You collapse. You cry a little. You grab the goodie bag like it’s a precious relic. Inside: a medal, a banana, and probably a protein bar that tastes like cardboard. But you’ll eat it anyway because you earned it, you majestic disaster.
Then, the pub. There’s a tradition—everyone staggers to a nearby pub (usually The Sherlock Holmes) to drink warm beer and compare blisters. It’s glorious, gross, and oddly heartwarming.
A final ironic confession
I’ll be honest: I said I’d “never do it again” last year. But now I’m already checking my calendar for March 29, 2026. Why? Because the London landmarks half marathon date is like a bad ex—you know it’s exhausting, but you can’t resist the drama.
So, will I see you there? Probably. Just look for the guy wheezing past the Gherkin with a smug grin. That’ll be me, wondering why we do this to ourselves. Spoiler: because it’s worth every step.
