It's been 150 miles I've run since my last blog post. One hundred and fifty miles of pleasure and pain. One hundred and fifty miles of overcoming fears and embracing challenges, of laughter and tears, of jocular chats and sober conversations, of inspiration and encouragement, of new friends – and old chums, of astonishment and frustration and of many, many highs along with a few lows.
It's been an amazing journey and I feel fortunate to be on it. Recently, my physio asked what running meant to me. It gave me pause for thought. He said that for him the suffering and joy of doing triathalons humbles him. Not driven by ego, but by reverence. I'm holding on to that. Though, of course, as those who know me can attest, I also have a certain addiction to the drama of it all.
Which brings me to last Saturday's 22 mile run. The high was running with Juliette (another MS Trust runner) and a couple of her friends for the first time – along with some glorious seaside weather. The low was doing the last seven miles on my own and reaching my first wretched 'I can't go on' crisis. This wasn't the 'oh, I'm so tired and I hurt so much' scenario. This was the tears welling up in my eyes and the extreme disbelief in the power of moving forward. They always say long distance running is mostly about mental strength and I can concur how true this is. Of course, chancing upon a team of racy rugby players in the park was also an incentive. So that in the end, I did it. And the low became a high. A new personal record. A challenge achieved. A triumph.