‘My wife’s marathon training is ruining our marriage and family life’

By Anonymous

I have so much respect for anyone who endeavours to run the 26.2 miles required for a marathon and endures the unrelenting training that builds mind and body to the point where both are able to cross the finishing line.

However, I have even more respect for said runner’s support network, the silent majority who must undergo an entirely different feat of endurance. One where domestic bliss is suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a piece of A4 paper on the fridge door.

All hail the training schedule!

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“Where’s Mum?” the kids ask.

“Consult the Oracle,” I reply, pointing towards the sheet, head bowed.

My wife’s life is now owned by said schedule and by default so are ours.

She’s obsessed with ticking off her base mileage runs (three to four times a week) and then her once-a-week long run.

Then, of course, there’s the speed work, the tempo runs (to improve pace and stamina, of course), as well as the cross-training and strength training for injury prevention.

There are, thankfully, rest days, but she seems to spend a good portion of these on various running forums, talking about the stack height of trainers – sorry, running shoes – and on Google, researching the best ways to stop thighs from chafing.

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Little did we know, when my wife told us she’d been selected through the ballot to run the marathon, what was in store for us all; we were just all absolutely delighted for her as it’s been on her bucket list for years.

However, it didn’t take long for reality to bite, as I lost a wife, and the kids a mother, to the unrelenting overlord known as Strava.

Although she was more than happy to go out of her way to minimise any disruption to family life and leave at 5am for her runs, we all thought the best thing to do was to muck in and pick up any slack.

So, we divvied up the domestic duties between us non-runners and it didn’t take long for the kids to begin to resent the race with every pass of the vacuum cleaner.

The other day, I’m sure I heard one of them muttering, “Bloody Paula Radcliffe,” while they were loading the dishwasher.

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And when it comes to cooking, we’ve gone from mealtimes being the one part of the day when we can all get together and have a daily debrief, to choreographed chaos as my wife wanders around with a bowl of pasta looking for the charger for her Garmin while the rest of us sit down and eat pie and mash.

And on the rare occasions that our dinner schedules do mesh, she cooks herself an entirely different meal. Apparently, roast beef with all the trimmings isn’t the best thing to fuel up on before heading out on a 15-miler.

Of course, our evenings have remained fairly untouched by the hand of the marathon. If, by untouched, you count bingeing on point-of-view videos of various strangers running sub-four-hour marathons on YouTube, rather than the latest Netflix drama.

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And as engaging as it is to watch the streets of London bob around on some grainy headcam footage, it’s not exactly The White Lotus, is it?

Not that we’re not all supportive. Of course, we all realise that the commitment and willpower required to train for these things is immense and we couldn’t be prouder of her.

So, when she finally crosses that finishing line (and I have no doubt that she will cross the finishing line), there will undoubtedly be a huge unburdening of emotion, followed by tears and mass hugging that the ordeal is now, finally, over.

That’s just me and the kids, of course.

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