Conquering Ben Nevis

The very highest point in the UK

As Scotland merges into England and rugged Highland terrain is replaced by gentler Lakeland hills, it is time to reflect upon the fourth and final challenge of my 'Awesome Foursome.'.

There is no doubt that this challenge has involved covering the most ground, even if not all self-propelled. The journey began on Friday at 8am and it wasn't until 7pm that the bus which collected the CF Trust mountaineering team from Glasgow Station pulled into the Anna Croit Hotel in Fort William. 5 hours on the train from London Euston to Glasgow followed by 4 hours on a coach induced an entire spectrum of feelings including boredom, relaxation, hunger and an intense yearning to reach a welcoming destination.

The lengthy train journey featured, at various intervals, the most irritating traits associated with this mode of travel. 5 minutes before the train had even departed from Euston, I was contemplating whether to sacrifice the pre-booked table seat on account of its inherent disadvantage: facing someone else. That someone else had, as everyone in the carriage would affirm, overslept after attending the Pub of the Year awards and was going to be late for a meeting. It's ironic, really, that the one time he adopted an attitude of alcoholic restraint rather than getting “bladdered” was the one time he ignored his alarm. This didn't become any less humorous after numerous repeats and the carriage joined him in fits of laughter every time, especially when his loud and proud retelling ensured that no one could hear the announcements regarding a 45 minute delay: hilarious.

As if this wasn't enough to irk the eardrums, a small child in the carriage then decided that we would all benefit from the distraction provided by his electronic game. I completely sympathised with the underlying sentiment but this was fighting fire with fire - it simply made matters worse. 'The one time I decided to pace myself...' BOOM CHING CHING 'I get absolutely bladdered' PIAOW!!

So far, it was noise that served as the premier annoyance. Then it became actions, as Pub of the Year chap shut up and the small child tired of gaming. Seated on my left was an 18 year old and, opposite her, her substantially older Scottish boyfriend. Allow me to set the scene: older stubbly Scot meets young girl with mature looks, probably in a club, in London. OSS realises the catch that is YGML, hastily declares his love and, after a rollercoaster romance, takes her to meet the family in Scotland. They board the train, armed with magazines which, as will become clear, served no purpose. They discuss how old they can say she is, aiming as high as possible without being unrealistic - they reach a figure. Satisfied, they kiss across the table and they kiss and they kiss some more. They have some lunch, then kiss some more. Pub of the Year chap seems the ideal passenger by comparison.

The train was delayed thanks to a lorry becoming stuck under a bridge - their lips remained stuck together. At this rate, I'd miss the coach due to collect us from Glasgow Station. I didn't, just. Thankfully fellow mountaineers, including the team leader, were on the same train and hence I boarded the coach set for Fort William.

At this stage, we remained individuals - striking up conversation with a group of 30 or so strangers on a coach trip was inopportune. Even a stop at the services failed to increase integration. Being paired up in rooms at the Anna Croit did. 'Morgan Thomas' and 'Rob' please. 'But I'm a girl', said Morgan. 'Could I please not share with a guy?'. I came to the rescue: 'I'm happy to share with Morgan'. Relieved at having saved Morgan from an awkward two nights' stay with a man other than her fiancé, we headed off to our room. Rumours had circulated on the coach that the Anna Croit was far from luxurious. It transpired that, in response, both Morgan and I had simultaneously checked the hotel's website on our phones and, fortunately, the positive image we acquired was supported by our comfortable room. It wasn't long before dinner was served and we readied ourselves before arriving promptly in the dining room.

A good few coach-loads of 'mature adults' (the group's politically correct term for 'old fogies') were already tucking in. We soon did - selecting options from the 'Friday' page on the menu. Each course arrived with startling efficiency - Anna Croit was adept in the art of mass-catering at speed. No doubt mature adults are regulars at such institutions and dislike being kept waiting. After their dinner, the brigade moved to the lounge for bingo run by the dead-pan waiter-cum-barman-cum bingo master whose number-related puns proved remarkably amusing. We moved upstairs for a pre-trek briefing, replete after the hearty fare on offer.

Unfortunately, the briefing raised more questions than it answered owing to uncertainty regarding Saturday's weather. With 70mph winds forecast for some point during the afternoon, abandoning the mission was a possibility. A quick up and down offered the greatest chance of success - those fearing a slow journey were the most worried. We went to bed, praying for relief.

We woke early and tucked into the 'Full Scottish Breakfast'. For those of you unfamiliar with such a breakfast, think 'Full English'. It is perhaps to be expected that both fiercely proud nations should stake their claim to ownership of the bacon, eggs, sausage and beans brand. Ultimately, however, it didn't matter whose breakfast it was: it was bacon, eggs, sausage and beans - with toast - and it was just what impending mountaineers needed. Belts on hiking trousers had to be loosened as we boarded the coach to 'The Ben'. After a short drive, we reached the base camp car park to be greeted by hundreds of identically-clad individuals. We were probably wearing the entire stock of few Milletts shops between us. A cursory glance beyond the car park revealed monumental peaks rendered more menacing by the conditions. They seemed to say, 'don't even try'.

Nearly ready for the off

In the rain, we split into our four groups based on projected ability. I headed for Group 1 with the 70mph gusts in mind. Flat terrain lasted for all of 100m and soon we began the ascent. Lead by Ian, we trekked at a steady pace with plenty of breaks to retain group cohesion. The fluctuating order in which we climbed proved particularly congenial for meeting and greeting fellow group members, even if conversations were often interrupted by huffing and puffing. It was interesting to learn of different motivations for participating in the challenge - some were CF parents, others had family members with CF, one worked in a CF-related medical field, others were supporting work colleagues with a CF-connection while some had no direct link and simply sought to raise money for a good cause.

Early doors

Looking back, I think that this sense of mutual endeavour was perhaps the most special aspect of the trip. I have used the word 'solidarity' in a previous Awesome Foursome challenge report and I will use it again for it seems best placed to reflect the bond forged by common purpose and shared values. Solidarity is sub-conscious, yet powerful, and seems capable of motivating people to persevere when the going gets tough. Immersed in a group of determined individuals, all striving to reach the summit and all doing so for an ulterior, greater, good, I doubt that anyone felt like an individual or wasn't affected by those around them. Company created comfort and it also created competition: 'these people will help me achieve this goal' but also 'I'm not going to be the one not to make it'.

The path was very steep, fairly narrow and largely consisted of rubble. The concentration required to navigate a route upwards was far greater than I had anticipated and I found myself almost constantly staring at the ground. Every step was the result of mental calculation which was probably helpful, psychologically, for it detracted attention from the trek in its entirety. While climbing, we experienced the complete panoply of weather conditions: usually such variety extends to the UK as a whole, not a single mountain. We had sunshine, gale-force wind, driving rain and dense fog. But wasn't this what we wanted? Surely mountain climbing is all about overcoming adverse weather; it increased the challenge and cohered with my pre-trip conjectures as to what awaited.

Soon, the effects of the Full Scottish breakfast had worn off and it was time to top-up our energy reserves with our packed lunches. There were no obvious picnic spots, let alone benches on which we could rest our sandwiches. The Ben wasn't made for lunching. Instead, we perched gingerly on a collection of craggy rocks which lined the path, sodden and hungry. It was a purposeful picnic: consume and continue, not snack and savour. Satisfied, we set off once more and the terrain metamorphosed into a scene reminiscent of a battlefield. Any vestiges of vegetation disappeared and instead a barren environment greeted us: eternal rubble shrouded in mist, an unidentifiable path, no sign of the top.

Imagining that this signified we were nearly there, my excitement levels mounted a nd I positioned myself at the front of the group in an attempt to hurry things along. This was premature, the rubble continued and continued and continued unabated. The group stretched and Ian told us to wait for the others to catch up - I was practically jumping up and down on the spot, eager to recommence the climb. After more rubble, finally, we reached the plateau where groups from the Alzheimer's group who set off before us were posing for photos. After congratulating one another, we did the same, queuing up for our turn on the raised area which represented the very highest point in the UK. What a feat we had accomplished; that's when it hit home. I even managed to post a photo of myself on Facebook; my mobile phone signal reassuringly having remained faithful throughout. I may have been up a mountain but I remained in contact with the outside world.

The victorious moment

After spending about 10 minutes relishing the moment that we conquered 'The Ben', we began the descent; this time at our own pace. While the ascent tested the lungs, the descent tested the knees as the impact of every downward step sent vibrations juddering through the joint. The extent of rainfall was such that a stream flowed down the path, rendering the rocks treacherously slippery which caused a number of falls. Selecting which rocks to rely upon as footholds was tricky and I found myself frequently losing my footing. That said, us Group 1 frontrunners did descend at some pace, motivated by the torrential conditions and the thought of the pub at the bottom. Oh for a refreshing pint! We refused to stop for breaks, and instead pressed on determinedly, eventually enjoying that pint at approximately 3.30pm, having left the top at 12.30pm and begun walking at 9am. As we descended, an assortment of scantily clad runners passed us in the opposite direction: the running leg of Scottish triathlons is brutal. Why run on the roads when you can run up a mountain?!

The UK's highest war memorial

The pub was warm, cosy and inviting and we faced a two hour stay; the bus not being due to collect us until 5.30pm. We didn't complain, although it would have been more comfortable had we been able to remove our sodden clothes. By sodden, think of the effects of jumping in a bath and lying there for a good ten minutes, fully clothed. Our CF compatriots joined us in trickles, all returning excitedly to recount their experiences of 'The Ben'.

These tales of endeavour continued throughout the evening as we celebrated with another Anna Croit three-course classic. After this well-earned sustenance, some climbers eagerly continued the celebrations with a game of bingo, followed by an extended session in the bar. Others, so exhausted after their exertions, retired to bed at a modest 8.30pm! After a day on the mountain, the group of strangers who had met on the coach just a day before had become friends, all united by their recent achievement which, in time, will become a fond memory and hopefully, more importantly, a contribution towards finding a cure for CF.

The London Triathlon, Excel Centre: 30th July 2011

Female Super Sprint

27^th / 151 competitors

Swim – 00:12:26

Bike – 00:25:45

Run - 00:11:57

Total time – 00:58:25

'Exhilarating' is the word that first comes to mind when I look back upon my experience of The London Triathlon: the biggest Triathlon in the world. When I awoke this morning, as much as I reassured my mother otherwise, I have to concede that the thought of diving into The Thames was somewhat daunting. Swimming in the comfort of an indoor pool is one thing; 400m in open water is quite another.

While drowning would be difficult with the hundreds of canoed volunteers at hand, as we bobbed around at the start line (if you could call it that), doggy-paddling on the spot, the competitors were united in a state of nervous anticipation. How did I know? I overheard conversations. The Welsh chap hired to ease the tension through leading a pre-swim rendition of 'oggy oggy oggy' and instructing us to hug one another probably succeeded but evidence suggested only partially.

And so we bobbed, and bobbed some more in The Royal Victoria Dock, until one lady realised that she had forgotten to remove her wedding ring. No doubt she had racked her bike correctly, collected her timing chip, remembered to hydrate beforehand and affixed all the relevant numbers to hat, helmet and bike and yet forgotten that one little thing. Whoops. Fortunately a canoe-mounted marshal could spare a finger.

And, all of a sudden, the canoeists moved away, revealing clear water ahead. Bobbing metamorphosed into frantic thrashing: arms, legs, you name it, it was attempting to propel bodies through water. Held up by a breast-stroker who, quite frankly, should not have been positioned so near the front, I felt compelled to start thrashing too. And I did, soon manoevering myself around her. The course ahead was not entirely clear and so I aimed to keep an inside line and keep one distant buoy in view. The water was mild, the wetsuit a success but the right goggle a minor irritant: I had a leak. I pressed on, relieved at the emergence of some open water rather than a collection of orange capped thrashers. Soon it was time to turn and I knew to expect congestion. Gulping water due to splash from clashing bodies, I held firm and barged through. Clear water again, half-way.

The second half progressed smoothly, my front crawl remaining faithful to its practiced technique and I felt in control. The wetsuit aided buoyancy and seemed to make breathing easier than in the pool: result! After an uneventful spell with no collisions, I approached the final turning bouy and headed to the jetty. Clambering out with the aid of a helping hand (quite literally) I began to remove my wetsuit.

After an embarassing episode at an open water swim training session when I seemed destined to remain wet-suited forever, I was determined not to repeat the same error again and didn't. Left hand up, pull the velcro, pull the zip, one arm out, other arm out, pull it down, one leg out, other leg out, off you go: I'm making this sound easy. Try it at home, while running.

Free of the suit, it was into the Excel Centre transition zone to locate the bike. I had racked it in Row C with my helmet, laid out my towel with my shoes (clad with all new elasticated laces!) and put my helmet and number in convenient places. Slight problem. There wasn't just one Row C. Up and down I ran for a couple of valuable minutes: had someone stolen my Raleigh Calypso mountain bike? Surely not, it was possibly the least triathlon-inclined bike there. The poor blue machine, in retirement since being removed from the streets of Cambridge, had recently received a facelift and been de-basketed but the shiny road bikes were in a different league. But it did have a bell and I bet the others didn't.

Anyway, after at least a minute of panicking, I finally found the Calypso in what turned out to be the second Row C. Quick! Dry feet, shoes on, helmet on head, affix number to tri-suit and run with bike to the exit. After losing some of my advantage after a strong swim, I was jolly well going to try and make it up in the cycle. And Calpyso wasn't going to stop me.

A lengthy incline was in store upon exiting The Excel Centre, necessitating a period of standing up on the peddles, and then there was an opportunity to free wheel. With the wind rushing through my slightly damp hair, I was flying and beginning to think that this could be enjoyable. Then there came some stretches which were hard on the quads and I spurred myself onwards with mutters of 'come on' and 'push harder'! The sight of some unfortunate cyclists walking back with broken bikes was a cause for concern as the Calpyso struggled with some gear changes . Fortunately, it held on and seeing cyclists ahead with superior bikes was motivating.

Indeed, the highlight of the cycle stage was undoubtedly one such moment when two speedsters appeared ahead, shortly before a hairpin bend. I envisioned the move, appreciated the risk but decided to try it. Hurtling up behind them at full speed, I passed them both on the inside coming into the turn, slammed on the breaks and negotiated the corner to the sound of a disgruntled, arguably angry, "I nearly fell off then!" behind. Look out Mark Cavendish.

The Excel Centre approached and thoughts turned to the run, until arrows directed us up a practically vertical incline to transition. Thoughts swiftly returned to each revolution of the wheel, the effort of which was quite phenomenal. Then it was inside and back to the dreaded bike racks - I put mine in Row C, which one I don't know. Quick! Helmet off and start running.

'Oh no! What's that? You want me to run? You must be joking!', said my legs. Heavy, like lead weights hanging from my hips, their obstinacy required some stern words from the competitive part of my brain. 'You're doing this, whether you like it or not.' Gingerly, at first, but with more ease upon exiting the building, they reluctantly obeyed and took me through the field with satisfying efficiency. The run was a strong point as I overtook a number of competitors over the short course, which was possibly the hardest 2.5km of my life. It turns out that my run was the 2^nd quickest of all competitors.

Me on the left overtaking at the finish

The loop took us along the dock and then back into the large exhibition hall devoted to the event in The Excel Centre for the finish. Apparently, according to my Dad, my name was read out over the loud speaker as I neared the line, overtaking one flagging girl ahead thanks to the cries of one chap who said, 'go on, you can get her'! Tripping up as I crossed it, I was struck with tiredness and elation as I hazily collected my medal and had a photo taken on the podium.

What a thrilling experience and a pleasing result for a first effort! My only regret is losing time looking for my bike in transition – I won’t let that happen again!

Triathlon is the fastest growing sport in Britain: now I know why! Here are 3 reasons:

Number 1: The variety ensures that boredom is impossible - no sooner have you dived into open water, then you're on a bike and then you're on the road running.
Number 2: It's a real challenge - after a swim, jumping on a bike isn't the first thing that comes to mind. And after cycling, going for a run is almost certainly the last thing on your mind. The legs feel heavy and seem to scream 'NO!' when asked to move. Furthermore, it requires all-round ability with weakness in any discipline being exposed.
Number 3: It must be healthy (if you don't swallow the water) - every muscle gets a full work-out both during training and the event.

Challenge 2: Silverstone Half Marathon

‘Racing around Silverstone’

06.03.11

On the plus side, I was a) no longer a first-timer and b) turbo-charged with carbohydrates, having recently clued-up on optimal pre-race nutrition. On the minus side, my training plan was implemented both partially and late as a result of being sidelined for three months following surgery. The result? A hugely relieving one hour fifty minutes.

Relieving in two senses: firstly, that I made it to the end without (I think) doing any damage and, secondly, that my time was only four minutes slower than my first half marathon in September. On the second count, relief may not be the most accurate word for expressing my dominant emotion. In all honesty, happiness or satisfaction is nearer to the mark. My sporting career has, fortunately, been relatively injury free and three months out of action (my longest period to date) induced intense boredom, desperation to do exercise and a fear that my long built-up fitness would slowly ebb away with every ‘bum-on-seat’ day that passed. Therefore, to be released onto the magnificent and imposing Silverstone race track, propelled by a gale-force wind and visions of race cars, was simply terrific. Combine that with a time which disproved my fears about a lengthy return to fitness and I was Lewis Hamilton winning here en route to the Championship in 2008.

As for my experience during the race, it was akin to the recent history of The British Grand Prix: full of ups and downs. I started off with pace and confidence in an attempt to sock one to my inner worries: those were the pre 1990s days when Silverstone was one of the fastest tracks in the F1 calendar. Then, after an uneventful few miles from 3 to 6, I had the Donnington Park stage. When it was announced that the British Grand Prix would be moving to Donnington Park for 10 years from 2010, Silverstone must have had the jitters. Would it be able to continue, should it admit defeat, could it regain its glory? It would, did not and can: now it has a contract to host the Grand Prix for 17 years from 2010. As the fatigue set in, my pace slowed and I doubted my ability to achieve a good time, I thought of Silverstone triumphing in adversity and keeping the faith when the going got tough. It worked. Like a race car, I re-fuelled with Lucozade, Shell for runners, and turned on the acceleration. Late braking around Woodcote and Copse, high throttle up the Farm Straight and I was on cruise control. Sprint finish? You bet. Lap of honour? You must be joking. Free massage: priceless.

In terms of the event itself, the circuit was lined with spectators who were no doubt able to follow this race more easily than the races to which Silverstone usually plays host. The sounds of droning engines were replaced by the sounds of ‘You can do it!’, ‘Go Joe Bloggs’ and ‘Run like the wind’ as YMCA and the like blared out of the speakers. (In case you were wondering, I was tempted, but making shapes isn’t the best for aero-dynamicity.) It was a superb venue for a half marathon: practical and inspiring. I would love to return, hopefully fitter, faster and better-oiled. For now, I am reflecting on a day which went as well, if not better, than I could have anticipated. Two challenges down, bring on the London Triathlon.

Challenge 1: 'Run to the Beat' Half Marathon

The statistics: 13 miles: 01:46:43: 318^th female out of 5858.

My ferocious treadmill training over the summer holidays suggested that I should be able to complete a half marathon within 2 hours. However, when in the week leading up to the event I substituted the placid interior of my local gym for the hard and unexpectedly hilly streets of Maidenhead, the change was greater than I had anticipated. 20 minutes on the treadmill, accompanied by the aggressive guitar and vocals of AC/DC, was just a warm-up. After 20 minutes on the undulating pavements to a soundtrack of car engines, however, I was soon longing for the familiar sight of home and a cold drink. I feared that I would not be able to replicate my indoor performance and regretted not taking to the roads sooner. In a late attempt to clock up some outdoor mileage, I completed four road-runs in the days leading up to the event and hoped it would be enough for me to beat the 2-hour barrier.

When we arrived at The O2 Arena (aka The Millennium Dome) at 8am on Sunday 26^th September, the barrenness of its immediate environment was striking. Shivering in my full tracksuit as a result of the icy wind lashing across the Greenwich peninsular, I questioned whether an airtex vest and shorts were sufficient, especially when numerous fellow-runners were equipped in skin-tight leggings and long-sleeved tops. Walking towards The Dome in search of warmth, my parents and I were greeted by a succession of temporary outlets selling pies, fajitas and crepes. As comforting and warming as a steak and ale pie might have been, I resisted. Athletes always talk about split-seconds and margins, I simply couldn’t risk it. Furthermore, I had already planned the contents and timing of my pre-race fuel intake and this would undoubtedly have put the nutritional balance in jeopardy.

Instead, we walked on by and gathered with the masses of lycra-clad runners, some combatively jumping up and down in an attempt at mass intimidation, a few perfecting their costumes and the majority relaxing in the knowledge of hard work ahead. I downed my last few sips of Lucozade and munched on my final Jaffa cake in preparation for the 9.45 start when we were informed that delays on The Jubilee Line would postpone proceedings to 10.30. Another forty-five minutes of nervous anticipation followed and deliberations as to whether or not another Jaffa cake was needed yielded a positive result.

As 10.30 neared, a voice over the tannoy instructed us, like sheep, to enter our pens. Little did I know when completing the online application form that estimated finishing time is used to categorise runners into pens at the start so as to prevent tortoises from impeding hares. After somewhat reluctantly stripping off and entering my assigned Pen 3, I discovered that I had predicted myself completing the race in 1 hour 40 to 2 hours. The pressure was on. Whereas in The Dome, a wide range of physiques were on display from lean mean machines with the giveaway runners’ calve muscles to far tubbier types, in Pen 3, the former were predominant. I thought I had better engage in some pre-run stretching as this was obviously ‘the done thing’ in Pen 3 and so my quads, calves, hamstrings and arm muscles (you never know) all received ample exercise during the waiting period in the pen. I had little plan for the race other than to ensure that I didn’t get drawn into the temptation of running too fast at the start and trying to maintain a steady speed throughout.

Finally, 10.30 arrived and it wasn’t long before Pen 3 was released onto the course. I pressed my stopwatch upon crossing the line and checked momentarily after that it was going. I then focused on weaving my way in between runners in order to find some space to extend my stride and run with freedom. This took some time but I soon had an idea. Up ahead I noticed a girl of similar age to myself who was clearly quite a decent runner. She was expertly manoeuvring herself through the field with an air of experience and appeared to be travelling at a similar speed to myself. An ideal pacemaker, I thought, as I ran up behind to enter her slipstream and followed her hawkishly as she sidestepped and dodged and sneaked through small openings on the heavily congested roads. I felt strong at this point and confident that I could keep up with her for at least the time being. Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that my stopwatch had somehow stopped shortly after the start and, unaware of the exact time that I had crossed the line, I had no exact way of knowing my pace. I did, however, have a rough idea and knew that by the four mile mark, I was beating the nine minute miles required for a 2-hour half marathon. As the Woolwich Arsenal approached, I was greeted with cheers from my brother, Andrew, and two sisters in law, Loretta and Tracy, who had all come to support me in my first challenge. Encouragement from friendly voices and the sight of friendly faces amongst an otherwise unfamiliar crowd was motivating as I pressed on with the task in hand.

The first hydration stations were around this point and the experience of trying to grab a cup of water while on the move prompted me to sympathise with the relay runners in the Olympics who drop the baton. Attempting to drink a cup of water while running and without spilling it, I realised, is largely impossible and after an unsuccessful effort at this first station, I vowed to momentarily pause to drink at the next. Even releasing the energy gel proved problematic and resulted in my having to run without the aid of arm movement for quite a stretch as I frantically attempted to prise it open and squeeze it into my mouth. Hydration station strategy is certainly something which requires thought and, prior to my Silverstone Half Marathon, I would welcome any volunteers willing to take part in a simulated scrum at a purposively erected drinks table in my garden. A willingness to use elbows and a touch of ruthlessness is required; something quite unfamiliar to us Brits with our love of gentile queuing.

Soon after this pantomime, a hill which seemed more suited to the lower Alps than the Greenwich docklands approached in the horizon. The vests of runners at the top were a blur and the ascent was such that I felt the need to psyche myself up with an internal ‘Come On Tors’ at its foot. It was at this point that my pacemaker really came into her own with a relish for a hill akin to that of a mountaineer. To my astonishment, she increased her pace up the hill and left me and many others in our surrounds for dust. Despite my attempt at a response as the ground levelled, I failed to catch her and I knew that I was on my own for the rest of the race. The middle of the race was a particularly tough point and, aware that I had made an excellent start, I urged myself to dig deep here to continue at the pace I had set. Not long after this initial hill, a steep descent was welcome and I allowed my legs to gain momentum and carry me at a sprint.

A nasty surprise was in store, however, for the terrain was something of a V-shaped valley with an apparently vertical ascent greeting us at the bottom. A collective groan was emitted as the exhilaration of effortless downhill freefall was replaced with a sluggish uphill climb. Grimacing faces predominated but it was at this difficult juncture that I focused on why I was running. Appreciating the insignificant period of time in the context of the race, the day, the week, the year, my life for which I would have to will myself to defeat the pain in my body and the lack of air in my lungs, I considered the fortunes of those for whom every breath is a struggle. For CF sufferers, such as my brothers, constant treatment is required to lessen the effects of a disease which clogs the lungs and digestive system with sticky mucus, making it hard to breathe and digest food. Experiencing a fraction of the suffering that they endure constantly for approximately two hours of my life and raising money for my efforts seems the least I can do in exchange for my own fortuity and to help their plight. As I looked ahead at the multiplicity of coloured charity vests, some bearing messages such as ‘In memory of ___’ and ‘For ____’, I felt an enormous sense of solidarity with those around me and a pride at the collective enterprise of the runners. I kept this thought with me in the early stages of the second half and drove myself on as an hour’s running, a few hills and a couple of stitches brought the first feelings of tiredness.

The course itself was largely non-descript as we passed through uninspiring streets and areas bearing scars of an industrial past without the promised music being particularly noticeable. ‘Run to the Beat’ is advertised as ‘London’s musical half-marathon’ and while there were vans blasting music at various intervals, had I not known that on-course music was a celebrated feature of the event, I would probably have expected these brief musical interludes anyway. Despite this slight disappointment, through Greenwich Park there was a brilliant atmosphere with crowds lining the curvaceous route and offering plenty of encouragement in the latter stages. I was still comfortably beating the 2-hour pace and was continuing to work my way through the field, passing runners who had started the race before me more frequently than conceding places to those behind. The remainder of the course was predominantly flat which enabled me to maintain a steady pace, without the disrupting influence of undulations. Soon there were just two miles to go and, as if we needed reminding, crowds shouted that we were nearly there. When the end is in sight, there is a tendency to become absorbed in counting down the metres, miles, minutes, seconds which I tried to resist. A runner wearing a retro QPR shirt from the 1980s, lively crowds and a fellow CF runner who I overtook with a wave, provided some distraction as I considered when I could afford to start sprinting.

As it happened, it proved hard to run faster as I had established a reasonably settled rhythm and thus, contrary to expectations, I failed to increase my pace substantially for the final mile. In hindsight, I think this was probably a good thing because it means that I left nothing in the tank throughout the race and ran to my potential. The end of the race was announced with signs of 750m, which, I reminded myself as I prepared to put my foot down prematurely, is nearly two laps around a running track. As once again I heard the cheers of my family, I knew that I had to, and did, overtake Bodger and Badger on the final straight. Whilst this may conjure comical, and perhaps humiliating images, of me finishing at the same time as runners sweltering beneath heavy and furry costumes, Bodger and Badger were only such because of the names written across their running t-shirts so not too much pride was at stake. As I saw the clock ticking above the finishing line, I finally received confirmation that I had beaten 2-hours and finished with elation. The gun time was 1 hour 54 which, given my not crossing the start line at the time that the race started, translated into 1 hour 46 according to the timing chip affixed to my shoe. This was faster than predicted and, as such, my parents, who had been waiting in The Dome to watch me finish, arrived too late! Overall, I had a thoroughly satisfying first challenge which was, as intended, a challenge as well as being enjoyable at the same time. A hot bath failed to prevent severe stiffness today and I am definitely feeling the effects at the moment. No doubt come March, however, I will be raring to go for the second challenge; The Silverstone Half Marathon.