So, I found myself with a half marathon under my belt at the ripe old age of 16. It felt like a phenomenal achievement at the time and one that I wanted to bottle up and be able to come back to forever. Was that enough to motivate me to, you know, complete the one activity that would allow me the feeling of a runner's high? Was it heck! In its place, I saught the highs of getting pissed with my mates and landing the same three tricks on a skateboard repeatedly for most of my spare time - don't let it ever be said that man is anything but a very simple creature at heart.
With a second broken arm in as many years, skateboarding left my life, but beer was constant. Along came university and with it, more booze and more of an interest in going out properly. I graduated from house parties to clubnights and raves, and before you knew it - the only things that really happened in my spare time were drinking, flirting with girls and recovering from whichever one I had done most the previous night. Running was for old men and PE lessons; half marathons were so 2013.
It wasn't until 2016, during my final year at university that running began to re-enter my life - and as with the previous re-introduction to me, it had something to do with drinking, something to do with a challenge to myself, and a lot to do with my dad.
To imply that running had entirely disappeared from my life during the three years between 2013 and 2016 is somewhat misleading, it was just a much more sporadic and less serious feature of my life than it is now. The root cause of its ever-presence was my dad. Where independently I hadn't bothered to engage in all that much running, a visit to see my dad wasn't complete without going out for a run. Only relatively short distances of up to about 10km, and occurring every other week at their absolute peak, there wasn't much of a challenge to these runs - but it certainly kept the idea on my mind. It was something of an inspiration (though I wouldn't say that much to his face) to see a man much senior and of much less natural physical fitness (that, I definitely would say to his face) to myself get out an clock up some serious distances, including several marathons. So, in a drunken procrastinating-from-final-project-writing state, I signed myself up for the 2017 Manchester Marathon.
Having learned some minor lessons from walking up stairs during my first half marathon, I decided to actually train a little bit when doubling the distance. My habits remained consistent between both events, drinking wherever possible to the point that my longest training run was titled something pint-related on Strava.
However, born out of this training was a love of running itself. It finally dawned on me what was enjoyable about running and about training for a distance race. With a podcast rather than music for company, I wasn't paced by thumping bass anymore but by myself and my body, even managing to laugh at the inane chat that I was tuning into along the way. Running out into the beautiful rolling hills of the South Yorkshire section of the Peak District, was an opportunity to remove me from the stresses of everyday life. My only thoughts were of making sure one foot landed in front of the other, and of figuring out when the time would come that I would finally be descending from the hills rather than the seemingly never-ending incline out of Sheffield.
Along came race day and again I had under-prepared. I struggled my way around, walking at several points as my mind faltered way before my body. I made it around, albeit about 20 minutes slower than I would have liked. That feeling of intense disappointment was enough for me to know that I would be back and I would be running another marathon at some point.
I did enjoy the race itself: crowds of people cheering your names, high-fiving the smiling children as you ran past - both things that make you feel like an everyday rockstar. In the process, there were a series of lessons too: gym shoes are not running shoes, wine gums make your mouth sticky for miles, wear underwear when applying Deep Heat to your inner thigh; a series of highly valuable lessons by my reckoning.
Not long after the race, I visited my dad in the States and we ran another race together. This time, he gave me some old running shoes and my feet were much less blistered. Again, obsessed with timings I was not happy with my half marathon time, but I had not been training for this. Not to mention, I could blame the fact this was a novelty race where you dressed up as superheroes. I should note that having a bunch of patriotic Americans cheering "go Cap, go!" as you run past dressed as Captain America is absolutely no way near as rewarding as having people cheer your actual name.
Upset with my time (again), I thought running would become something of a habit, and it almost did. Sporadic runs again lined my days, a 5km run or 10km run here and there where it fitted around drinking and working late in bars and pubs. With COVID lockdowns came the perfect opportunity to run more. More than that, running provided the perfect release for all of the stresses of existence.
With the streets empty, the odd sensation of running through Central London on a Saturday morning, not a soul in sight, provided complete catharsis for me. It felt dystopian because it was, but equally, the rush of the endorphins and the ability to really drink in the beauty of the city I had lived in for just over two years made me appreciate what was beautiful about distance running.
From there, running became an important part of life. It became a huge contributing factor to maintaining both my physical and mental health. If I was going away anywhere, the first thing I would pack was my running kit. Running was a perfect opportunity to see something else about a new place, attending the local Parkrun on a Saturday morning as everyone else I was with recovered from their hangover. I ran to and from work, beating the commute time that I would have otherwise had the pleasure of paying for. I went on running dates, bumped into old friends running, I was enjoying every minute of it. With the positive impact it had on my mental health, I wanted to do something to help others' mental health and decided to run another marathon - but this time raise money for charity, something I wrote about at the time.
Brighton Marathon was the quickest I had run to date, and I broke under the 4-hour mark which was an achievement, but I was still slower than I had anticipated. I ran without music which I found to be really enjoyable, and I ran two miles with my secondary school PE teacher which was a moment I never thought would happen. I was slightly disappointed initially that I had not quite hit my target time, but that was a fleeting moment and I was enormously proud as well as feeling the runner's high. It was brilliant and I never wanted it to stop. I made a promise to myself there and then that I would run at least one marathon per year for as long as I could - collecting medals, collecting finisher's T-shirts, each of which would tell its own story.
I made a promise to myself to keep it up. I wanted to improve my time. I wanted to get fitter. I wanted to stay happier. I was going to run at least one marathon every calendar year, and I needed to stay constantly fit if I wanted to improve. My speed was increasing, my progress was steady. And then, on a curb of all places, it fell apart. Broken navicular. Soft tissue damage. 12 weeks in a boot. Devastation.