The Marathon That Arrives Too Soon
Good morning from London! This homecoming comes with heavy legs, blurred sleep, and a body still negotiating the cost of two marathons run on different continents in the space of a fortnight.
Blackheath slowly fills with colour, nervous energy, and quiet rituals. This isn’t spectacle yet, it’s anticipation.
For Giles, this start line feels different. Not because it’s London, but because of what came before it. Paris is less than two weeks behind him. Just back from Boston.
Flights, interviews, recovery squeezed into hotel rooms. A calf injury that never truly settled. Jet lag that refuses to lift.
“I’m tired, properly tired” he admits before the start. “The leg hasn’t fully recovered, and my body still thinks it’s in another time zone. But this is London. And this race matters.”
This isn’t about chasing anything.
It’s about continuing.
Seven marathons. One mission.
This is chapter three.
Giles starts steady.
Greenwich. Charlton. Woolwich.
Crowds spill into the streets early, layers wrapped tight, voices already loud. London doesn’t wait to warm up. For Giles, the early miles are about listening. Checking in with the calf. Managing stiffness from travel. Letting the noise pass through without letting it pull him forward.
The temptation is there it always is. London gives energy freely.
Short strides. Controlled effort. Running what the body will allow, not what the crowd encourages.
By halfway, London feels vast.
Tower Bridge rises and falls behind him, blue steel, noise magnified, cameras everywhere. Canary Wharf follows: tall, cold glass, legs stiffening on straight roads that offer nowhere to hide.
This is where the cumulative weight of the challenge begins to show.
The calf tightens.
The jet lag dulls focus.
Fuel becomes deliberate, not automatic.
The race settles into something quieter now. Less spectacle. More honesty.
“I’m not racing anyone out here” Giles later reflects. “I was negotiating with myself. With fatigue. With how much I can ask of my body today.”
And still he keeps moving!
After 30 kilometres / 18,6 Miles London asks its questions.
The noise dips and swells unpredictably. Muscles that haven’t fully healed make themselves known. Every mile carries a little more weight than the one before it.
This is where the mission takes over.
Not time.
Not position.
Purpose. Running through pain passes. Living with MND doesn’t.
The Mall opens up.
Buckingham Palace ahead. Crowds deepen, voices sharpen.
Across the line! The race ends but the feeling lingers.
London is done.
There is exhaustion first. Then relief. Then something quieter. A race run on tired legs, through injury and jet lag, finished not with celebration but resolve.
“To be back here, at home, after Paris and Boston it puts everything into perspective” Giles says. “Those marathons took a lot out of me, physically and emotionally, and I arrived in London carrying that with me. This wasn’t about running my best marathon or proving anything. It was about turning up again, listening to my body, and continuing the journey. Some days that’s what resilience looks like not chasing more, but choosing not to stop.”
