I remember the first time I ever ran more than about a mile. From the age of about 12 all the pupils at the Bishops school in Hereford shared with me in the mutual hatred of the annual cross-country run. It may have been about 3 miles at the most but it felt like back-to-back marathons to us all at the time. It was the only time I tried to use my asthma as an excuse not to do the physical education class. To no avail. The sports master, Mr Escot, knew full well that I could cope with 90 minutes of rugby training so I wasn't about to escape a tiny little cross-country. I was never very quick. In fact, over 100m I was one of the slowest boys in the whole school. At no more than 5 feet tall and moderately overweight, I was in the "quite-fit-for-a-fat-lad" category, but certainly not quick off the starters blocks. My lack of speed in the sprints was a cause of some amount of shame to me so I'd volunteer to run events like the 1500m, generally because I'd at least look somewhat sporty managing to run the whole thing without walking.
I also remember the first time I decided to run semi-regularly. I was 18 years old and I'd signed up to go on a mountaineering expedition in Norway during the summer. The expedition guidelines stated that all participants should be comfortable running for an hour or cycling for 3 hours in order to be fit enough to complete 3 weeks up in the Norwegian mountains. I worked my way up to about 3 miles and decided to time myself on the same route to track my progress as I got quicker. Some time recently I found my old time sheets. There were 3 different runs tracked, with dates, times and approximate heart rates showing at least a moderate increase in speed over the months of training. The feeling of improving performance, of pride in becoming fitter in some measurable way, of pushing myself a little harder each time I went out - these were the first seeds of a fledgling interest in running that started me on the road to where I am today.
The next big step up in distance came in the first few weeks of University. On a cold, wet Sunday evening in October in St Andrews, I agreed to head out for a run with my new friend Owen, just for fun and a bit of friendly banter. I was aware that Owen was, and is, a seriously good runner but my naievety meant that at no point did I think to ask how far we might go. After somewhere close to 25 minutes of running in the same direction it dawned on me that I must be storming past my previous longest effort of around 3 miles and so I asked what he had in mind. "Probably just a quick 7 miles - is that alright?" was the response. At the time all I could think of were the 2 competing offers I had been weighing up that evening: a run or a trip to the pub, and specifically how poor my decision making had become lately. I did make it through 7 miles that day without walking (or crying) and I remeber the strongest feeling was surprise. I was tired and sore, but mostly surprised at myself that I could run nearly twice as far as I thought I could.
Since then I've been a pretty regular runner. Encouraged by Owen and a couple of other running friends at the University I ran maybe twice a week for most of my six years there. Typically I would head out either with Owen or just by myself for somewhere between 3 and 10 miles, without really aiming for any set times or goals. I learned to enjoy running for running's sake. There were no track sessions, no training plans, just a desire to get a bit fitter and join in with some of the other guys.
