counter. Everything was in place, as much as it could be for someone going for their first marathon. And then, sometimes, there are things we cannot control. I was sick through the night, was it nerves, exhaustion, food or a bug I have no idea, but by morning I tried to eat the breakfast I'd eaten before every long run for sixteen weeks, and I couldn't hold it down. That was the moment. Not the painful night before. A half-eaten bagel, half-sipped electrolytes (which were meant for 25km), and the quiet realisation that 42.1km is a very long way to run on an empty, churning stomach with dehydration.

The hardest part of withdrawing from a marathon is not the decision. It is the ten minutes before you make it, when you are still trying to talk yourself into it. Am I just being soft? Is this real? People run on worse. Why not me? Because I am not those people. I am this person. On this morning. With this body. And this body was telling me, loud and clear, that today was not the day. I've written before about listening to your body. It is one thing to write it. Another thing entirely to live it on the morning your race kit has your name neatly printed on it.

I said it out loud to my wife first. "I can't do it." Three words. They tasted worse than the bagel. She looked at me and said, "Then don't." I remembered my daughters' excitement for the day ahead. As a father, I encourage my kids to be the best at their sport, to stay competitive. The thought of them watching me cross that finish line after they had witnessed first-hand all the sacrifice and long slog of training had been fuelling me for months. As a husband, I owe my wife a body that comes home in one piece. As a business partner, I owe my team a brain that shows up on Monday.

But there was one more weight. I was raising money for Norwood, and so many people had backed me. That was the part that destroyed me. Not the training. Not the morning. Knowing I would have to face those people and explain why I didn't run. That I didn't even start. The conversations are coming. The "how did it go?" messages. The questions about why I dropped out. It is going to be embarrassing, and there is no way around that. But it does not change the call. The right call is still the right call.

I chose my body over pain. That is the cleanest sentence I can write about today.

Sixteen weeks of training and sacrifices do not disappear because I didn't run on Sunday. The lungs are still there. The legs are still there. The stubborn streak is very much still there. I learned so much about myself through this. The training blocks. The lead-up. The preparation. The final call I had to make yesterday morning. I have come out stronger than when I started a few months ago, and that is the most important thing. Especially if I take on this challenge again.

Maybe I'll be back again. Maybe I won't. Right now, I genuinely don't know, and I am not going to pretend otherwise. No one knows if it was the right decision, but for me, I've made peace with it…

Start strong. Finish stronger.