The, now faded, piece of paper to which he was referring was a fax from a family friend offering a tip on a French horse called The Fellow who was running in that year’s Cheltenham Gold Cup. What followed was an illicit two-year correspondence featuring increasingly encrypted horse racing tips (the threat of interception and odds being slashed were of greater risk than expulsion) that resulted in three Cheltenham Gold Cup winning tickets. It also earned me a, well, completely unearned reputation as the most successful tipster at school, having never even stepped into a paddock. Nearly 20 years later I still carry in my wallet the race report for Shawiya’s victory at the Triumph Hurdle, my last win before I was busted.

John Jeremiah Sullivan was at least born into horse country when he went back to start researching his memoir Blood Horses: Notes of a Sportswriter’s Son. His father, Mike Sullivan, a sports writer who had covered three decades in the trade, was living his final months and Sullivan-fils asked what his most cherished memory from the press box was. ‘I was at Secretariat’s Derby, in ’73. That was…just beauty, you know?’

Sullivan had grown up listening to his dad thumping at the typewriter in the basement, watched him dose himself in not just beer, but pitchers of the stuff, but each time he tried to get himself on a level with his dad – to impress him that he had been paying attention – his dad would laugh and change the subject. The veneer of adulthood would remain impenetrable until the very end. It would take until Sullivan start on Blood Horses, long after his dad had died, before he would get to know either what that ‘beauty’ was, or indeed what ran through his father’s vein’s other than beer and Kools cigarettes.

The hardest part of writing about Blood Horses is resisting the temptation to quote sections of it at length. Sullivan could have written a book about Secretariat, although there would have been little to add to William Nack’s masterpiece on the horse. Or he could have written a memoir about his father that would have sat nicely on the shelf at home, if nowhere else. Instead, what he has written is a something that transcends the sport, horses, sport-writing itself. It is a masterclass is elegy to his late father, and quite simply the best book, of any description, I have read in the last two years.

But even that does not do it justice. And it was only when I was rifling through the boxes of letters, where I had found the fax, that I have kept from those school days – the reason for keeping I have long since forgotten – that I realized what Blood Horses really is about. For Sullivan the Secretariat Kentucky Derby of 1973 is his equivalent of Charles Kane’s Rosebud in Citizen Kane. It is a story of a relationship between father and son that was never fulfilled while he was growing up, the kind that can only be fully realized in remembrance. It is a book about coming to terms with the passing of an adored father, and a way of reaching back, one last time, to hear him clunking at his craft in the basement. It should be required reading for anyone scratching their heads at the confusion that is adulthood, wondering what it means to be a father or a son.

More months passed. Then we found out that Mrs H was pregnant, I went to New York, Richie McCaw came over and signed my book (before we beat them – who could forget that). In other words – there were distractions. 

Around the same time an athlete, whose name is not yet up there with Mo Farah, happened to turn in an astonishing performance at the Spartathlon to put her on the podium – the first time any female runner has achieved this. And when she got home, she started writing a book. ‘Well, I never’, as the Fat Control might have said.

It is difficult to put Lizzy Hawker on the spectrum of British athletes. There is no such title as ‘world number one female ultra-runner’, and to say that she is the best ultra-distance runner this country has ever produced neither puts in perspective the trail-blazing quality of what she has done, nor how limited in public awareness and sponsorship this sport is at the moment. That said, running through New York with a friend of mine I mentioned the book, ‘what the Lizzy Hawker?’ Enough said.

And now, if you listen very carefully, you can hear the sound of her story being written down. Perched up in the Alps, between training sessions, she is writing the story that took her from someone who had run a marathon or two, onto 100-kilometre races and multiple winner of the UTMB. Not bad for someone who started life in Upminster, has never had a coach and did most of her early running while finishing her PhD. It promises to be sensational and inspirational in equal measure.

So, the year began on a good note, and now comes the hard work. The running book market has become increasingly crowded in recent years – a sign, for sure, that there is an appetite to be sated. But where Lizzy’s story is unique is not only in the journey, and that she is telling it from the inside, but – mostly importantly – as a female writer. Alex Hemmingsley’s Running Like a Girl, out next month, is the only book that I can think of that appeals directly to a female audience, and Alex would be the first to admit she’s not cut from the same cloth as Lizzy.

So, all of you out there who got in touch – and you know who you are – the bar has been set, the gauntlet thrown down – but my door is open and you know where I am.

It’s a subject close to the heart of every ultra-distance running. Like the Eskimos and their 180 different words for snow, runners categorise pain in multiple ways, and are familiar with all of them.

Last Saturday marked the first ultra of the 2013 calendar. 250 runners lined up at the Shoulder of Mutton pub in Wendover for a 45-mile canter to Little Venice in London. There were many familiar faces, and most talked of grand ambitions for the year – a first hundred-miler here, a double Spartathlon there. This was not idle bragging, but a carefully orchestrated testing of the water: get through the mud, sleet, wind and the pain and the year’s off to the right start.

I did not, though, expect to see someone line up with their arm in plaster.  It was not clear whether it was a broken arm, or just the wrist. Either way, it doesn’t really matter. I did hear him fend off one questioning spectator by saying ‘well, I’m not going to run on it, am I?’, Nor did I expect to read later of a runner, who had covered this course more times than I’ve done sit-ups, say that she had been hit by piriformis pains at mile 13 and still finished. (Even without looking it up, it sounds horrific). As I said, pain comes in many guises. And it always gets through. Like water, it finds the weakest spot and whether it takes one hour or ten, it eventually succeeds. And once it has you, it doesn’t leave.

Mud: No way round it.

It was in the mud by the aerodrome at 18 miles that it got me last time, and I nearly quit at the 26 mile check-point. I had certainly been undercooked, and this year was determined not to become completely unstuck. Although I hadn’t trained nearly as much as I should have done, having disappeared into something of a black hole over Christmas, this time I kept the mantra ‘go slow, keep moving’ in my head. I also threw every trick I had at the pain when it came calling at about 2pm. Don’t let them fool you – the drugs do work. But, and this is the other reason why pain is so close to the hearts of runners, 6, 7, 8 hours on the hoof is a long time to be doing anything let alone the same thing.

Arthur Schopenhauer, who knew a bit about suffering

And this is where it gets you. It got to Schopenhauer and it got to Nietzsche – neither of whom knew much about lycra, but who spent a great deal of time alone en plein air contemplating their lot, and what role suffering has to play in it. (If you would like to read my MA thesis on the subject I have spare copies…) By the time of the final turn – 13 miles to go, I was starting to crack up. Shards of pain splintered through my shoulders, abdomen, knees and ankles. I knew it would pass, as it always did, but not before the inevitable thought: ‘bollocks to this, I want to go home’.

In the end, I snuck in under 8 hours, 7:54 to be precise, which was something of a miracle. And then all I wanted was a big mac, which I have not eaten since 2007 in Tel Aviv airport. I can’t say that it made me feel like a morally better person, as the pain was supposed to, but it did stop me falling off my bike and puking up on the way home.

A new kind of pain emerged as soon as I got up from the kitchen floor, where I seem to spend most of my time at the moment, having put the finishing touch to the boy’s Ikea kitchen set. Forget his growing pains, setting first in my quads, the seizure held onto me through most of the weekend, not even abating through the night when, according to Mrs H, I kept ‘turning over like a kebab’. Nothing, though, compares to the jarring, crunching, thundering pain of banging your head against a door frame a full tilt – carrying, of all things, Mrs H’s handbag. Three days later it’s still reverberating down my spine. Or perhaps that the indignity of walking around with an unexplained lump on my head. As someone in the office said: ’Did you do that when running?’ ‘Er, I didn’t run on my head, did I?’

The Bronx is Burning

When I landed at JFK, Hurricane Sandy had been and gone, leaving a multi-billion dollar bill, and snow was piled up against the airport terminal wall. From the coast to the Hudson River there were scenes reminiscent of the hellacious squalor of New York in the late 70s when the city was about to implode under piles of uncollected rubbish, ruined building and a broken economy, so brilliantly described in The Bronx is Burning.

Brooklyn Bridge

As for Manhattan, at least, a few broken branches and some out-of-place sandbags aside – it was difficult to tell what all the fuss was about. But the marathon, which would have started out on Staten Island and provided a neat tourist guide to the devastation spots, had been cancelled. ‘There would have been riots’, I was told by one editor who had helped with the clear up.

From my apartment in the East Village, most of my running took me south along the East River, under the colossal bridges to Brooklyn, and downtown to Wall Street. This was East of D Street, as in ‘You’re Dead Street’, so-called by my cousin who lived here a while ago, because it was so dangerous. Clearly things have moved on, as the only sign of subversion was a bag of skunk someone had left on a park bench.

Skunk, New York style

The best run of the week was saved until last. I met Aram at 7.30am in Astor Place to head over Brooklyn Bridge, and past the impressive Barclay Center, home of the Brooklyn Nets basketball team. Then it was up Atlantic Avenue to Prospect Park. Mrs H reckoned that there were deer and sheep here, as there had once been in Central Park. I couldn’t see any, but it was still early and the temperature a bit frisky.

Twice a year publishers gather – in London and Frankfurt – to chew the fat over the Next Big Thing. Nothing beats this way of doing business though. I would never have found out about Nick Clark in an aircraft hangar in Frankfurt, or about an unbelievable collection of American Boxing writing, or a book that I hope will be the new Will Fiennes. There is nothing like seeing New Yorkers in their native environment.

A week after arrival there was still water on the subway floor, and like post-1977 it’s going to a long while to get the city back to normal. But I will definitely be back – next year I hope, and just in time for the New York Marathon, storm warnings permitting.

I had signed up to the Dusk ’til Dawn 50-miler months ago, getting the last spot in the list of 100 places, and knew fully what to expect. 50 miles, 9000ft of ascent (and descent, obviously), mud (lots of) and a race filled with darkness.

Changing trains at Sheffield on Saturday afternoon, to a rickety service that connected to Manchester through the Peak District, other runners swiftly appeared out of the weekender masses. Rucksacks were packed high and tight, water bottles clasped, strange coloured liquids sloshing around. And the shoes – mud-caked trail shoes that looked like they had seen the wars. I had gone so far as preparing a meal out of the boy’s Thomas the Tank Engine pasta and had a couple of pork pies in reserve.

Abandon all Hope

The train belted out of the tunnel into the Hope Valley and into some of the most beautiful English countryside I have ever seen. The cold wind from the north had cleared the skies, but the leaves clung on, golden and rich. It was perfect running weather. Or so I thought until we got to the briefing at T-40 minutes. It was going to be wet. The ground had turned to river in some parts, others had been churned up by caterpillar tracks. There was also snow on its way.

The race started with a steep ascent and descent – designed for those who wanted a taste

The start line

of what was to come and could abandon before heading too far out of Castleton. The first to retire did so here when he realised that neither his torch or spare torch worked. He made his way to the pub, had a pint and called the organisers. So efficient were they, in this and everything else in the race, that they got to him before he could order a second.

The first ascent at Lose Hill

As with all trail races groups emerged swiftly and gaps were opening up at the first check marker at 3 miles. (The eventual winner, Charlie Sharpe had over an hour on the next runner at the finish). And then night sunk on us, dropping like a stone into the valley. Where there had been a golden arc of winter sun there was just black silence. With that the temperature dropped, our breath turning to fog in front of us, caught in the haze of the head torches. I had been dreaming about this race for months to experience this kind of non-violent attrition against the elements. At that moment I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

Friday Night Lights

On the train up I had been reading the brilliant account of a small-town Texan college American Football Team called Friday Night Lights. Written in 1988 (remember Michael Dukakis?) it’s THE American story as seen through the Permian Panthers, whose games every Friday night fill the stadium to its 20,000 capacity. It it is hard to impress in one paragraph how good this book is, not least at showing how much the rest of this town, in a Texan dust bowl lives and breathes on these games. Failure is not an option.

The corrosion set in around the 19-mile mark. The group of five I was in were making good progress, set to reach the 20-mile check-point in exactly 4 hours. The trouble began with Ringo Starr, or more exactly the sound track to Thomas the Tank Engine, which has been on repeat at home since the summer, and I could just not get it out of my head. This, I knew, was all part of the exfoliation process that these distances are about. You scrape off the layers inside your head until you’re left with silence.

By the time I had left check-point two, I was shaking violently. I have been here before, but it had been a while and I was not used to the cramps that took hold of my stomach, nor the incessant desire to vomit. I was falling further and further back from the group, and when they turned their head torches off, to save batteries, I knew that the end, for me at least, was in sight.

I hung onto them for another 90 minutes, until we reached a main road and I was bundled into a marshall’s car and wrapped my stomach in the space blanket I had taken with me on every long run but never used. Now I know what they are for. 26 miles in five and a half hours is not much to write home about, although I was 16th overall, but it was a lesson re-learnt – you can’t blag your way around these races.

To be avoided at all costs.

I can not thank the volunteers who looked after me enough. We sat in the warmth for a couple of hours waiting for the grim sweeper to come through and then they shuttled me back to the start where I had the best cup of tea of my life, although I did manage to spill half of it over my hands as they were shaking so much. Then it was a shower and bed. Meanwhile out on the course, visibility had been reduced to 20 metres, the thermometer had dipped below -2 degrees and that didn’t take into account the wind.

The speed of the first runners home meant that from 2am until 8.30am, when I got a lift to the station to leave Hope, there was a team of volunteers standing in the cold and the rain to cheer them across the finish line and into the kitchen for the fry-up of their lives. I’ve taken part in some well organised races before but nothing like this. Chapeau, chaps. I’ll definitely be signing up for next year, better prepared though.

So far, though, no running books have come my way. As a sub-genre books about running tend to fall into one or more of three categories. There is the straight-memoir/inspirational book à la Scott Jurek, which Bloomsbury have recently published. Then there is the historical/biographical story, usually involving two Victorian gentlemen, a wager and some bonkers distance that they have to cover wearing only pyjamas and surviving on beer and gruel. Mark Whitaker’s Running for Their Lives is an excellent example. Then there is the ‘what can they teach me about running’ category involving a writer embedding themselves into an unfamiliar culture to find out the secret to running like Mo Farah. Chris McDougall’s Born to Run, and more recently (and a far better book) is Adharanand Finn’s Running with the Kenyans.

What these two last books have that the others don’t, is the pearl of any great story. By placing themselves, and by extension us, at the heart (but not the centre) of the narrative the authors allow us to dream that if we too had been born there, or had the time to up sticks and spend six months running in the Rift Valley then we too would be on the verge of breaking two hours for the marathon. But they also give us a warts and all picture of the pain that is endured by those whose story we are following. All without us having to leave our living room. We can then close the book with a sigh thinking ‘ah, that could have been me’, before we get up to boil the kettle.

Now that the story of how the Kenyan’s hold the secret to breaking the two-hour marathon has been told, and a fad of bare-foot running has been launched on the back of the story of an obscure, forgotten tribe in Mexico, the question is where to turn to next – where in the world will a story of the holy grail of distance running come from. (This is key because it endurance running rather than the sprint). There are the monks of Mount Hiei in Japan, whose distance running takes place over many years and is the route to enlightenment.

There is also the story of Budhia Singh, the marathon boy in India, but these are stories we are familiar with already. So, this is the question – where else in the world can a story like Running with the Kenyans be found, and who would like to write it for me. Answers on a postcard if you’re interested.

I arrived early enough in the evening to get a run in before dinner and bounced out of my hotel for what I thought would be a gentle hour of stretching the legs. Before I had even hit my stride the outline of Arthur’s Seat emerge from behind a supermarket. I had seen it before, of course, it is impossible to miss. But I had never thought about running up it.

Arthur’s Seat by daylight

90 minutes later, and two cruel (remember, I am a Londoner) ascents done my thighs were humming with cramp. For the first time in years I ran as cold a bath as possible and stayed in it as long as I could bear.

The view though was spectacular. Train lines etched out of the city, the Firth of Forth was placid – it even looked warm. After a curry (no strip club) and a decent night’s sleep I wobbled out of the hotel in wet running gear and ran and down it twice more. 24 hours later I can only just walk in a straight line. And to think that I’ll be doing that for 50 miles through the dark in 2 months time.

At Arthur’s Seat for sundown

I am not the only one to have been taken by the view – it plays a key part in David Nicholls’ million-copy selling One Day. More recently Angus Farquhar of the NVA has create a work of art from 4,000 fell runner and walkers across Arthur’s Seat called the Speed of Light. It is an astonishing spectacle of light in motion and a miracle of choreography since it involves runners of all capabilities maintaining the same distance of 10 metres between themselves in ascent and descent, for nearly two hours before changing light suits in a seamless transition unnoticeable to the naked eye. If you are in Edinburgh for the festival you must track it down as anyone can take part. It runs from Thursday 9 Aug – Sat 1 Sep 2012, more info at the festival website.

Speed of Light

Hugh was looking for a new challenge. Something that really did prove that you could start from zero and become an ultra-distance runner. One drink became several dinners over the winter as we plotted running across the world (7 marathons, 7 days, 7 continents) as Ranulph Fiennes and Mike Stroud had done. That idea was parked – a logistically headache, but one that we will return to. By February we had mapped out a plan closer to home about getting kids running, of which more anon. And then, about a month ago, it dawned on Hugh that the idea, the big idea, had been staring at him in the face all along. 840 miles. John O’Groats to Lands End. A World Record Attempt.

The Jogle, as the course is referred to as though it’s little more than an extension of a run around the park, is one that is familiar to many who have cycled the length of the country. So appetizing a challenge is it that I know some who have gone back year after year to break their record. Andrew Murray (not that one) even ran it as the first leg of his Scotland to Sahara race last year, starting in 40 mph headwinds and driving snow, which made life tricky for the BBC crew who had come to film him, let alone Andrew, running in ankle-deep snow. As you might expect, Rory Coleman has also organised, for the last couple of years, the Jogle challenge run over 16 days. Sleeping in a bus on the side of the road, runners clock up 60 miles a day. 2010′s winner was Neil Bryant, who has since set up what I think is the fastest growing ultra-running community website in the UK. He’s about to set off to run across Europe.

840 Miles. 9 Days.

Hugh’s idea was slightly different. He wanted to raise the bar and, understandably, if he was going to take time off work to train three times a day for a year, he wanted to have a crack at something special. He wanted to take on a world record. To do that he was going to have to beat 9 days, 2 hours and 26 minutes, set in 2002 by Andi Rivett. To read it like this with a map of the UK in front of you, a finger running the shortest distance over the length of the country, is slightly mesmeric. Day one finishes in Inverness. Day nine starts in Okehampton. It already feels familiar – these are places on the map that we have a connection with, and because of that, when your eyes scan across names like Shrewsbury, Monmouth and Bridgewater there is a lack of intimidation. (It’s hardly got the ring of the Atacama Desert, or the Arctic circle.) That is until the course gets broken down into the everyday language of training. 97 miles. Every day. Even running at a pacy average 6 mph, that’s over 16 hours on the hoof. Run any slower than that though and the number of hours left in the day to eat and sleep diminishes rapidly. And anyone who has done a multi-stage race will know that the key to survival is having as much recovery time as possible.

None of this has put Hugh off. Quite the opposite. He’s signed up for the Winter 100-mile race in December and we’re doing the Thames Path 100 together in March. (If ever there was a sign that ultra-running is hitting the main stream, this race is it – registration went live at 10am Friday 6th July. By the end of the day 165 of the 250 places had been taken up). Hugh has given himself a year to prepare for the challenge and, as with his 50-marathons challenge, has enlisted the help of ex-Olympian Greg Whyte, who trains James Cracknell and David Walliams to draw up a training plan.

Ultimately, as far as I can tell, the key is what every ultra-runner I have spoken to has told me. Get out and run every 100/200 mile race in the calendar. To get even a glimpse of what running 97 miles on day two with 16 hours of miles already in your legs, let alone what it will feel like on days 7, 8 and 9, requires knowing what it feels like to run on exhausted legs. The last person to attempt the record stopped after day 3 with a stress fracture.

What then has this got to do with me? I have been appointed chief goader, my role being to help with the logistics in the build up and then spend as many days as Mrs H will allow next June handing out gel bars, keeping Hugh up to date with the cricket, and generally helping make his life as easy as possible. My legs are already itching to have a crack at one of the stages, but it’s no small comfort to know that if I want to stay in my slippers on the bus on day 2, then I can. In the meantime we’re focusing on the sponsors, drawing up budgets and plotting the route.  We’ll have to meet again soon, but it’s not clear at what stage Hugh (who likes a drink) is going to sack off the booze. But, as I say, that’s his problem not mine, and for that alone I am rather glad.

Weight lifting

Ideally, I would have commandeered my son. At just shy of two year’s old he has hit 11kg and is tall enough to sit comfortably on my shoulders. But the problem is that he wriggles so much that it’s hard enough to keep him there for five minutes, let alone for the duration of a 10-mile run.

What I really need are hills, because I have started trailing in earnest for the next big race. In October I’ll be heading for the Peak District and a 50-miler through the night, appropriately called Dusk ’til Dawn, which has a total elevation of 9,200 feet, with the worst to come from 36 miles to the finish. As British Cycling found earlier this year, when they filed their course for the Olympic Road Race, there isn’t an elevation within a hundred miles of London that is worthy of being called a hill. The course they submitted included one lap of Box Hill. It was rejected. So too the route with three laps. Fair enough, since it would barely feature as more than an abrasion on the flattest stage of the Tour de France. Nine laps, however, now that would be a challenge.

This is the reason why Mark Cavendish has spent the spring trimming another 9lbs off his already wired body frame. He’ll never win the Tour because he struggles over the mountains, but for the Olympics he has given himself the kind of chance he needs to get over, round and down Box Hill and have enough time to regroup ahead of the sprint finish. It also helps that he’s been living up a volcano for the last few months with Bradley Wiggins and the Sky Team.

Not exactly Mont Ventoux

The closest thing to a vertical climb I have is a 100 metre ascent to the Lavender Hill Police Station – not exactly Mont Ventoux, you might say. I’d have to run up it close to a hundred times to get anything like the benefit of being up in the Peak District, and since there is a rather good pub at the bottom of the slope it’s unlikely that I’d make it much beyond the second length. I had also heard that there was a team on the Coastal Trail ultra who were running with a brick in the packs, just for a laugh. I haven’t got to the bottom of it, but I have a feeling that you know who has got something to do with it.

All of which has meant that I’ve had to return to the tried and tested method of donning a bin liner under several layers of clothes to sweat it out. It’s heavily reliant on the English summer coming good, although so long as it’s humid that’s always good for getting the sweat boiling up. Last night, as the storm clouds brewed over Wimbledon soap suds were frothing out of my top, which is a good indicator of hard labour.

As for the boy, I might have to resort to using him for bicep curls for the time being.

It had all started so well. I had signed up for the triathlon just before Easter on the repeated promise that the weather last year had been stunning. And the appeal of a 1.5km  swim in the river followed by 40km on the bike and then a 10km run was only heightened by the fact that it would be a weekend in the countryside and the boy could crash around by the river with Mrs H while I somewhere over the hill.

By the time that Alex and I were standing on the river bank the water temperature had fallen to 12.8 degrees. The swim had been reduced to 1km because of the current after 5 weeks of rain, and while he was still muttering about how warm it had been last year, I was busy worrying whether two swimming caps was really enough.

As it turned out the swim was the least of my worries. After 25 minutes in the river we were dragged onto the bank unceremoniously like line caught tuna being hauled on deck, and on our way to the transition area to change out of our swimming gear to get on the bike. It took me nearly six whole minutes to complete this task. Granted I forgot I had to get the wetsuit over the timing chip on my ankle and ended up rolling on the grass like a dog trying to scratch his back. But six minutes! I’ve had board meetings that have been shorter than that.

And then it was onto the bike. The real surprise was that I was actually ahead of Alex when we got out of the water, but that time was lost in transition and by the time we were out of the gate he was well ahead of me. I later found out that he thought I was still ahead which is why he bolted, but try as I might I couldn’t catch him. I could give you the excuse that my head was all over the place from the swim or that my stomach seemed to have taken leave of its senses, but really it was that there wasn’t enough in the legs.

Kilometre 30 and in search of a cup of tea

The real selling point of the race was that it went past Alex’s parents’ house at kilometre 30. By this time I was way off the back but loving every minute. I was expecting to see the boy standing on the wall waving, but the garden was empty and when I got off the bike and knocked on the door, hopeful of a cup of tea, there was no answer. Instead they were waiting at the bottom of the hill and by the time Louis had sat on the bike and changed the gears I was 12 minutes down on Alex. And there was still an almighty hill to climb back up.

T2, the second transition, was a breeze. Off the bike, and a change of shoes while chewing half a banana that I think was mine, I bounced into the 10km run. If there was one thing I knew how to do it was run. Except it didn’t quite work like that. My legs were all over the place. More intend on going from side to side and with a foreshortened step – a result of an hour on the bike – my son had a better technique than this, and it took 2km for my legs to wake up.

By the time I crossed the finish line in 2 hours 40 minutes – a full 50 minutes behind the winner who had passed through the transition area in 2 minutes flat – I had climbed to 96th out of 120 overall. And that’s the point. Even when I was running my first marathons it was never really about racing, more about surviving. This was all about competition, about finding the fastest line around the buoys or the perfect position to descend the hills in. (There were guys there wearing aerodynamic helmets, as if every millisecond did actually count).

None of this is to say I won’t be back, and it has piqued my interest in the Dart 10km swim and an idea that goes back to when I was 18 to cycle the length of France as fast as possible. In the meantime it’s back to what I know best and I’ve just signed up to the Dusk ’til Dawn 50-miler in the Peak District in October. I expect it to be spicy, what with all the hills, but guaranteed that there won’t be wetsuit in sight, and plenty of tea.