Where do you even begin with the biggest half marathon in the world?
Well, let’s start at the beginning — naturally — with me being gifted a place in the Great North Run by The Aortic Dissection Charity. (A massive thank you)
Like many, I assumed the GNR was a “bucket list” race I’d never actually tick off. I entered the ballot thinking, Well, at least I tried. And then the no sorry email arrived, that was it, maybe next year. But then the confirmation I had a place through a charity…cue the excitement, the panic, and the frantic search for where Newcastle actually is on a map. (Spoiler: Far.)
Training, Fundraising & Packing Anxiety
Training went… let’s call it “varied.” Some weeks I was a dedicated, disciplined runner. Other weeks I developed an allergy to early mornings and Lycra. But fundraising? That went brilliantly. I raised well over my target for our club’s chosen charity. You’d think that would take the pressure off. Instead, it made me even more nervous. Nothing like hundreds of pounds riding on your performance to add a little spice to your Sunday jog.
Planning for the GNR is like prepping for a military campaign. Accommodation and transport are critical. Thanks to some savvy advice from seasoned GNR-ers, I booked student digs (which turned out to be suspiciously nicer than how I remember student accommodation to be) and hitched a ride with a friend who was equally baffled by how far Newcastle is from anywhere else on Earth.
Bags packed (with too many shoe options, obviously), we landed in Newcastle on September 6th — and instantly, the city felt different. It was buzzing. There were kids’ races, shorter distance races, people wandering around looking excited and terrified in equal measure and a finish line medal so questionable it sparked heated debates (and memes). We queued for photos at the big GNR sign, and then queued again to admire the medal and tshirt. Runners love a queue.
Carb-Loading & Flat Lays
Thanks again to inside knowledge, we’d managed to book a table at a restaurant. Every place in Newcastle was packed with runners carb-loading on pizza, pasta, and pints. Some might have also “accidentally” purchased a giant Twix on the way back to their ‘digs’. It helped with my nerves okay.
That evening, I perfected my flat lay (runner code for obsessively photographing your kit on the floor) and attempted to calculate how many mini bags of Haribo I could physically cram into my skort. Another spoiler: too many.
Sleep was minimal. Excitement and nerves turned up to 11. The building was eerily quiet except for the soft snapping of safety pins being fastened onto race bibs. But I was ready!
The Start Line: Lycra, Lab Radars & Logistics
The morning of the race, the streets filled with nervous runners, the smell of Deep Heat, and enough neon Lycra to make the Green Goddess proud. I met up with my fellow charity/club runner to discuss race strategy. Mine: “Don’t fall over. Try not to cry. Finish in one piece.”
Now here’s the thing — the Great North Run is brilliant, but the start logistics could give Heathrow a run for its money. You drop your bag on a magical ‘bag bus’ (it reappears at the finish like a travel-sized miracle), then queue for the toilets. Multiple times. You’re herded into your colour-coded pen long before your actual start time. I had plenty of time to scope out the competition — including a man dressed as a six-foot labrador for an animal charity. I was not about to be beaten by a 6ft dog.
It took me over an hour from pen entry to crossing the start line. That’s a lot of nervous pacing, people-watching, and toilet-regretting. In fact, I made my own personal race history by being the only person I know to cross the official GNR start line and immediately dash… into the porta-loos.
The Race Itself: From Bridges to Banter
Once I was in a more, shall we say, “comfortable persuasion,” I set off properly. The course starts with a downhill — so naturally, everyone shoots off like they’re being chased by a swarm of bees, and who knows there are so many people in fancy dress you could well be. It was all very “I could win this thing!”… until the first hill reminds you that no, no you cannot, Carolyn.
Crowd support in Newcastle is nothing short of Olympic. Every tunnel echoed with “OGGY OGGY OGGY” chants, and the Tyne Bridge — yes, the actual one that goes over the Tyne, not the random arch that somehow ended up on the medal — came into view. I grinned the whole way across. Honestly, that bridge is a moment. Stop, take it in, take the photo. You’ll only cross it for the first time once.
Dual Carriageways & Unexpected Kindness
The next chunk of the race? Well… it’s not pretty. Think industrial estates and dual carriageways. But what it lacks in scenery, it makes up for in sheer people power. The community spirit is phenomenal. Locals hand out sweets, water, jelly babies, and cheers. Strangers offer words of encouragement, high fives, and, in one case, help open my emergency Haribo stash (the sugar panic was real).
Every single runner — fast or struggling — felt like part of one big, sweaty, joyful 60,000-strong family.
The Finish: Red Arrows, Salt Air & Tears (of Joy… Mostly)
Then, suddenly, the sea appears. That was it. I was nearly there. The familiar salty air, the cooling sea breeze — felt like home, I knew how to run this bit, seafront, this was my territory. The crowd returned in force at South Shields, lining the streets like we were a parade of Olympians.
At the 400m mark, just as I was beginning to question all my life choices, the Red Arrows soared overhead. Actual, full-body goosebumps. I cried through the final stretch — tears, sweat, who knows — and somehow pulled it together for the finish line photo. Medal hung round my neck by a smiling volunteer who treated me like I’d just won the London Marathon. Honestly the volunteers were just incredible.
The Aftermath: Big Macs & Big Feelings
I managed to blag my way onto a transfer bus with nothing but a medal, a “please be kind” face, and the scent of victory (and that’s what we call it from now on ). Back in Newcastle, I reunited with my friend and we swapped stories. Our races were wildly different, but equally magical. That’s the beauty of the GNR — it’s a personal experience shared by thousands.
As we passed the Angel of the North on the drive home, medal still proudly around my neck and a Big Mac in hand, I thought: Would I do this again?
Nope.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime race for me. Nothing could replicate that feeling. The buzz. The tears. The bridge. The crowd. The Red Arrows. It was everything I hoped it would be and more.
So if you’re thinking about entering the ballot — do it. Plan it properly, save up, prepare for chaos and magic in equal measure. The Great North Run isn’t just a race. It’s an experience. A massive, messy, emotional, beautiful slice of running history.
And once you’ve done it? You’ll know.
