Why mothers shouldn’t run

(and what to do instead)

It’s late-February 2017, the days are short and I’ve reached the end of another one with a tantrumming two-year-old and a newborn baby.

I’m not feeling good.

My second experience of childbirth was traumatic and I haven’t been offered a post-birth reflection session.

I should have been.

Instead, I am ‘healing’ myself by running.

I put on leggings and a hoodie, lace up my running shoes, give the baby one last breastfeed, hand him to my husband and head out into the dark, stormy night.

I’ve decided to run half a marathon (13 miles or 21km) on my own.

This will be the longest distance I’ve ever run, though I’ve been working up to it, doing five miles every day and then eight… 10.

The rain is pelting down as I set off. I like the feeling of being alone, running fast and the London streets being lit by street lamps.

After a few miles, I stop in a pub to do a wee.

And then on.

Clocking up 10 miles, 13 miles and then going over my target and hitting 15 miles as I return, panting and red-faced, to my screaming baby.

I put him to my breast, he suckles away and after a quick shower, I go to bed with him.

Like most women I know, I’ve been referred to as ‘mad’ a few times by men who I’m a relationship with.

But this, on reflection, is the only time I believe I actually was mad.