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The London Marathon — A Neurodivergent Perspective
On 27th April 2025, I was lucky enough to be able to run the London Marathon. However, I found the physical aspect of running the marathon easier than the mental aspects. Here’s my perspective as an autistic runner…
We all remember that day, the one where Boris Johnson loomed across our TVs, telling us all to ‘stay at home’. I stared at the screen in disbelief, thinking this can’t be happening. A dishevelled-looking man was telling everyone in the UK not to leave their homes. What?
I didn’t believe it, not for a few days anyway. It was only when wandering the streets looking for a decent cup of coffee and finding nowhere to satisfy my cravings that I really understood the enormity of the situation. I wasn’t above the Prime Minister’s commands. No one was. We all had no choice but to ‘stay at home’. Well, apart from the one hour of outdoor exercise we were permitted.
During the Covid-19 pandemic, when the whole country was locked down and I had more free time than I’d had in years, I decided to become… a runner! I mean, how hard could it be? It’s not like I’d never run before. At school, I was the one who could go the furthest on those so-called ‘torturous’ cross-country runs. In fact, being able to outrun the rest of my class was the only time I was popular at school. For that one hour a week, I actually had a small place in the social rankings. So, twenty years later, I decided to simply pick up where I left off…
On went the t-shirt, joggers, and cheap supermarket trainers, and off I went. Move over, Mo Farah. Eilish McColgan here I come. Or so I thought.
I live in a village that is exactly a 1.5-mile loop from door to door, so I knew the distance I was aiming to cover. I wasn’t even halfway around before the dreaded stitch set in. Out of breath and hunched over, I pretty much shuffled back home. But even though I was going slower than my usual walking speed, I still refused to stop. I would run 1.5 miles, even if it killed me!
It’s safe to say that first run brought me straight back down to earth with a crash (literally as I burst through my front door, gasping for air, face like a beetroot). I realised I wasn’t a runner anymore. But I would be. And in 2025, I can officially say I am, because I did the impossible — I took on 26.2 miles of London’s pavements. And won.
For years, I’ve watched the London Marathon on TV and envied the finishers, the look of absolute joy when they cross that line. Just the thought of achieving it myself made me well up, so when I finally got a place, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I’d gotten better at running over the past five years, slowly increasing my pace and distance until I was running a comfortable 30-minute 5k, but for a marathon, that was nowhere near enough.
Running became like a stim for me. As a lover of trance music and hater of the public gym, I’d already purchased my own treadmill and turned my garage into a running nightclub, doing interval training on the mill to increase my fitness. But as I tried and tried to smash the 10k, I realised I needed help. I needed to get back outdoors, I needed guidance, I needed to… join a running club.
Although I started back in September, by far the toughest aspect of the marathon was the training, dedicating eight months of my life to preparing to run 26.2 miles. I couldn’t look more than one week ahead of the plan my running coach had devised for me; it was absolutely overwhelming to see the number of miles I had to complete. As the big day crept nearer, the mileage got longer and running became all-consuming, leaving other parts of my life neglected. I developed a sort of ‘brain block’ where I just couldn’t think ahead. People would ask me if I wanted to meet up or make plans, and all I could say was ‘I don’t know’. Whenever I’d try to think about anything other than the task at hand, my brain would simply freeze. I believe this was some sort of protection to stop me from burning out. It worked. Just.
I found planning the journey to London, booking accommodation, printing out and highlighting routes and timings, extremely stressful. My neurodivergent brain needs everything to be planned, or I go into panic mode, overthinking every eventuality. What if I get lost? What if the train is delayed? What if I miss the start? What if I get ill or injured? These thoughts have been playing on a loop in my head for months.
We spent a fortune staying in Greenwich, as close to the start as possible in order to avoid large crowds and train delays. Just the idea of wandering around London and being on the underground was difficult for me. I struggle with the sound of the trains hurtling through the tunnels, and I have poor navigational skills. I mean, I can read maps, but I don’t seem to be able to place myself on them. The only way I can find my way around is by memorising routes, so I worry when I go somewhere unfamiliar or use unfamiliar transport systems. As it turns out, there wasn’t anything to worry about; there were so many staff members and signs to direct me, it was simply a matter of following the crowd.
After the anxious build-up, a lack of sleep, and a morning of nervous stomach (need I say anymore?), I felt surprisingly relaxed as I waited for my start wave to be called. I had made it. All unpredictable situations had passed by, and I was back in control. I did my stretches, ate a banana, applied copious amounts of sunscreen, and waited. I was ready. Eight months of training were about to pay off.
Then there I was, staring at the start line, waiting for the signal to go. I started slowly, much slower than my training pace. Partly because it was hot, partly because I was trapped amongst thousands of other runners, and partly because I knew I had to run six miles further than I had ever run before. I didn’t want to hit the wall. I’d been there, done that, and it wasn’t pleasant. During an 18-mile training run, I hit the wall so hard I lost the ability to walk, so if that same, impenetrable wall appeared in front of me during the marathon, I might not even finish. I wasn’t about to let that happen.
I didn’t hit the wall. I didn’t so much as touch the wall. Fuelling has always been a concern for me during training when I was self-sufficient and had to find ways of carrying and tolerating my own gels, but at the marathon, there were so many water stops and snacks from the crowd that fuelling wasn’t an issue. The crowds are brilliant for this; they give you sweets that are much needed, especially as the texture of gels makes me retch. It’s like an all-day buffet on that course!
It’s commonly said that the crowd carries you to the end, and they do. The encouragement they give is just amazing; they are there to support and keep you going, and there is a buzz and excitement in the air. However, there was a time after the twentieth mile when my legs hurt so much and the crowd was so loud, I just wanted to sit on the floor and cry. But then someone screamed, “Imagine that medal around your neck,” and it gave me the will to carry on. Thank you to that stranger in the crowd — you’ll never know how important that comment was.
The one thing I wasn’t prepared for was the fact there was no escape from the crowds. On training runs, I was free to go wherever I wanted; I wasn’t hemmed into one route surrounded by people and cameras for an entire five hours. But I had so much support from my running club, so many messages of encouragement from my friends and family, nothing was going to stop me from finishing.
I always envisioned myself crossing that line and would cry just thinking about it. Then, finally, I was there, sprinting down the mall and giving it all I had left. I remember looking around as I ran, trying my best to take it in, the moment I’d been waiting for, for so long… Then that was it. I had finished, I had my life back, but it wasn’t the amazing moment I always expected when that chunky piece of metal was hung around my neck. I didn’t cry, I didn’t feel, and I don’t really remember what happened next. It’s like my brain shut down the second I crossed that line.
It’s been a week since I ran the London Marathon, and I’m still processing it. I feel like I’m in a delayed burnout where I need to take time to reflect, rest, and recover, and I hope, when life is properly back to normal and I’ve caught up with my backlog of deadlines and housework, the euphoria will finally hit.
Would I run a marathon again? In all honesty, this was more of a once-in-a-lifetime event. Not because I didn’t enjoy the experience, but more because of the before and after. It’s taken a lot out of me, mentally, but I’m so glad I did it. After all, I’ve pushed the boundaries and achieved more than I ever thought possible.
As for running in general, I won’t stop completely, but I’ll be focusing on smaller, local races. I’ve already signed up for a half marathon, and I’ll be continuing with my running club because through them I’ve gained a social life, full of supportive people who know the real, unmasked me. And there is, of course, my trusty treadmill, the ultimate stress reliever!
