What can I say?

Damn.

I couldn’t find my sister before the start, so I decided to start from the back and look out for her as I overtook everyone. If (as was the case) I missed her then I would meet her at her charity tent at the end.

The race went so well. I reached the eight mile mark with a big smile on my face, less than 60 minutes after the start. I’d passed two drinking stations without needing any water. I was on the pace for a finish in about 1 hour 35 minutes – maybe less. I was even thinking of upping the pace when I passed the eleven mile marker.

Then my knee went pop and I hit a pedestrian barrier.

The Red Cross volunteers (who hunt in packs like hyenas following gazelles across the African plains) pounced on me and dragged me off to their lair. They took my number, gave me a drink with isolitic thingies in it, and buried my knee in ice.

After five minutes I escaped and hobbled off to the next Red Cross station a mile along the road, where I beat up a knackered old man, threw him out of the last available chair, and demanded ice with menaces. They, too, took my race number and force-fed me isotopes.

The remaining Red Cross stations were at half mile intervals. With shame I admit that it took me ten minutes to reach each one, where I spent five minutes convalescing with iced isolated drinks. (Except the one with St John’s Ambulance volunteers from Darling Wifey’s old Girls’ High School – I spent a little bit longer there.)

As it happened, I did overtake my sister earlier in the race – and she caught up with me later… and then vanished into the distance…

I eventually hobbled over the line in a time even I am too ashamed to admit (although I confess that the last mile and a half took over twenty minutes,) and straight into the welcoming arms of the nearest Red Cross volunteer.

But I finished. I have my medal, and Little Nutter is proudly wearing my sweaty Thomas the Tank Engine running vest.