That’s quite a long way… You sure?

Life, for all of us, consists of ups and downs, joy and glumness, and a fair few triumphs and disappointments. Maybe also, a smattering of ill-advised ventures that, once embarked upon, it quite rapidly becomes apparent that it would have been a better idea never to have started.

Picture the scene – a Norfolk coastal village pub, wherein I and a group of friends where whiling away a summer evening, in the early 1980s. I had returned from operations with the Royal Marines and was spending a week doing not much. Come closing time, and replete with a few beers, our rather merry band of boys and girls set off back along the path behind the dunes, which would take us through the outskirts of the village to the cottage where we were staying. It was still a warm evening, with a gentle breeze coming off the sea. At some point, one of my friends – I shall call her Sarah, principally because that’s her name – piped up with…

“It’s really warm – let’s have a swim before we go back..!”

“Yeah – why not? Brilliant idea – let’s go…!”

Near-universal agreement, and down we tumbled onto the beach in the darkness, and, in that manner so beloved of TV sitcoms, began to disrobe. I should add that the Royal Marines do have a thoroughly well-deserved reputation for ‘getting their kit off’ at the slightest provocation, and I once again demonstrated this to be so. Much giggling and slightly self-conscious laughter ensued, along with the customary male banter to mask any embarrassment… “Don’t wade in too deep, mate – the fish round here eat small white grubs..”

Off we trotted, down the beach towards the water’s edge.  And trotted. And trotted… And just kept trotting into the inky darkness, only occasionally passing the odd briny puddle.

I do have to say, you’d have thought that, having been trained as a Commando officer, at great expense to Her Majesty, not to mention also being a geography graduate, I might have some slight grasp of how tides work. The tide was out and in Norfolk (suppress your wish to yell “Norfolk Enchants!”, apparently a nag once belonging to Wayne Rooney) that means miles out.

You’d have thought I’d have known that, wouldn’t you? Not for the first time in this sorry escapade, you’d be disappointed.

After bimbling, naked, in the general direction of the Netherlands for five minutes, cheery chatter diminishing with each step, we decided this was actually a bit silly and we’d knock it on the head, and turned round to trudge back to retrieve our clothes. 

At this point, your disappointment with how much expensive training sinks into the brains of young officers (or perhaps, this particular one) will reach a new nadir. Throughout that training, we had practised route memorisation and we’d done all the navigation stuff. Checking landmarks and lights, and reference points – that stuff. But, I’m ashamed to report, that counted for nothing as we stood forlornly on that beach realising we (or more precisely, I) had not got the foggiest idea where our clothes were.

Took nearly an hour to find them, by which time we were sober, cold and very regretful. We didn’t try it again.

I was put in mind of that daft escapade when I decided, with reckless abandon, to embark on Cancer Research UK’s “Run 62 Miles (or 100km) in July Challenge”, thinking little of what lay ahead.

Here’s the thing. When it happened three years ago, I was immediately accepting of my diagnosis. Cancer had got a hold of me, and “sorry, mate – there’s no escape”. I had the reassurance of the powerful chemo regime of hormone therapy, which keeps my PSA score bumping along, almost off the bottom of the register and indicating no cancer growth, albeit with unpalatable side effects. It was now a matter of time, but as I’ve said before, it’s actually a matter of time for every one of us. What is important is what you do with that time.

Although I have been accepting of the diagnosis (I saw no alternative that wouldn’t cause distress), I have never accepted that I have lost control over how cancer will affect me. What do I mean by that?

Well, I never describe myself as “fighting cancer”. That’s what the oncologists, surgeons, radiologists, doctors and nurses are there for. In fact, I am actually the battleground on which the fight takes place. This is where that issue of control comes in. I do have the ability to try to influence that battleground (that’s to say, my own portly frame) to give the medics the best opportunity to continue their struggle and to make it more difficult for cancer to do it’s nasty work.

To date, that’s meant eating sensibly (moderately successful), cutting back on the sauce (moderately unsuccessful) and going to the gym (must try harder). I wasn’t running though. As a former runner (not exactly one who would set the world alight, as those of you who’ve seen me run can attest, but one who’d made friends, got healthy and had enormous fun from running), this was particularly frustrating and I was depressed when in September 2022, I had been unable to complete the Winchester Parkrun, feeling ill and completely exhausted, wisely being stopped by my long time running partner, Dr Steve Lawson.

I don’t say this as any form of self-promotion or conceit, but having previously had quite high fitness standards, and 10k and 5k times of 47:44 and 23:41 respectively in the last ten years, it was the stark contrast with where I now was, and the feeling of loss that was hardest with which to cope.

I closed the book in late 2022 on my running with a feeling of deep regret, but a realisation that it was probably for the best. I did however, completely unfairly, find myself feeling irrationally jealous of friends and even my own adult children, Emily and Charlie, who were running, wanting so much to be out there with them.

The situation has not been helped by the fact that amongst the side effects of hormone therapy are the unfortunate combination of loss of muscle mass and considerable weight gain. In just three years I’d put on 15lbs (nearly 7kg) and without wishing to sound self-pitying, none of this was good, and it felt like it was a slowly worsening situation, despite trying to eat and drink sensibly.

Then along came the 62 Mile Challenge.

I could see that, although this would be hard (indeed, as it turned out, harder than I expected), it might be a good way to get myself back into some sort of running, as well as the opportunity to raise a few quid for a worthy cause.

Early efforts were somewhat inauspicious – and the scale of what I had to do became painfully apparent. I was walking as much as I was running. After the first run where I actually ran the whole way, I felt a bit like that chap who went viral, trying his own homemade Limoncello… (worth checking out on YouTube (“homemade limoncello taste test”) if you’re not familiar – I feel I know him so well……..).

But gradually, I began to notice improvements. Muscles stopped hurting for a day after runs, I was running for longer, and my pace was increasing. Nothing dramatic, but getting better. Kilometre by kilometre, the target distance remaining was coming down. I even managed a reasonable time for my first 10k in three years – not going to trouble the Olympic selectors, but something I had previously been convinced was now beyond me. Since the last week of June, I’ve also managed to shed 10lbs (4.5kg), about which I’m actually rather chuffed, and intend to continue!

A happy by-product of the whole undertaking was, of course, to be raising money for Cancer Research UK. The reason why this is important is because, when you have incurable cancer, you can surrender to it, and accept your fate, or you can realise there are many reasons for happiness and lots of grounds for hope. I choose the latter way.

We’ll come back to happiness shortly, but one of the reasons to keep hoping is that developments and research are happening all the time, all over the world, and somewhere, someone is closing in on the cure that might save my life and the lives of so many others in the same boat. That research, that work all needs funding. At the very least, it will happen one day, perhaps with the help of AI, and the push we fund now will bring that day forward so that others will be saved.

I initially set the default target of £300, knowing that I’ve asked for sponsorship before, and it’s not fair to keep rattling a tin under people’s noses, however great the cause. To my astonishment, I met the target in 12 hours. I reset it to £500, which was passed in 48 hours.

To date, including a ‘match fund’ of £500 from my wonderful employers at Worldline, I am at £3553, plus Gift Aid. That has been a completely humbling experience, not least because there have been so many lovely messages accompanying people’s incredibly generous donations. I am incapable of finding the words adequately to thank everyone who has helped me to get there.

I mentioned happiness earlier. My purpose in writing these blogs (apart from the great pleasure I derive from doing so, which I fear might be a rather selfish reason) is to show that, at least for me, despite trying circumstances and difficulties, what shines through the experience of cancer is friendship, kindness, mutual support and care for the needs of others, and most of all, love. Despite the horrors we witness around the world, those qualities truly do define us as humans, and I have seen it so clearly since this disease chose me as it’s unwilling friend.

In the last month, those qualities have been embodied by so many people – my family, friends (some going back to childhood) and colleagues. Two people have stood out in their support and that has meant so much to me. My work colleagues and friends, Nick Tasker and Hannah Merion, were not asked, but simply resolved to come out and run with me in London in mid-July – getting up very early and making the effort – knowing that this was probably the hardest point in the month, and when I could most do with some help. Indeed, for the last 7.5km of the 100, Hannah again ran alongside me, with Nick away on vacation.

I have described them both as the most wonderful friends and colleagues on social media posts, and I have no wish to invite Nick to refer to me, once more, as a ‘soft bugger’ (he’s a blunt and direct man at the best of times) but they acted out of care, friendship and love and so perfectly epitomised everything I have tried to express about the best of us, in writing this series of blogs.

They both know how I feel about them – that’s because that knowing one’s life is limited by cancer has the effect of removing filters of self-consciousness and embarrassment in, I hope, a positive way.

However, I’m not certain that they will ever truly appreciate just how much what they did meant to me. I am truly privileged to count them as my friends, and by the most enormous luck, also my colleagues.

Thank you so much for reading.