Part 1: The Couch to The Great North Run
In August 2013, I decided to take up running. I didn’t have a plan, or a goal – just a gut feeling that something had to change.
I work in IT, so not much physical movement in the day. After a steady climb on the scales, 14 stone on a 5-foot-8 frame made it clear: time to do something.
I’d tried the gym before. Didn’t stick. So I figured I’d give running a go – no idea why. At school I happily sprinted the 100 or 200 metres, but cross country? Absolutely not. Distance running was always something I avoided.
But still, I picked running. Cheap. Accessible. And I was determined.
So, with my new “accessible and inexpensive” sport chosen, I grabbed what I thought I needed: some basic trainers, a pair of shorts, and a cotton tee (I know, I know). If I’d known better, I’d have started with some proper running shoes – but more on that later – and headed out the door.
No plan. No pacing. I figured I needed to be out for an hour or it wouldn’t count. (Turns out I managed 49 minutes of walk/run, covering 3.5 miles at an average pace of 13:47/mile. I was chuffed.)
The next morning, I felt fine. No soreness. No stiffness. With that confidence, I lined up another run for lunchtime. But by mid-morning, I noticed pain in my foot. Just a niggle – annoying, but not worrying.
Still, I’d become a “runner” overnight, so I ignored it. Trainers back on, out I went again.
This time, I started faster, held it longer, and was feeling smug… until the pain returned. I was about a third into the route, and my foot was screaming. But I was determined – I pushed on. Another 2.8 miles logged, about 40 minutes.
By the time I got home, I was limping. I genuinely thought I’d fractured something.
I was airlifted to the hospital I got in the car and drove myself to A&E.
Not being a frequent flyer in the A&E department, I forgot how long you can sit between triage and doctor. Eventually I got seen, explained I’d just picked up running, and now my foot felt wrecked.
The doc gave it a look, a poke, a prod, and sent me for an X-ray – just in case.
Hours later, results were in: no break. No swelling. No bruising. His verdict? Strained ligaments. My punishment? Rest, ibuprofen, and a big old helping of “told you so.”
My first bit of running advice came right there in A&E: “Stop trying to go too far, too fast.”
I asked how long I’d be out. “Four weeks,” he said.
Brilliant. Two runs in, and I was already benched.
I went home, sulked a bit, took my painkillers, and – importantly – didn’t give up.
The Couch to The Great North Run Series: