Runner's Words

Well, first of all, since I’m posting this in 2026 let’s get this out the way early doors: I did it. I ran a marathon, and then a week later I ran another half marathon.

I got a series of events over the line for, I think, the first time ever.

I received the biggest, chunkiest medal I have ever seen. Seriously, Olympic athletes have won smaller.

Most importantly, I raised nearly £800 for Moya Cole Hospice. I’m absolutely chuffed to bits with that. Thank you, everyone, for being so amazingly generous. If you wanted to add to this, there’s still time: (thank you, in advance!)

So with that out of the way let me regale you with how it all went.

Not long after midday on Sunday 5th October 2025, I stopped running after three hours, eleven minutes and thirty-three seconds. It wasn’t my fastest marathon, it wasn’t anywhere near my slowest either. It was just right. I judged it perfectly, making sure I got it over the line without feeling like I was dying for two hours (ahem, London 2018 and Boston 2023) and ensuring I ticked off the Chester Triple and justified all the incredible faith people had put in me with their sponsorship. But it hadn’t been entirely straightforward.

The week leading up to it created quite a bit of anxiety, on top of all the usual stuff about having to run 26.2 miles in one go anyway, thanks to Storm Amy lining herself up to slap us all silly over the weekend of the race. The forecast was cautiously optimistic that the worst of it should be over by Sunday morning, and certainly I was glad of the fact we weren’t racing 24 hours earlier when I got back from my Saturday shakedown run, soaked to the bone and freezing cold, before checking Race HQ’s social media and seeing photos of portaloos at the Chester race village blowing around all over the place. Would the race even have gone ahead had it been that bad on the day? We’ll never know I guess but I was thankful we didn’t have to find out.

Waking up on the morning of the race didn’t sound great outside though, and I ended up awake a good hour or two earlier than I needed to be, laying there tucked up in my lovely warm bed and growing increasingly anxious with the sound of the wind howling outside and rain lashing against the bedroom window. The forecast for the actual period I’d be running for seemed to change by the minute, veering from benign sunny spells to apocalyptic rain and wind and all the way back again every time I checked. Even Boston – notorious for its ridiculously random weather – wasn’t this uncertain so close to kick off and my raceday anxiety was probably the worst it had been for years. I just couldn’t work out the best course of action to take, convinced that whatever combination of clothing I chose to run in would be the wrong choice.

Happily once we’d actually arrived and parked up though, despite a few spots of rain about the place things were looking up. The wind had dropped, there were even a few patches of blue sky around and I finally made a call to ditch the extra layers and roll with it. It would prove to be the right decision.

With that uncertainty behind me I felt better about things, no longer feeling like I needed the loo every ten minutes and even starting to relax a bit despite the daunting challenge laying in front of me. I strolled over to the event village with my amazing wife who’d given up her Sunday morning to cheer me on (and then stand around for like three hours waiting for me to come back so she could do it all again), and after dropping my bag off and taking a few snaps to help promote the fundraising it was time to say an emotional goodbye and head up to the startline to see what No More Marathons: 2025 edition was all about.

A couple of minor hiccups before we set off kicked the anxiety back into gear a little, first of all realising the complete lack of phone signal was shafting the setup for my Garmin live tracker (essential for my wife to know when I’d be heading back into Chester), and then discovering that one of my only two caffeinated energy gels had started leaking immediately after I’d chomped the first one, a horrible gloopy mess seeping out all over the place. I had a quick decision to make which was to either eat it or bin it, the former potentially likely to add to the overall, ahem, “internal distress”, but I figured I’d get more from getting it down me and possibly stopping for a loo break than I would by chucking it away and not getting any benefit at all. It would again prove to be the right decision so with that all behind me, 9am seemed to come around way too quickly and before I’d had a chance to stretch or even think about what we were about to take on, we were all our way and The 2025 Chester Moyathon was up and running.

As is usually the way with a marathon – Boston being the notable exception – the first hour or so was pretty great. For a start, I saw my wife just before we crossed the River Dee heading out of the city which was lovely, only slightly ruined by me deciding that was the perfect moment to try and shout out a pointless message about uploading some photos to social media or some stupid bollocks that absolutely could have waited till later, and I don’t think I even fully conveyed it in the few seconds she was in earshot anyway. Way to ruin a moment. It would be the last time we’d see each other for over three hours.

Off I trotted anyway, out onto the country lanes of Cheshire and then, without realising, Wales, only noticing this had even happened when I saw ARAF written in massive letters on the road. I felt great though – the wind was keeping at bay, the rain hadn’t appeared yet. It was actually, unbelievably, mostly sunny. So far, so good.

The first sign of any kind of trouble came almost immediately after half distance, crossing the midpoint with just over 1:32 on the clock. Considering I felt like I was holding myself back a bit I was surprised at the pace; I’ve run all-out half marathons slower than that. Over a decade ago I was on 1:33 at this point on a flat out full marathon. It gave me a bit of a confidence boost before having a sudden – but thankfully brief – wobble when out of absolutely nowhere my right calf tightened and I had to stop and stretch it out a bit. Luckily just as quickly as it had appeared it vanished again and things were back on track. 13.1 miles to go.

The miles were steadily dropping off one by one, my pace and heart rate keeping remarkably consistent as we went on. I remember the absolute world of trouble I was in by this stage last time around for Boston but things were still bubbling along nicely here. Despite my lack of any sort of training plan, I’d obviously done what I needed to over my haphazardly organised (and occasionally boozy) Sunday long runs, and it was paying off in spades here, heading over the 20 mile mark without any significant problems and focusing on the final 10k ahead of me. All being well, less than an hour’s worth of running and I could be in the pub with my wife, a couple of shiny new medals, a pint of lager and a massive plate of chips. Eyes on the prize.

It did get quite a bit tougher from there but nothing too catastrophic. The fitness still felt good but my legs were starting to tighten a bit, the wind was ramping up in our faces (despite the forecast that had promised us a tailwind for the final leg) and the skies were beginning to gloom over with an unpleasant greyness sitting directly over Chester on the horizon. It’d also started to become a bit demoralising as the runners completing the metric distance (26.2km instead of 26.2 miles) were suddenly mixed in with us, and with it being mostly faster runners streaming ahead of us it felt like I was being left behind a bit, even though we weren’t even running the same race. I had flashbacks to Boston where I was in so much distress at this stage I was being constantly overtaken by the runners in the wave that’d started half an hour behind me. This wasn’t really the same situation, but it had the same negative effect on the morale.

Finally, signs of civilisation again as we headed back into Chester, running briefly alongside the River Dee and knowing the finishing line was close. Unexpectedly we suddenly veered away from the river and up a massive hill at around the 24.5 mile mark which was somewhat unwelcome to say the least but at least I got to put all that hill training to good use, I guess. And then when we got to the top we were suddenly jogging along the side of a busy A-road with loads of traffic, hardly any support, and for the first time in the race a bit of rain. The legs were beginning to seize up and even though I knew I had barely a mile left I was really struggling to get this thing over the line. I just wanted it to be over at this point.

The final stretch was absolutely wonderful though and one of my all time marathon highlights. Once we’d got off the fucking A51 it was a nice drop back down onto the riverside and we were suddenly on the home straight. The closer we got to the finish line the bigger the crowds and every time I waved, clapped, raised my arms or shouted back in appreciation, the noise grew. It was amazing. I knew my wife would be there somewhere too so I kept scanning the crowds to make sure I didn’t miss her, and then with only a few hundred metres to go there she was, whooping and clapping like mad, and as usually seems to happen when I see her at this stage of a marathon, my body and mind battered by the effort, I damn near burst into tears.

I crossed the line, still on an emotional precipice, and stumbled around a bit trying to take it all in. I picked up my first of two medals, along with the super-swanky long-sleeved finishers’ jersey, and then headed off to pick up my Triple Medal. As soon as it was handed over I could barely get out the words to thank them, so close was I to going over the edge into floods of tears.

It’d been quite a morning. I grabbed my bag, changed out of my cold, sweaty kit and scurried to the pub as quickly as my broken legs could carry me for an emotional reunion with my one-lady support crew, along with an almost as emotional meeting with a pint of Cruzcampo and some of the best pub chips around. The recovery process had officially begun; I had another race to run in less than a week’s time.

A week later and it was time for the victory lap, if running 13.1 miles on shattered limbs constitutes a victory lap, but anyway. It was time to bring it all home and celebrate with the runners and supporters of Moya Cole Hospice, this year as one of the official charity partners meaning they had well over 200 runners out on the course as well as a massive cheer point just after the 11-mile mark to cheer us all home.

Somehow, despite not having a proper training plan, without really having any sort of plan, for the marathon, I’d made it through largely unscathed. Usually I can’t even look at a flight of stairs for a week, let alone walk down them, but by the Wednesday I was back out running again, albeit slowly. As we got closer to race weekend I felt more and more confident of getting it over the line, even if I had no idea how it would actually go. Just getting this one ticked off was the important thing though, it wasn’t about any sort of time pressure, any sort of killing myself for a PB or a high finishing position. As I said; this was the victory lap.

It went well. Despite the start area being just as chaotic as usual (plus the usual grumble about not getting an included finisher’s T-shirt at the end) it was a great morning out. The heavy mist around the place never really lifted as forecasted meaning it was a chilly one – especially at the end before I’d picked up my dry clothes – but it was great for running so I went out hard to see how the legs were, quickly realised what a terrible idea that was, and then sat up and enjoyed it as best I could, waving to the crowds (they’re always great for this race) and just generally enjoying the end of my 2025 racing.

The last couple of miles were especially great, passing the Hospice’s cheer point at the Four Banks in Chorlton and then – the legs really struggling by this point – seeing my wife on the home straight. That whole final stretch was pretty emotional, probably the first time I’d felt that way on a half, as the magnitude of what I was about to achieve sank in. Capping off one of my best ever years of racing, with a marathon and a half on successive weekends, and raising hundreds of pounds for charity by doing so. Quite the victory lap.

A nice little bonus greeted me when I got to the Hospice’s charity tent at the end, realising I’d come second out of all of their runners (although I later realised it was third as the guy who’d come in just after me had actually run a faster time – fair play, I wish I’d been able to congratulate him at the time, had I known!). It was never about the finishing position at all of course, but it was still nice to be able to post about it on social media after the race and help the fundraising a little more as I ticked towards my current total of £795, all adding to Moya Cole Hospice’s massive overall total of nearly £70k. Not bad for a few hours work, eh.

So that was that, a line drawn under 2025’s racing. I – finally! – ticked off the Chester Triple, which delighted me no end (I know I keep going on about it, but the medal is genuinely amazing). All three triple races were run faster than expected, with the half in particular coming in around PB territory. I ran for charity for the first time since 2021 and was delighted with the response – seriously, thank you all so, so much for your incredible generosity. When times were hard over those two weekends in October it helped the motivation immensely knowing the incredible faith people had put in me, and the difference it’ll make to Moya Cole Hospice to help them keep doing their amazing work for people with caring for people with cancer and non-cancer life-limiting illnesses, along with their families, friends and carers.

Thank you. x