I knew training for the London Marathon would change me, but not like this

IT struck me when I took my girlfriend on a trip to Kingston. Sound romantic? You may be imagining a plush hotel in Kingston, Jamaica.

- Robbie Smith

Imagine a Travelodge in Kingston upon Thames instead.

So there we were, and it was my fault.

As I sat on the bed, eating a brioche in the 6am dark of a very rainy Sunday (my girlfriend had wisely gone straight back to sleep after the hideously early alarm), I thought about out what was to blame.

The marathon. The London Marathon, to be precise, the one happening this Sunday. I started training hard six months ago and it was my spiralling obsession and her inexplicably kind support that brought us to Kingston that morning in March for a 20-mile warm-up race. Fun! No, really. I was buzzing.

But mid-pastry this thought occurred: yes, I knew the London Marathon training would change me. But not like this.

Travelodges in Kingston? Trips to Stratford's dreary Olympic Park on a cold Saturday just before Christmas? A 5.30 am DLR on the way to the outskirts of Watford? As a catalogue of trips, it doesn't exactly scream "sparks joy" does it? Unfortunately (for my girlfriend), for me it does.

I tried to work out how that had happened. I realised that running had moved the goalposts for my definition of fun.