Confessions Of A Midlife Marathon Runner

Fiona Gibson was the ultimate party girl until she decided, aged 53, to seriously take up running – and experienced the biggest high of her life

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Music is blaring out into the Edinburgh street. Tens of thousands have gathered to run the marathon, and all around me keen runners are swigging water, taking selfies and limbering up. I’ve spent much of the past few weeks gripped by fear at the thought of this moment – but right now I am so thrilled I am literally jumping up and down on the spot. At 53, I am about to run my first marathon.

Never the sporty type, I spent the first four decades of my life shunning exercise of any kind. In truth, I was slightly ashamed about the quantity of ciggies I smoked and wines I tippled in the pub after work. It was easier to be scornful of exercise than to shift my rear end and take control of my health.

However, by my early forties, when the hangovers were no longer curable by a bacon sandwich, I started to view my body with a tad more respect.

Gradually, I picked up a bit of a running habit. I chose it because it was free and, as long as I went out at night, no one would see me staggering along or slugging water from the tap at the caravan site. My confidence increased, and I started to run the occasional 10k race. Running was benefiting my body and mental health – it’s a brilliant stress reliever, I’d discovered.

Competitive couple

Meanwhile, Jimmy, my husband, had started running too – and, irritatingly, he seemed to be better at it than I was. While I was still content to jog along three times a week for 40 minutes or so, he – rather sneakily – had increased his distances to the point at which he was ready to attempt a marathon.