My third running of the Liverpool Half Marathon and my eleventh effort at 13.1 miles overall, you’d think I’d have seen it all by now. Nearly a decade on from my first ever half at the 2009 Great North Run, there’s been a bit of everything over the years, or so I thought anyway. But nothing quite prepared me for what I experienced last weekend on the 25th edition of this little race.
2020 has been the year of a few things. There’s the little matter of a global pandemic and everything surrounding it. It’s been a year of tragic, barely-imaginable loss and heartbreak. The year of lockdown, of not being able to visit any of our loved ones, our friends and family. The year of oh-so-many video calls, of virtual pub quizzes, of substituting sitting in the pub with your mates with sitting on your sofa and getting slowly inebriated while talking all over each other and trying to factor in a delay into the conversation. The year of working from home, of days of meetings over Zoom and Teams, feeling knackered at 5pm just by virtue of speaking into a camera for an entire day.
All of that, but also: it’s been The Year of the Run.