12th May 2013 was something of a pivotal day in my life. Having snook into the Championship Playoffs just 8 days before with a dramatic final game of the season, my beloved Leicester City carried a 1-0 lead into the second leg of the semi-final against Watford. Wembley beckoned, the seductive siren call of the Premier League calling us closer. To attend the first leg, I had quit my job working in the kitchen of a local gastropub and could not have been in a more jubilant mood heading into the second leg. The jubilation carried through to every other element of my life for the four days between that Wednesday night in Leicester and the Sunday afternoon 74 miles down the road. I, however, found myself 83 miles in the opposite direction ready to clock up a distance of my own - 13.1 miles at the Chester Half Marathon. How had I, a 16-year-old 2 days shy of being able to run the race legally, ended up here? Well, it has everything to do with your friend and mine: alcohol.
As a 16-year-old fresh from the grips of a full timetable and into elective-only subjects at sixth form, I was truly living the uninhibited life that comes with that. As far a cry from making the next series of Skins as I may have been, I still knew how to have a good time. With increased parental trust, for both myself and my friends, came the joy of free houses. With the foundations of facial hair sprouting through and a more mature sense of style, came the ability to go into the shop and get served a bottle of vodka. With both of these things came the start of a loving relationship with booze. Limited to weekends when somebody was fortunate enough to have access to an entire house, and as a result the ability to play tunes as loud as we wanted, a love of three things was born: drinking, dancing, and (somehow) running.
It all started as a bit of a dare. Since finishing secondary school, my involvement in the world of sport had been entirely formed on skating car parks in and around Northwich town centre. I could push, I could kickflip and I could (sporadically) jump stairs - but it was safe to say I wasn't particularly active. However, in a half-cut state of confidence - one that only a slightly pissed teenager can have - I assured my dad that I, in fact, was more than capable of running a half marathon and that I wanted to run one with him.
Running wasn't something I had been overly interested in - far removed from the sexiness that came with skateboarding, running seemed like a sport for middle-aged men in unhappy relationships (based purely on Run Fatboy Run) or geeky teenagers who were soon-to-be dads (based purely on Juno). While of the two, I associated considerably more with Michael Cera's character, the absence of a pregnant underaged girlfriend meant that this still was not the sport for me. So, despite having my place booked for May, did I bother to complete any training? Except for two 5km runs: did I hell!
For the most part, my training consisted of exactly the same constituents that my life had consisted of for the months since leaving school - having beers with my mates and skating. This blase approach to the whole thing didn't stop me from taking it extremely seriously in social settings though. In fact, as I parade around East London now in my late 20s and am bombarded with conversations of people running half marathons and not being able to shut the fuck up about it - I often question myself: am I hipster for running? There were very few interactions (or Tweets) at that point in my life where I couldn't find a way to segue it into conversation. The best way to do that? Raise money for a good cause.
Despite the lack of training and the lack of seriousness I took in preparations, I took my fundraising very seriously. Aged 16, you have a very limited (often very broke) network of people. But I managed to harass my drinking buddies, teachers, and family to donate enough money to make it seem like a worthwhile thing to do. The charity, which has since been merged into Save the Children, provided medical relief in emergency situations around the globe to those most vulnerable, and for the first time in my life I felt like I had done something truly worthwhile. The fundraising was the easy part, the only problem was that now came the part that I seemed to have forgotten all about - the race itself.
The morning of 12th May 2013, nursing a slightly dehydrated head from going to a house party the night before, I ate my toast, drank my coffee, donned my vest and bib number, and headed off to Chester. What could possibly go wrong? Well, much to my surprise - seemingly nothing. The sun shone, something of a rarity for the North West of England, and the great mood from the previous Wednesday had me singing Nigel Pearson's Blue and White Army for the first few miles. My dad, rather appropriately, reminded me not to get carried away - though I'm still unsure whether he meant with regards to the football or the run.
The race continued, initially out along the rather dull concrete expanse of the dual carriageways coming out of Chester City Centre and eventually into the greenery of the countryside. Taking every step alongside my dad, it felt as though things were going well - and they were. Chatting as we ran, with him reminding me to grab a drink from every fuel station; myself falling back on that youthful base fitness that I had established during the years of PE that had concluded just 12 months earlier. Though a far cry from the cross country that I had found so tedious, I was actually beginning to enjoy myself.
The miles flew by as I was carried by my youth (and a healthy dose of encouragement from my dad), and before I knew it the 12-mile marker. One mile left. I turned to my running companion and noticed that he was struggling slightly - a muscle strain if I recall - and did what any good son would do: I sped up and left him in the dust. I stepped up the pace, motivated by the ticking clock and was greeted by Chester Cathedral; the end was in sight.
Finish line in my crosshair, just two things stood in my way - a spiral ramp to a multistory car park and the few hundred metres on the other side. With the cheers of the crowd calling out my name, I felt like the rockstar I had always dreamt I would be. Their cheers, the idea of a cold beer, a tweet from Inspiral Carpets keyboardist and fellow Red Stripe enthusiast Clint Boon, and the money I had raised for charity were all channelled via my legs as I powered through that sharp incline. For the home straight my motivations were far more related to the shame of finishing right behind a woman who was quite possibly 50 years my senior. Regardless of my motivations, I crossed that finish line at 1:53:24 (over a minute ahead of my elderly nemesis).
There was a feeling of jubilation at the finish line: I had done it, I was undefeatable, anything was possible. My dad joined not long after, still in one piece. Following behind us, a short while later, was my grandmother. So, there we stood, three generations joined in celebration of a shared completion of the 2013 Chester Half Marathon. It was an incredible feeling. I never wanted it to end.
But it did. Leicester lost the play-off semi-final in the most dramatic of fashions. To this day, many of my friends will sporadically send me the clip of Troy Deeney's goal. The next day, I had three lessons that were all up the stairs that I really struggled to climb.
I learned a valuable lesson that day about being too cocky. I also learned another, arguably more important, lesson: running can be fun.