End Credits….

With less than two weeks to go, it’s time to admit that no more can be done and what happens on the 22^nd, happens.

I don’t know if this is usual come taper time but my emotions have been all over the place. Most normally in a little town called ‘Rage’ just over from ‘DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY IN MY EYES!’

I began training in November, with hindsight that I should get the miles in early because I knew that there would be more drinking than running. While I’m happy I did, it means that I’ve been training far longer than anyone I know and I really am just ready to wrap this shit up. Like fo reals fo reals.

In the middle of one of my scheduled ‘fuck you and your mama too’ shout outs, Rochelle Bugg’s mother passed away.

Mama Bugg

Rochelle

You may remember Rochelle doing a guest post on Valentines Day as a memorial piece for her father. Her mother spent too long fighting a brain tumor, which unfortunately won.

Upon receiving the news, I had a little meltdown. Rochelle has been one of the main reasons I am coming out the other side of the grief tunnel unscathed. Our lives draw too many parallels for me to think that we found each other by chance. So to hear that her mum finally took the leap into the unknown shook me to my core.

Once again, there was one of my peers. A role model of sorts, without the guidance they needed and it sucks.

But what I did take from that is a sly reminder of why the fuck I’m gonna bust my ass and run this marathon like a boss bitch. It isn’t for a time, people or even bragging rights.

It’s a tip of my hat to the memory of man who taught me to endure against all odds.

I have become so wrapped up in the marathon hysteria that I have totally forgotten why this journey began.  So bundled in folly, I lost track of who I am and have tried in vain to do this running thing every way but my own.

No more fam, no fucking more.

There are no words that can describe how excited I am. With everyday, fear becomes less obtrusive and I find myself laughing- anywhere at dinner or in the shower, thinking; I’m running the London Marathon! At which point, I do a little VLM dance and cackle some more. This is truly remarkable shit. The idea itself is absurd. But if there is anyone that can handle the ridiculousness of it all, you best believe I’m involved.

So here we are, all of us. With different perspectives, morals and ideals. And here I am, me running for the memory of awesome parents who just want us to win.

Sitting here, looking at the special marathon top RDC and Rosie Lees hooked up for me, I am honored, humbled. With incense and cymbals at the ready, I beg all foolishness to stay out of my way until the 23^rd. I am focused, involved and so ready to do da ting that any foolywang is beneath the epic shit that is about to unfold.

Young black women like me ain’t supposed to run marathons.

I hear the whispers and feel the vibes.

To that, I hush my lip and await the 23^rd, when I’ll be giggling, medal around neck, having known that somewhere along those 26.2 miles, there is a little girl just like me that knows regardless of circumstance she can do it.

I’m about too.

DO DA TING!