What's up Doc?

It’s been a while now. Normally my crashes seem to last a couple of days. This time though it’s been weeks going on months. I just can’t seem to climb out of this hole and get back to normal. I think I’m getting there but then a busy day seems to drag me back down again. I’ve still just about got through my days at work but everything else has been a write off as I spend endless hours trying to recover. It’s given me time to think, probably too much time to be honest.

I've recently been trying to class my M.E. I’ve always struggled with how to tell people about it and how to describe myself. I've tried saying to some people that I am better and to others that I still have M.E but both don't really fit my situation.

How can I say I'm still ill when I have been able to run marathons but then how can I say I'm better when I have weeks like last week, when I'm so tired I feel that even moving and speaking are an effort.

I think the best way to class my illness is to say that I'm in recovery, as with every recovery though, progress is not a constant. There is no linear graph showing a straight line of improvement, instead there are ups and downs. A two steps forward one step back type of thing.

The last few weeks though have felt like I’ve been stuck in reverse, free-falling back down the graph, back past all the progress I had worked so hard to achieve.

It’s never usually been this bad, it never usually lasts this long. Normally after a few days I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but this time it’s just kept on going. To say I’m frustrated is an understatement. To be honest I’m slightly scared, questions like, what if I don’t recover this time? keep on dancing round my brain, taunting me.

So as a last resort I did the thing that I always hate, after weeks of feeling shite I went to my local GP. Almost twenty years after I first ‘troubled’ them with my M.E, I thought, or rather, I desperately hoped the world might have moved on. That after years of trying to work this thing out on my own that someone else may be able to help out, that there may be some new research I hadn’t heard about.

Sadly I was to be disappointed.

While describing my symptoms I was met with the same disapproving look, the one that told me I was just a faker, a time waster who was just over reacting to feeling a bit tired. The look that told me I should leave now and let the surgery deal with people who are really ill. Those who they can actually prescribe something for.

The anger slowly built

After I was finished I was met with the line ‘so what do you want us to do for you?’ before being told that exercise might help me.

The anger now took over.

I was now in a time warp, transported back to how I felt as a scared and confused kid in 1999. Suddenly I was back in the middle of the same battle I always fought, the one where I am fighting to be believed, to be taken seriously.

Instead of smashing up the room in a rage, a joyful scene which had played out in my mind, I calmly explained that I did exercise, I ran quite a lot actually but you know what, in the last few weeks I had been to exhausted to get out of the door. “Yes, I had tried” I explained “and it has made me feel much worse.”

No, I was simply here because I was desperate. The GP has always been my last resort, the place I am forced to go when I am all out of options.

So in answer to the docs question, I was just wondering if there is anything that could be done to make me feel slightly better? After all that’s what doctors do, right?

Unsurprisingly, I was told that there was nothing much they could do but I would be put down for yet more blood tests and, probably to try and stop me coming back for more time wasting, any other test going.

While ticking the boxes and filling the forms I was then told that “everyone I see feels tired from time to time.”

At this point I had mentally burned down the surgery and was doing a merry dance around the flames. Instead I tried explaining yet again that this was more so much more than being just tired, before thanking the doc for everything they could do and leaving. (Why the hell am I so fecking polite?) Without someone shouting and screaming I doubt doctors like this will ever understand. Sadly I’m not the shouting and screaming type. Passive aggressively blogging about it later is much more my thing.

So I walked out the surgery in a ball of frustration, anger and loneliness. Once again I was on my own.

Bad Days

It's the morning after the day before. I feel like I've relapsed. Yesterday was not a good day, it was one of those days that I just needed to get through and consign to the dustbin of history. I hate this feeling, it's similar to when you have woken with the mother of all hangovers. As you fight to peel your eyes open everything aches, every movement takes so much effort and deep down there is the dull ache of guilt, of regret. What have I done? Why did I let myself get like this? It had all been going so well up until now.

This has nothing to do with alcohol or a big night out, I was in bed by 8pm last night. No, yesterday I simply felt tired. This though is a different kind of tired. It’s the kind of tired that clubs you over the head leaving you dazed, confused and unable to carry on. The kind of tired that takes you over completely, that tries to shut down your systems, that tries to stop life in its tracks.

It happens every couple of months, a few days where the tiredness takes over and controls me. Most of the time I can fight it, push it into the background, try to ignore it but every now and then fatigue creeps out of the shadows and envelopes me, showing that it can still dominate my life, making me shuffle to its muffled tune.

I know that often, there's nothing I can do but it feels like my fault, I've fallen off the wagon, all the coping strategies and the processes I've invented over the years to keep the M.E at bay have failed me.

No matter what I do, no matter how many new strategies I invent, the tired days still happen, they are still part of my life. As I get better at coping with my M.E, as I start to work myself and the illness out they are becoming less frequent but they always catch up with me eventually. They are reminders of what everyday used to be like, of how my life used to be. Each of these days is like trip back in time to a world that I was hoping to leave behind.

Like thunder clouds on the horizon I can often feel the tiredness coming. It's seems crazy to think those dark brooding objects of pessimism, way off in the distance, may eventually catch up with me. That I will end up caught in the rain when I’m currently basking in the sun. Denial sets in, the eternal optimist that resides inside me says that the wind will shift, that the oncoming clouds will be blown off course.

If I were a bit more of a pessimist or maybe what some would define as a realist then I would possibly be able to take heed of the warning signs, I could then prepare for the tiredness and it wouldn't soak me to the skin. Maybe if I did a bit less, stopped saying yes to so much and took a few early nights I could blow the clouds back over the distant horizon. Maybe I could prevent the tired days from being so bad or maybe even avoid them all together.

Try heading home though whilst the sun is still out and you are enjoying the charms of summer. It's an impossible thing to do. Why would you give all of this up? Why would you pack up the beach towels in 25 degree heat just because it might rain? The eternal optimist that thinks the rain will never hit, wants to make the most of the sun, squeezing every last drop of enjoyment from it before the storm hits. And so it's the same with my M.E, by making the most of the good days, by ignoring all the signs, by doing as much as I can when I feel good, I fear I make the bad days worse.

I've slept, that is to say I shut my eyes and lost consciousness but it seems to have done nothing. If anything I'm more tired than I was last night. It's a horrible feeling waking up like this, one of utter defeat, any of the last remaining positivity, any belief you had last night that today would be slightly better had been shattered. You are resigned once again to getting through the day and hoping that sleep will do what it's supposed to later in the evening. Your first thought after getting out of bed is when you can get back in it again. The oncoming hours become a test of endurance, days like these feel like walking barefoot over gravel.

In a way I guess this is a kind of hangover. Rather than alcohol being the contributor to my current state I have just overindulged on life. I have been enjoying too much of a good thing over the last few weeks, I didn't know when to stop, and so I am here now, staring at the ceiling, feeling sorry for myself, dreading the oncoming day that is now imposing itself on me.

On these days the M.E is back in control, rather than fight it or try to deny it exists I have to acknowledge that this time it may have won the battle but the war is still ongoing. When I am feeling down and defeated I have to remind myself that I am winning the war.

Stand completely still on a tube station at rush hour, this is how normality feels on the bad days. Everyday situations seem to happen at a million miles an hour, everything seems to happen around you in fast forward, it becomes disorienting, you can't take it all in, you can't grasp much of what is going on. Other people seem to be operating on a different level to you. To join them and participate in society seems like trying to jump on a roundabout that is already spinning. Sometimes you can just about hang on, other times it spits you off leaving you to nurse your bruises and try again another time.

On these days I feel broken. Its as if I'm not quite there, I feel disconnected, unable to properly interact with people and feel part of what is going on. It's like watching the world through a window, like someone else is pulling the strings, I am going through the motions but I don’t feel in control.

I feel uncomfortable, unable to grasp at words, It’s an effort to join in on conversations. The normality of the world becomes too much to take in and everyday situations become stressful. Even simple decisions like what to eat play on your mind.

In situations like this I hate admitting defeat it’s the last thing I want to do, I have to keep on fighting, it's what I am used to doing, to do anything else feels like letting the M.E win, like admitting I am weak and a quitter.

If I make it look like I am alright, if everyone else thinks I'm alright then maybe I can convince myself everything is alright. On these days I feel like I am trying to portray a construct of myself, I am trying to act out the person I want to be. All may look fine on the outside but it is the veneer of normality the projection of what I want to feel and what I want to be, beneath the surface I feel like I am breaking, like I'm falling apart. Often when I am that tired I struggle to feel anything at all, emotions seem to take too much precious energy from me, when I am this tired I feel completely empty, the black of M.E has consumed me, taking my humanity away from me. When it’s really bad I am left as an empty, emotionless, shell, a hologram which has stepped in to take over the basic day to day duties of being Tom.

You would think that I could use the experience to learn for the next time, that maybe I could see the warning signs and back off. There are three reasons this never seems to happen. One, the eternal optimist in me is a stubborn bastard, every time I start to feel the faintest bit of tiredness it tells me that maybe this time it won't be so bad, that maybe this time I can cope with it, that the bad days won't be so bad.

Reason two is down to my attitude towards the illness. After so long being ill, being practically housebound dreaming of a world I couldn't touch, the good days are to be cherished. They are to be used to their full extent, they are days my teenage self would have given anything for. To not make the most of them seems like an incredible waste, like throwing perfectly edible food into the bin. Why would I compromise these days? Why would I purposely make the good less enjoyable just to enable the bad to be slightly better? Why downgrade something amazing to just ordinary so that the unpleasant can become slightly more tolerable? I would rather make the most of the good days.

So in a way I see the bad days almost like a penance for the good days. There has to be some payback. To enjoy the good days and the lack of tiredness as much as I now can, I have to expect to suffer the odd bout of tiredness every few weeks.

The third reason is that sometimes life just doesn't allow me to stop. I have to work, there are often things that need to be done I can’t put off, I can’t just take a day off work because I’m ‘tired’ I have to keep pushing through even if I know it will hurt a few days down the line.

It's now a few days later and the rebuilding begins. The storm has passed through, the skies are clearing and the damage is being assessed. It'll take a bit of sorting but in a week or so I hope to be feeling back to normal. I am now back in control and can leave the M.E demons behind me.

So hopefully today will be better than yesterday, the tiredness will lift and I can press the reset button and start again. Yes, the bad days are pretty crap but it is from these days I can learn most about the M.E.

By analysing the bad days and learning about what made me this tired and I can hope to come up with new coping mechanisms and strategies that may hopefully defeat the tiredness at some point in the future, or for the very least try to put it off for a few more days. The bad days need to happen, in a strange way these are the days which are helping me to get better.

Home Run

You can just see the trees from the kitchen window. Their arterial forms stretch to the skies, as if they are trying desperately to pluck spring from the crisp, winter's air.

It's been two weeks, two weeks of staring past the rooftops, at those trees, thinking about the hills they stand on, daydreaming about the trails that meander around their roots.

I knew I wouldn't be able to run much whilst moving house. I had bulk trained beforehand, fitting as much as I could into the early part of the week hoping that a few days off wouldn't hurt the marathon plan. Optimism is always my downfall though and as usual I had a little voice telling me I could probably sneak in a short run on most days.

Sometimes though optimism is a lying bastard and of course I ended up either too busy or too knackered to run more than once. After filling boxes with seemingly endless amounts of stuff (how did we collect so much crap?) my last run from the old place was a familiar loop around the industrial estates. A kind of farewell run, if you will. As I passed endless car dealerships and tile warehouses, the run made me look forward to moving even more.

I knew what surrounded the new house, endless Google mapping had shown that just a short half mile away there were hills, fields, woods and countryside. Not a car dealership in sight. Any quiet moment in work I would be planning routes, wondering just what they would be like in reality.

Of course, I had already run from the new place, one of the most important things to consider when moving is what the local routes are like. One evening I had parked the car nearby and after a couple of passes either side of the house, looking in but hoping not to get looked at, I went to see what I could find.

Over the motorway the world seemed to open up, fields stretched towards the woods, paths led temptingly into the distance, it was all I needed to see. I choose a path alongside the road, to have run anything else, to have barrelled headlong into the woodland seemed wrong. After all we didn't own the place yet, to use the best trails without belonging felt like trespassing, besides if things went wrong and we didn't get the house I didn't really want to find out what I was going to miss.

So the short trail alongside the M4 seemed like the best compromise. Despite the rush of furious traffic nearby, I felt in the middle of nowhere. I ran through fields, dodged horses and jumped over tree routes on paths that tickled the edge of the woodland beyond.

It was a taster run, something to lure me back, and boy did it work.

I hadn't been sure about the house before, but as I returned to the car muddied and out of breath I was sure about it now. I wanted to explore the hills beyond. I wanted to live here.

As more boxes were unloaded, as more jobs filled the to do list I realised running may have to wait a few days.

Eventually, I did get out to explore, but winter and the darkness it brings meant that the woods remained out of reach.

Anything with street lights though was fair game, I looped around nearby roads and the local villages, I ran up streets and hills that I knew led to the woods but had to turn back as the lights ended and darkness blocked my path.

It's always good exploring new places but it just didn't feel like enough, still the hills would taunt me whilst I ate breakfast.

Then, a day off, some sunshine and no excuses.

Through the path the neighbours had told me about, across a field, over the motorway and freedom.

Up again, past the dog walkers and then into the sun-dappled woodland beyond. Finally I've made it. Higher the trail climbs, pine needles coat the ground below, giving it the spongy feeling, like a running track made from nature.

Paths keep on darting left and right but I keep going up, I have to get to the top.

A bench waits to scoop people up as the path flattens out and I'm left with a choice of left or right.

Right it is, skipping over the mud before giving in completely and squelching through the middle of it. Before long I'm back out in bright sunlight again making my way across the more fields before diving back into the woodland again.

The tall pines have been replaced by what feels like more ancient woodland. Last autumn's leaves still blanket the floor, turning the hillside a bright shade of copper. They rustle beneath my feet as I barrel downhill way to quickly and completely out of control, like a child who has discovered the joy of running flat out before their legs have figured out how to do it properly.

Paths branch off the main trail, enticing me to run down them, to get truly lost in this natural maze. One leads me through a river, wet footprints marking my route as I climb the path the other side. It's a dead end, a bridle path that leads to the road back home. I'm not ready for tarmac and civilisation quiet yet though and cross the river into the woods once more.

Back up the hillside again, through the contours of ancient earth mounds. In the distance a dog is jumping at a rope swing, barking at the stick that is seemingly defying gravity by hovering in mid air.

Eventually I find a familiar looking path, one that leads downhill, taking me back home. Ignoring the distraction of the unexplored I follow it back to the edge of the woods and out once again into the vivid winters sunlight.

The other side of the motorway lies reality, yet more appliances are being delivered for the kitchen and as that is my main reason for this day off I guess I had better be in when they arrive.

Until the next time, I will once again stare at the distant trees whilst eating my breakfast, daydreaming about what else lies undiscovered.

Race the Train

I do love a good race. There is just something so addictive about race days.

Often though, during races, despite the fact I'm surrounded by thousands of other runners, I'm not actually racing anyone, the battle is purely between me, myself and time.

Training runs are a bit different and to make life more interesting I’m constantly inventing little races. It could be a against a passing cyclist or a rower on the river, I just have to get to a tree in the distance before them. A recent recovery run turned into a short race against a mobility scooter when I just had to beat it to the next lamppost. Anything or anyone becomes fair game for a race, it's just that the others involved don't know they are actually racing.

What makes the race I'm about to start a little bit more exciting is that I have an official opponent. In something resembling a cut price Top Gear challenge I'm going to see if I can run faster than a steam train.

Runners taking on the train

Hundreds of us now stand on the bridge at the start overlooking the railway.The smoke drifting across the road and the occasional whistle lets us know the train is right below us, limbering up, ready to take on the pack of runners.

All the talk at the start is about if we can beat it. Some are confident, others say they have no chance. I'm one of the group in the middle who think it may just be possible.

And so off we run with the usual crazy abandon at the start of the race. Through the drifting smoke and the crowds that line the course in the town centre. As usual I've been sucked into going off way too fast but I just can't help myself. Ringing in my ears is the sound of the trains whistle and the time I need to beat it, 1 hour and 47 minutes.

The first mile entices us into running too fast. It's along a gloriously smooth tarmac road offering us no clues as to the treacherous paths we will encounter. I should probably save some energy, but this is perfect to make up a bit of time on the lumbering steam engine.

As usual I started off way too quickly. Thanks to Presteigne Pacers for the picture

I'm wary of going to quick though, after hearing stories of what's to come. Fourteen miles of the finest Welsh countryside are in front of me and everyone has been only too keen to tell me how tough this race is going to be.

I arrived at the campsite only to be told by the owner about the biblical amount of rain the day before and how a boat rather than a train may have been drafted in for the race. Then whilst pitching the tent my neighbour for the night told me about last year's carnage when the race which took place in the tail end of a hurricane. His wife had just run the 10k. I asked her how the course was, her reply was "boggy" with an expression that said "you don't know the half of it mate!"

The final summary came from another 10k runner just as I was walking to the start. He appeared to be suffering from some kind of shell shock, unable to string sentences together. He kept on glancing nervously at my pasty, white, but for now, perfectly clean legs. It's just so muddy he kept saying over and over whilst shaking his head. I decided to get to the start before he made me any more nervous.

Clean for now. Wondering what I had let myself in for at the start.

We've now left the safety of the road and head over a bridge into the first of many fields. It's just a tad wet. After rather daintily skipping over the first few puddles, I quickly realise I'm fighting a loosing battle and start careering straight through them.

Before long I pass the first of many runners frantically searching for their shoe in one of the many boggy sections, this must have been what they were all talking about, we are knee deep In the stuff now. I was soon to realise though this was nothing, it was the little aperitif of mud before the main course later on.

All the while we are chased by the train, it's constant chug and occasional whistle, driving us to run (or splash) faster. Suddenly it's alongside, I had been concentrating so hard on staying upright that I hadn't realised it was right behind me.

Passengers lean out of the windows shouting encouragement, I'm now multi tasking, trying to keep pace with the train, waving at it whilst also trying not to fall victim of the mud. Then it dawns on me, if it's alongside I'm not winning.

MUST RUN FASTER.

Over the first little hill the valley opens up ahead of us, the train line neatly dissecting the two sets of lush green hills that frame our view. It's a stunning scene, one so crystal clear, as if the whole world has suddenly gone HD after years of being broadcast to you in standard definition.Thirty seconds later it starts pissing down with rain, and the view disappears into a hazy cloud.

It's ironic that many trail runs take you through the most stunning scenery, yet you get little chance to see it as you are concentrating so hard on the path trying not to sprain an ankle. After a few seconds of gawping at the view I'm back staring at stones and mud again.

So far it's been nice and flat, then we hit the first proper hill, I try to run up it, wondering why everyone else is walking. About a third of the way up, I’ve been transformed into an aching, wheezing wreck and I realise that everyone else knows exactly what they were doing. I start to walk and attempt to get my breath back.

One crazy decent and a rampaging herd of sheep later we hit the halfway mark. At this point the words of the course description start to haunt me.

This has been the easy part of the course and you must be well ahead of an estimated half way time as the second half is much tougher....... it then delivers the killer blow.....Good male runners can normally BEAT THE TRAIN

I've been told I need to hit halfway in forty five minutes and I'm just behind. With the taunting course description at the forefront of my mind I charge up the next hill and start the more extreme section of the race.

The course map which made the course look deceptively easy!

The once wide paths have narrowed and each misjudged footstep threatens to send you very quickly to the bottom of the hill.

We are forming a train of our own. With the path being so narrow there is nowhere to overtake. I start to get frustrated, feeling that I could run so much faster. As soon as we are back on a wider track though this is proved to definitely not be the case. I try to push on and overtake only to be met with legs that stubbornly refuse to go any faster. I guess this pace will do just fine then.

Back into the woods we go, and I discover where most of yesterday's rain has ended up. One wrong move and you are up to your thighs in mud. A slippery downhill section follows with a jolly marshall screaming at the top of his voice "Be Careful....I DO NOT WANT ANOTHER BROKEN LEG!"

All thoughts turn from beating the train to just surviving.

If I do die though at least it's in a stunning part of the world. As we slide, stumble and squelch our way under the trees we come across a waterfall in full flow. I make a mental note to come back here when I don't have a pesky train to race

Back out in the open we are greeted by the inevitable head wind. Gradually, ever so gradually we are getting closer to town. We just have to make it through a few more fields that I swear have been designed to break runners ankles

Before long the tracks become familiar and I realise we are going back along the route we ran earlier. Marker miles tick off. The train station getting near.

Finally we hit the farm track and then we are back on the main road into town and something I dreamed about in the woods. TARMAC.

Sprinting for the station, I have no idea whats going on with the guy behind me!

It's so strange to be running on the road again, after everything we have just been through this almost feels too clean and ordinary. It's just too civilised and clinical. It doesn't really fit in with the rest of the race

Still though there's a train to beat, back through town, the massive crowds and then finally the finish line. I've done it.....I survived.

Ok, so I have to be happy with survival as I didn't quite beat the train. The hulking great mass of steel and steam came in just under two minutes before me. I guess I can't be too unhappy though, trains were invented to be slightly quicker than the average human being.

                        

Muddy Legs at the end but a rather cool finishers medal

This though, has been a proper race, one in which the whole town seems to take delight in. As I delve into the goodie back devouring anything that's edible and probably a couple of things that aren't I'm already plotting my revenge. I guess the one good thing about missing the train is that I’m going to have to come back next year and try again. I can’t wait.

Midsummer Murder Mile

It's only a mile, one sodding mile. I run loads of them. So why, at this small race in a Welsh valley, am I standing on the start line more nervous than I would be at most other events?

The mile is a hellish race, one which many non runners don't really understand. "But you run further than that all the time.” They say slightly perplexed. “A mile is easy!". Except that it’s really not.

Happy faces before the start, at this point I think we were in denial about what we were going to do!

A mile is a hideous distance to run. You start off at sprint, by one hundred meters you are ready to stop, keel over and quit running forever. By half distance you would give anything to feel how you did at one hundred meters. Your whole body is filled with searing pain, there are no other feelings, no emotions except a panic about how long you can keep going and how far away the finish line is. The last half is just plain torture, it’s a fight between you, your body and the messages it’s sending your brain, telling you to stop this madness.

At the finish you are reduced to a quivering wreck, unable to remember your name, unable to say it if you could remember. If you can stand you are reduced to a hobble, that's if you are lucky. Most people after a mile are unable to peel themselves off the road. The worst thing though is your lungs. In the space of a few minutes you have been transformed from a relatively fit runner to someone who sounds like they have been smoking forty a day from their early teens. In short, a mile completely breaks you.

And that was a normal mile on a pancake flat piece of road. This mile is slightly different, hence the rather menacing name of the Murder Mile. The tarmac lane in front of me disappears from view as it goes up, then up again and up some more before going up a bit further. Yep, this mile is up the side of a rather large hill.

In case we had forgotten just how steep that hill was, the organisers provide us runners with a couple of reminders. First of we have to drive up the course to get to the car park, which is hard enough in itself. After a lot of revs in first gear and probably burning though most of my clutch we make the summit, to then be told we have to walk back down to the start. We leave the smell of clutch wafting on the summer breeze and head all the way back down to base camp. 

It's so steep even this is hard work and we are left standing at the start with Jelly legs even before the race has even begun. These gentle reminders of how difficult the course is bring back the nauseous feeling from the finish last year. I remember now, it's all coming back to me, this race is bloody horrible, it's self induced torture! I'm starting to have second thoughts but then I guess there is only one way back to my car which is perched on top of the hill.

We were less happy after the walk to the start and realising just how steep the hill was!

I've done this event twice before. I can confidently say that last year it was the worst I felt after finishing a race. It took me a while to realise I wasn't going to collapse and then lot longer before I was confident I could keep the contents of my stomach down!

So why do it? Why put myself through this pain? As I'm contemplating this along with why I run, the meaning of life and other such questions, the race director, in the brightest of bright hoodies steps into the lead car and in one of the most understated starts I can remember simply shouts go! A count down would have been good with maybe a hooter or klaxon but then that doesn't really fit with the slightly random nature of this race. Other races have starts like that and this, most definitely is not like other races.

So off we run through the now familiar burning smell of clutch as we start the ascent back up to the finish and salvation. No backing out now then. It's only a mile.

The first part of the run is deceptive, the adrenaline of the start takes over and you feel good, the first third doesn't seem so steep. Past the locals sitting on chairs with their bottles of wine everything still feels ok. It's tempting to stop and enjoy a tipple of Chateauneuf du Taff but this section of the course feels fairly flat and besides, I'm already a third of the way in, this really ain't so bad.

And then it hits you, at about half way the road really ramps up, we are now running up something that Eddie the Eagle could have used it as a training jump.

The ironic thing for such a steep run is that it's actually the flatter bits that get you. Just before the ski jump, the road flattened out a bit, tricking you into running quicker, sapping the precious energy you need further up the hill. Just as you start the main traverse you find your legs are no longer able to do what you want.

The first year I was determined to run the whole thing. This turned out to be a stupid idea. I found this out the hard way when, with my lungs pretty much exploding, other competitors started walking past me. At this, the steepest point of the climb, walking is definitely quicker!  

And so the run walk begins. Walk for most of it then a short run past any crowds on the side, just to try and look a little more respectable for any pictures.

Putting on a sprint of sorts past the camera!

The worst thing to do is to look at the Garmin, it seems to be stuck in a time warp, numbers click over so slowly. I have to be going quicker than this, it has to be broken.

And still the road goes up, in the distance though there is a sign, on which the organisers have rather amusingly scrawled 200m to go now sprint! Ha, I wish!

Finally you get to the turn that signals the finish. Mercifully the farm track that takes you there is flat, oh so flat. I could stop and kiss this rather muddy concrete but that will probably affect my finish position so maybe later.

With fifty meters to go I try to do what the sign said and fire up my best Usain Bolt impression, except there's a problem. My legs no longer seem attached to my body. No matter what I do, what messages my brain tries to send them, they don't want to go forward. Far from Bolt my sprint looks more like Brains from Thunderbirds.

Finally though I cross the line. The usual jubilation of finishing a race has got to wait for a few minutes while I first piece myself back together again.

Happy its all over

An hour later, now sat in the pub with a drink and some grub I'm starting to feel a bit more human again.The mind is a rather amazing/slightly stupid thing. Already it's blanking out how much pain I was in during the run and trying to convince me that I actually enjoyed it. Endorphins start to dance around my body and I'm already in complete denial. That was bloody good fun, I do love the mile. Same time next year then people?

The view from the top almost made the run worth it!