I ran a marathon sixteen months ago. I remember the deep soaring pain in my legs in the last few miles and I remember the sheer elation as I crossed the finish line just four and a half hours after I started the race.
Feeling like you can run a marathon is one fantastic emotion, knowing you can is overwhelming.
But then the race ended, and my resolve to run seemed to dissipate. My trainers lie abandoned in the cupboard and my gym bag is now a home for spiders.
I look at my body and I see the damage that fifteen months of sitting on my arse has done. What was once toned and tight now sits flabby and lax. A whole wardrobe of clothes sit untouched as my new shape no longer compliments them and I look with unconcealed longing at clothes which have elastic round the waist.
The Olympics, articles like this on womens fitness and the distant memory of being an athletic achiever all combine to hopefully give me the boost I need to get my lard ass moving.
The trainers are out of hibernation. I have a place in the marathon.