How Stevie Mallan changed my life (maybe)

"The depression that I had been living with for the best part of the 1980s packed up and started to leave that night, and within a month I was better.Inevitably part of me wishes that it had been something else that effected the cure – the love of a good woman, or a minor literary triumph, or a transcendent realisation during something like Live Aid that my life was blessed and worth living – something worthy and real and meaningful. It embarrasses me to confess that a decade-long downer lifted because Arsenal won at Spurs in the Littlewoods Cup (I would be slightly less embarrassed if it had been an FA Cup win, but the Littlewoods!), and I have often tried to work out why it happened like this."

So wrote Nick Hornby in “Fever Pitch”. It's something I can relate to – except for me it's not a cup win for Arsenal at Spurs, it's a midweek league win for St Mirren at Queen of the South.

Towards the end of 2016 I was getting increasingly frustrated and down with life. On the face of it, there didn't seem to be much reason for that. I had a decent job which, for once, wasn't driving me too mad. I had a nice flat, loving family and no money or health worries. What did I have to be depressed about?

For some reason my love life – or lack of one – was becoming increasingly annoying. Why this was manifesting itself now is not clear as it was no more or less existent than usual. Perhaps it was because more and more of my mates were getting engaged, getting married and having kids. It was getting to me to the extent I'd constantly be losing sleep as I began to convince myself I was heading for a life of loneliness.

What I had probably wouldn't officially be categorised as depression, however in hindsight I know I should have sought help – be it by speaking to someone I know or a professional. The closest I got was when I looked at the health and wellbeing section of the work intranet and I ticked off the majority of the symptoms of depression, only to do absolutely nothing about it. That was stupid and I'd strongly advise anyone who finds themselves in that situation to take a different approach.

It's far better than the alternative. On a few late nights when I was driving home from meetings the demons would come out to play and I'd have some dark thoughts. It didn't get any more serious than “Would anyone really miss me if I'm gone?” - which was probably based on my belief that if I fell down the stairs it would be days before anyone came to check on me – but that was probably bad enough.

Not helping my fragile state of mind was the fact St Mirren were bad. I'm not talking about losing the odd game here and there, the sort of run of form that would have Manchester United fans calling for their manager's head. I'm talking about so bad it was bordering on being impressive. The team was on the verge of breaking the club record for most games without a league win with a run that stretched back to April.

This run had extended to early December and a failure to beat Queen of the South at Palmerston would see the record matched or beaten (I can't recall which). I don't normally do away or midweek games but as I live and work in Dumfries, this was effectively a home game. Given that Stephen Dobbie had effectively bodied Andy Webster into retirement when the sides last met, I was all set for history to be made.

Unsurprisingly, Dobbie opened the scoring. Kyle Magennis equalised with a scorcher, only for Dobbie to score again. In the second half, Ben Gordon equalised with a shot that seemed to hit off about seven folk as well as the pole in the middle of my vision and trundled into the net in slow motion. And that seemed to be that. Another game without a win. A new record.

And then Saints got a corner in stoppage time which, as is often the way, was cleared. The ball ended up with Stevie Mallan who, Hibs fans may have discovered, is a bit handy from long range. He hit it. It hit the post. It went in. This was such a shockingly seismic turn of events that at least two video clips of the goal stutter at exactly the same moment, as if the very fabric of the universe was being torn apart by the prospect of St Mirren winning. My pressbox celebrations weren't that much more restrained than the ones on the pitch and in the away end.

It would probably be pushing it to say that the sadness I'd been battling “packed up and left” that night. However, it was maybe the night it decided it was time to look out its bags, just in case.

I'd already planned a date with someone for a few nights after the trip to Palmerston. It was the first time we'd met in person and it seemed to go well in the romantic location of a drive-thru Costa. A second date the following week was the most I'd laughed and smiled in a long, long time. Just to prove things were changing for the better was that between these two dates, St Mirren won again. The sadness had been served with an eviction notice.

And so, aside from a return to form in January (that was Saints getting crap again rather than something going wrong with the relationship), things went from strength to strength. For the first time in years I was enjoying my personal life. I had met someone who was amazing, who I enjoyed spending time with and – even more remarkably – who felt similarly about me. The dark days of December were increasingly becoming a thing of the past. I was having great weekends, going places I'd never been before – despite living in Dumfries and Galloway for a decade. I was enjoying life.

And while this was going on, Saints were going on a remarkable run of form. Remarkably good, rather than the almost record-breakingly bad run that had added to my troubles. Midweek nights alone were often spent following progress online as Jack Ross' overhauled squad won another game that would have been a damage limitation exercise months before. Hibs, Dundee United and – perhaps most gloriously of all – Morton were demolished, the latter coming the same night I'd driven home from a meeting, the sort of drive that would bring the demons dancing out just months earlier. It also came just a few days after I'd been reduced to tears in the early hours of my birthday as Sergio Garcia finally, finally, FINALLY won a major – but that's another story.

The Great Escape

Things came to a head in May, exactly six months on from that night at Palmerston. A draw against champions Hibs would complete probably the greatest of escapes and ensure Saints survived – and thanks to Rory Loy's goal that's what happened. There were celebrations in the away end and in the pressbox once again. And two days later - so exactly six months on from when we first met – me and my girlfriend (a phrase I was still getting used to using) booked our first holiday together. The depression, if that's what it had been, wasn't being asked to pack its bags to come with us. Instead, it had been shot twice in the head, thrown in a bag with some concrete bricks and chucked in the Nith.

Just over a year on from that night in Dumfries, Saints were back at Palmerston. There was no Stevie Mallan this time but the Buddies were now challenging at the right end of the table. As if to prove just how much things had changed, this time they decided a headstart of two goals, rather than one, would be far fairer on Queens. Having provided this inside the first 10 minutes they decided it was time to get the finger out. Gavin Reilly scored twice before half time to level things up before Gary MacKenzie completed the fightback from a corner. Job done – and by early April the job really would be done as Saints romped to the title and promotion.

Champions

There were no exuberant press box celebrations this time (although I did nearly put my foot through the wooden wall when Reilly rattled in the equaliser) but I, like Saints, was in a much better place than I had been 12 months earlier. The relationship was still going strong, we had met each other's parents and were spending more and more time together. Work may not have been as good as 12 months ago but everything else was great.

I used to think Hugh Murray's goal against Stirling in 1998 was the most important I'd seen from a Saints player, however from a personal point of view I'm becoming increasingly convinced it was Mallan's at Palmerston. It seemed to be a turning point for but me and St Mirren. That goal was two years ago today – Saturday I'll be celebrating my two year anniversary with my wonderful, lovely , amazing girlfriend.

As I said, I've no idea what I had can officially be classed as depression or I was just feeling a bit down. Whatever, if you find yourself in a similar situation then please, please, PLEASE talk to someone. If you can't speak to a friend or relative then contact the Samaritans, CALM or one of the other many similar charities who do incredible work every day.

Don't just wait in the hope a midfielder will fire those dark thoughts on their way.

An award winning run

I'm in there. Somewhere.

I'd done a half marathon. I'd completed a couple of races in Dumfries. So surely a half marathon in Dumfries should be a doddle? Ah, if only life was so simple.

The race was at the end of September and had the added danger factor of any injuries picked up having a negative impact on my trip to Toronto a couple of weeks later. It also had the bonus of being within walking distance of my flat - although walking a couple of miles before and after you've run 13of them  is probably not a good idea. So I took the car, leaving ridiculously early to ensure I'd get myself a parking place.

Before that came the traditional attempt to freak myself out. Before the half marathon in Kirkcudbright I'd had a look for some details on Google and almost scared myself out of doing it. The obvious thing this time around was not to do that - so I did. I discovered it was a harder course than Kirkcudbright and the last few miles were pretty tough. Smashing. Oh, and I found the previous year's time of someone I knew and discovered they were much faster than I'd been at Kirkcudbright. Brilliant.

If only I could have been this calm...

What was the point in taking part? I was clearly going to make a fool of myself, struggle round the course and barely finished. The fact I regularly ran further than a half marathon distance at a good pace seemed irrelevant. This was a disaster waiting to happen. I went to bid the night before disheartened - and not just because St Mirren had lost. Again.

The weather wasn't great the following morning. Actually, that's not true. For running it was probably just about right - not too warm with the odd shower - however I could have done without the heavy rain ahead of the start which darkened my mood further. And, after arriving ridiculously early, I then freaked myself out further when I went to get changed and discovered I'd left my Lucozade and banana in the car. These were my comfort blanket. 10 minutes away from these was going to lead to disaster.

Where did it go?!?

Things brightened up when it seemed I was going to be able to listen to my headphones while I ran - podcasts with Chris Waddle and Dario Franchitti my preferred listening on this occasion. After the confidence-sapping exploits of the night before, my aim was just to get somewhere close to my Kirkcudbright time and under the two hour mark. Unlike the 10k earlier in the month, I'd at least eaten relatively properly the night before.

Off we went in the late September sunshine and I soon settled into a steady pace alongside a runner who, its fair to say, was a good bit older than me. We seemed to trade positions every half mile. When you're running in a race you soon think you must have missed a mile marker because there's no way it's this long since the last one. For once it was true as the six mile point had blown over in the wind.

Shame I couldn't run as fast as he drives.

Once we got some water just after half way I pulled away from my unplanned running mate - even though it was straight up a rather steep hill. Up to this point it had, literally, been all downhill and I assumed this was the extent of the uphill stuff concentrated into one go. For some reason I forgot that as the first few miles were downhill, and the last few miles were the same route in reverse, I still had some tough stuff to come.

Thankfully he wasn't singing Diamond Lights

Much to my surprise, I finished the Chris Waddle podcast around the 10 mile mark. I hadn't expected this. Given that it was only around 75 minutes, I was well on course to smash my Kirkcudbright time despite all my reservations. And the rain had cleared. This was going well.

Unfortunately, the penultimate mile was back uphill. Except it wasn't really a hill you could see, it was just an incline. Instead of thinking I was struggling with a hill, I thought my legs were getting rather tired (probably true). The 11th mile seemed to last forever and I was worried I was about to be passed. Eventually it ended and it was time to put the foot down. The end was in sight - metaphorically if not literally - and it was time to pick up the pace.

I almost, almost caught someone from the club but he pipped me by a few seconds. I didn't care though as I was still struggling to comprehend what was on the stopwatch. Going by the big clock I was somehow 10 minutes quicker than I'd been in Kirkcudbright. I couldn't believe it - and neither did many of the folk I talked to who knew what the courses were like. But it was true.

I was stunned. But I was also knackered. After showering and managing to get my car out of the car park (difficult considering I was trapped by the finish line) I went home and sat. And, for about an hour, did nothing. I was absolutely shattered. Eventually a big pizza and some cheesecake sorted that out.

Er, maybe not *that* big

It was my last race of the year. I'd smashed even the most optimistic targets I'd set for myself. Other stuff happened - track sessions, winter handicaps and the like - that aren't too exciting so I won't go into them. Instead, I'll round off this running journey with two more things.

First, the trip to Toronto. I had no injuries so all was fine. But more than that, it meant I could go running in a different country. Three mornings - including the first and last of my week long stay - I got up early (well, I was awake with jetlag) and ran a mile or so down to the edge of Lake Ontario and ran a few miles each way. It was tough - mainly because I kept stopping to take photos of my new surroundings. I covered about 1,000 miles in my first year of running but the 20 or so I did that week were my favourite. The sunrise on the final morning was amazing. And it made more space for breakfast.

The incredible sunrise in Toronto

Then came the embarrassing bit. The running club had an awards night and many of the prizes were voted for by members. The first I knew of it was when an e-mail arrived and, for a laugh, I wondered if I was on the shortlist - only to see I was nominated for two trophies. I could feel my face going red just reading it.

Not to worry, this surely wouldn't go any further. I didn't even mention it to anyone but my family. I went to the awards night fully expecting to have a good time - then was rather embarrassed to get the award for best male performance. Other people had taken part in proper, tough events and I was getting a prize because I'd knocked 10 minutes off my Kirkcudbright time in Dumfries. It didn't feel right - not that I turned down the trophy...

I feel like such a fraud!

So I'm still running (though a few niggling injuries have caught up with me just now). I got fancy new shoes for Christmas. I knocked another five minutes off my half marathon time in Stranraer in March. Going to jogscotland was one of the best things I did and I'd advise anyone to do the same. Happy running!

A runner runs on his stomach

Double fish and chips? What could go wrong?

There's a story about Jack Charlton's time in charge of the Irish football team. The night before a big game, he took the team to Harry Ramsden's, where they feasted on the sort of meal that would make the guy from Man Versus Food shudder. Then they went out and played the game. Unsurprisingly, they lost, much to the annoyance of the usually placid Roy Keane.

Despite the unsuccessful nature of this experiment, I decided it was worth further exploration. Not for me a nutritional meal involving pasta and protein the night before a race. Nope, the evening before the Doonhamer 10k in Dumfries I was out with a friend in a burger restaurant, stuffing my face with a three course meal. Plenty of carbs but not a lot else.

Can't see a problem with having this the night before a race

The 10k was my first race after my injury woes had wrecked my holiday plans. The running club had covered the course on the Monday night and it was relatively flat, apart from a challenging bit towards the end, but seemed to last forever. By this point I'd been back running for around a month so it shouldn't have been too much of a problem - until I decided to gorge on food the night before.

Unsurprisingly, I wasn't feeling my best as I got ready. I still felt pretty bloated and breakfast, water and Lucozade doing nothing to help the matter. All they did was ensure that I made many trips to the loo before the race itself. I'd been hoping, if I got a really good run, for 8 minute miles, which would see me home in around 48 minutes, but my physical state combined with how Monday's run had been did not leave me feeling too confident.

Another howitzer from Hitzelsperger

After the success of listening to a Graham Hunter Big Interview podcast during the Kirkcudbright race, this time I opted for another one with Thomas Hitzelsperger. Fortunately headphones were allowed and after several attempts to take a group photo of the club members (there were around 50 of us so it was quite difficult) it was time to get underway.

The route was along the River Nith in Dumfries, crossing over several times. At various points there was music which was nice, even if it did drown out what I was trying to listen to. Again I took things easy at the start - glad not to befall the fate of one club member whose shoelace came undone - and settled into a rhythm alongside someone who seemed to be going at a similar pace.

This river would be crossed many times

We hit a problem at one of the river crossings, which used a rather narrow footbridge. At this precise moment an old chap decided he was in desperate need to cross the bridge, which threatened to hold us up before we just managed to edge him out (thankfully without pushing him over the bridge, although it was considered).

At half-way it was time to take on some water and, with the previous night's burger working it's way through my system, time to pick up the pace. Gradually I began reeling in other folk from the club who I thought were much faster than me, yet I was able to pass them and pull away with ease. The hill towards the end wasn't really a problem, partly because it was quickly followed by a hill back down, and then it was on to the finish line at the park.

As I came on to the home straight I upped my pace again, determined not to let anyone pass. Despite not being very long it seemed to last forever, however as I came towards the line I was shocked to see the first part of the clock show the race time as 46 minutes. Surely that couldn't be right?

These things are fairly reliable, you know

Incredibly (although perhaps not surprisingly, it is a clock after all) it was indeed correct and I crossed the line in 46:30, well below what I'd optimistically aimed for. I was 59th, comfortably in the top third of a field of nearly 200, and finished ahead of lots of other folk from the club.

So there you had it. Burgers, chips, chocolate brownies and onion rings the night before a big race can work after all - but I had no intention of repeating that approach for Dumfries Half Marathon at the end of September a few weeks later...

A pain in the arse

Darren Anderton - a man not unfamiliar with the misery of injury

Six months in and this running thing had been going well. I'd exceeded all my expectations when it came to speed, distance, stamina and how I performed in races. I was enjoying iy more than I thought I would, I wasn't useless and I was going fine at the club.

With a fortnight off from work coming up in July I sorted out my plans. I contacted a running club in Paisley to ask if it was OK to come along when I was in the area, which it was. I was planning to spend a few days in Edinburgh so looked at possible running routes in the capital. Parkruns - organised three-mile runs every Saturday morning - weren't available in Dumfries for adults, but there was one in Linwood I'd be able to do. Everything seemed fine.

And then it was all ruined by a massive pain in the arse.

This may have indirectly caused my pain

The weekend before my last working week ahead of the holidays I went for a run, then watched Andy Murray win Wimbledon for a second time. The following day I felt a weird pain in my backside I hadn't felt before. It wasn't that sore, just there, niggling away. I put it down to the way I'd been sitting watching the TV, which isn't the most sensible position, and didn't let it affect my plans.

I'd decided that week to go to the Tuesday running club session, rather than the Monday. I can't remember why - maybe the forecast was better, maybe it was more challenging - but, aside from a run in Ae Forest a few weeks earlier, it was due to be my first time at the more advanced night. Unfortunately, amidst reassurances it would be on despite there being a race in Moffat the same night, only two other folk turned up. After waiting for 10 minutes we all agreed to go home.

I should have taken this as a sign that I wasn't meant to run that week and I should go home and rest. But I didn't. And so, as I sat chortling away at Celtic's inability to beat Lincoln Red Imps, I brought forward my plans to meet someone for a pre-morning run the following day rather than Thursday as originally planned.

Imagine losing to a motorbike display team

The first few miles weren't too bad, but as we continued I could feel the pain getting worse. And worse. And worse. I could barely walk, let alone run, the last mile or so back to my flat. Standing talking to my neighbour for 10 minutes before I could get in for a shower didn't really help.

Work was a nightmare. Every time I tried to walk around the office I was in agony. I'd had the problem with my knees a few months earlier, but this was a whole new ballgame. The following day - the last before my holiday - it seemed the pain was easing. Whatever the problem was, it seemed to be loosening. I wasn't going to be running any time soon, but I foolishly thought this was a problem that would clear up in a week or so.

Wrong. Instead of my holiday being parkruns and lovely jogs along Edinburgh's canals, I was reduced to limping around, wolfing down ibuprofen and sitting on hot water bottles and ice packs in a bid to cure the problem. At the end of each day the pain would almost have vanished but come the morning it quickly returned. I'd go for a walk and think it was getting better but five minutes later the pain would be as bad as ever. The first day wandering around Edinburgh left me feeling raw - although saying I had a raw backside might get me some different blog visitors than usual...

A haggis supper. Perfect nutritional intake if you're an injured sportsperson

One of the main benefits of running was it meant I could eat what I want and not have to worry too much about putting on weight. That became a problem when I was injured - especially when I was on holiday and had more opportunities to eat than normal. The Edinburgh weekend was the biggest problem. A Chinese was followed by a haggis supper which was followed by a massive pizza. All on different days, I'm not that bad! With me eating more than normal and doing sod all exercise, I could feel the pounds piling on by the hour.

By the end of my fortnight off I hadn't run a single mile, although I'd done a fair bit of walking (which was probably why my injury wasn't healing). I was also getting pains elsewhere, leading my brother to compare me to injury-prone footballer Darren Anderton, who has the nickname Sicknote. I was dreading the return to work, not just for the usual reasons but because the first week in August always involves covering a farming show. For some reason, it's probably the job I hate most all year.

In the build-up to it, I'd felt my injury getting better - to the extent I almost thought about going back to running club before getting roped into a pub quiz team. In a bid to get to farmers and their animals, the show can involve a bit of running and climbing over the odd fence. The first time I did that I felt the pain in my backside come flooding back, and not because I'd been attacked by a cow.

Fortunately this did not happen to me

I was devastated. That evening, as I tried to sleep, I was close to tears as I came to the realisation I was possibly back to square one. I'd hoped to ease myself back running again that weekend with a parkrun but there was no chance now. I decided to seek professional help, something some people would say was long overdue.

I looked into going to a physio, then discovered it cost a small fortune. So I came up with a plan, which was either incredibly smart or incredibly stupid. I would go to running club, do the warm-up and if I felt bad I'd stop and arrange an appointment. If it felt OK I'd continue. If I was going to have to pay for treatment, I was going to get value for money by properly wrecking whatever muscle was causing me problems. Somewhere in my tiny brain, this made sense.

How my brain works

The time came. The warm-up arrived. I felt the pain get slightly worse, but decided I'd give it a go anyway and went for the four mile group to, ahem, ease myself back in. The pain didn't get too bad - always present but never unpleasantly so - and the physio could wait.

Over the week I tried to go back to my old routes and distances, gradually building it up rather than flying back in with long runs. Was the injury gone? No. Was it bearable? Yes. If I wasn't stupid, I could go running and I could manage the pain without any problems. To be honest, nearly six months on, the pain still isn't completely away - it just comes and goes and as long as I'm not stupid I can get away with it. I probably do still need to get some help but I'll wait until I properly wreck it again.

I was annoyed I'd had to sit out a month without running, especially as it was the summer and the weather was (in theory) better than in winter, when I'd started. However, there was no point looking back, it was time to look forward, to get back to proper running, to shift some of the weight I'd put on with all that haggis and ice cream and start targeting some races.

How Peter Beardsley got me through my first half-marathon

What a handsome man

With my first race under my belt, it was time to decide what to do about Kirkcudbright at the end of May. With two races on offer and me still a pretty inexperienced runner, it made sense to do the shorter one. So obviously I wanted to do the longer one.

There's a fair difference between 11.2k and 13.1 miles. I'd never run as far as that before, the most I'd done probably being around the nine miles I'd managed in Paisley a few months earlier. I remember hearing when I was younger that folk training for a marathon never do the full 26 miles in a training run before the race itself. So obviously I ignored this advice and decided to see whether I could do the half-marathon distance before committing myself.

I worked out a course in Dumfries and set off. I was absolutely done in by the end but managed slightly more than half-marathon distance and within two hours as well. Do that in Kirkcudbright and I'd be delighted. I left it as long as I could before committing to ensure my injuries didn't spring up again and signed up. No going back now - although at least I wouldn't have to cover the event for work. Hopefully I wouldn't end up as a story by collapsing just before the finish line, not that that's happened to anyone I know. Ahem.

A fun-sized (possibly a half) marathon

After signing up, I thought I better do some research about what to eat, how to tackle a half marathon and other helpful advice. This seemed like a good idea but instead had me terrified. The Kirkcudbright course was very hilly. There were a variety of different things you should have for breakfast with no two articles the same and many mentioning things I hate to eat. I went with the one that said you shouldn't change anything before the race and just had my usual Cocoa-Pops with some toast and a banana (which I hate) chucked in for good measure.

If doing some research turned out to be the worst idea since David Cameron thought a referendum on EU membership sounded like a giggle, choosing to car share with other people from the running club turned out to be a great move. As I binge-drinked/dranked/drunk Lucozade Sport I was given some helpful advice from folk who'd done it before, including that if I felt there were times I had to walk instead of run then do it at the water stops and it would be easier to drink. This was ridiculously obvious and yet something I hadn't thought of before. Although they kept saying it was hilly, which was not so helpful.

Jelly Babies - fuel of champions.

Once we got to Kirkcudbright I continued to force as much Lucozade into me as possible and ate another banana while cramming my pocket with Jelly Babies. Even though there was more than an hour until the race started, the time seemed to pass quite quickly. I made several trips to the loo and tied my laces numerous times to make sure they wouldn't come untied during the race. Finally, 1pm arrived and off we all went.

It was warm. It was very warm, to the extent that an extra drinks station was added along the route. The half-marathon course differed to the 11k in that it went round the town's old High Street to start with, which was great with folk cheering you on. Across the bridge out of town, there was a sign encouraging us to wave to race founder Harry Marland who was in the old folks' home (and sadly passed away a few days after the race). And then we were out into the country and on our own.

The High Street - minus the runners and crowds.

I'd started off fairly steadily and for the first few miles it was flat. I regularly found myself thinking I must have missed a mile marker but sadly not. A few miles in we turned away from the coast to head over the hills to Twynholm, childhood home of former F1 driver David Coulthard. Rather than being lots of up and downs it just seemed to be a steady incline, which I seemed to cope with fine.

I was able to pass a few folk including some military types, which gave me great pleasure. Being beaten by some Dutch guys who kept stopping to take pictures did not. The run to Twynholm was also notable for being the only place outwith cartoons where I have seen a pile of dung on a farm with steam coming off it, just what you need when you're gasping for breath.

Sadly I wasn't quite as fast as him...

Runners had to do a lap of the village and it was a bit demoralising getting there, looking across and seeing a host of folk who had already done that and were on their way back to Kirkcudbright. I'd been warned that the hill in Twynholm was the last of them and after that it was downhill and on to a flat run to the finish. It was over in a few minutes and I didn't see what the fuss was about. I opened my Jelly Babies, deciding that managing more than half the race before doing that was a huge moral victory.

What was helping me - in terms of fighting off boredom and ensuring I couldn't hear my breathing - was my podcast choice. I'd found Graham Hunter's "The Big Interview" series handy for running as they were quite lengthy and had chosen one with Peter Beardsley for the race. At an hour and 40 minutes it would take up most of the run, although I did burst out laughing at his tale that Kevin Keegan was thinking of playing new signing Tino Asprilla as he'd only had a couple of glasses of wine.

And not a glass of wine in sight.

My aim was to try to be past the 11 mile marker before the podcast finished. If I could do that, I knew I'd be on course to finish inside two hours. Whenever anyone asked me what my target was, I replied I didn't really have a time in mind and I just wanted to finish. This was a blatant lie. I'd done under two hours on my training run and wanted to do that in the proper race. It was with a mixture of delight and relief I passed the 11 mile mark just as the podcast was winding up.

I'd been warned not to think I was nearly finished just because I was getting back into Kirkcudbright. The finish line was on the other side of the town, a good two miles away, so there was no point in putting the foot down too early. I made my move once I got past 12 miles, putting my foot down as Greenday and The View (who, coincidentally, I was to see a few days later) spurred me on, passing folk all over the place as I closed in on the finish. I was surprised to discover that there were still quite a few folk there and they hadn't all gone home.

So tired I had no idea which way to look.

An even better surprise was in store. I already knew I was under two hours, I just didn't know how much. I managed it in one hour 51.46, which I was delighted with (although soon found myself thinking I could have sneaked under the 50 minutes) and came in 93rd. Making it into the top 100 was fantastic and as there were more than 200 runners I'd sneaked into the top half of the field. I had another hated banana to celebrate.

Some of the other members of the club congratulated me, which was nice considering I was much slower than them to the point they were showered and changed by the time I finished. Me and a few other folk who had completed their first half marathon were also singled out for praise at the Monday session, which I found embarrassing - although not as frustrating as being bursting for the loo all the way back to Dumfries as I'd drunk loads of water and hadn't.. well, work out the rest for yourselves.

The prospect of this is what kept me going!

My motivation was waiting for me at home. Not some loving relative or the knowledge that I was helping out a worthy cause, rather a lot of food for my tea. And I mean a lot, which probably more than cancelled out the calories I'd burned off. After completing such a lengthy race, I thought the following day was the ideal time to finally tell my parents about my new hobby - well, I had to explain the sunburn somehow...