Coniston 14: why run?

Running is something I’ve always done, whether it be on a football pitch, on a treadmill or out on the road, I don’t know why I love it so much, but I do.

My Mum has inspired me over the years to run on the road, as she’s entered many official races over the course of my life. It had always been a goal in the back of my mind to enter at least one and follow in her footsteps. 

Without trying to sound like a fitness coach or even someone who remotely knows what they’re talking about, I think running over a fairly long distance and up hills gives you a great sense of purpose, as well as wellbeing and the joy of overcoming something difficult. 

For me, there’s no greater pleasure than simply running in the Lancastrian countryside where I live: taking in the natural beauty, the birdsongs, and admiring how peaceful things can be—even if I’m struggling to keep running. 

As well as the obvious physical benefits, running genuinely does wonders for the mind. The myth of a ‘runners high’ is real, and the feeling of reaching the top of what you thought was an unconquerable hill is unmatched in most parts of a mundane day. 

Last July I entered myself in the Buenos Aires half marathon, hoping to finally get a finishers medal in a real race, and what better place to do it than my favourite city. 

However, for a lack of training, illness and buying running shoes online that didn’t agree with me, I never ended up even starting the race. A real crushing disappointment that I carried with myself for a long time. 

Over the autumn and winter months I’d gotten caught up in juggling University, work and trying not to get too down during the bitter cold, dark days. So as soon as the horrible northern weather took the slightest of upturn, I got back on the road. 

Firstly running to keep my sanity, as I got in better shape I thought I should probably make use of my ability to run and—finally—enter a race, this way I’d at least have something to show for running in the horrible 40 km/h winds and up never ending hill ascents. 

Picking a race to enter was easy, I only had one in mind from the very start: Coniston 14.

The race is a half-marathon which takes you right around Lake Coniston in the Lake District, an unbelievably tranquil scenic route, and also a race I’d watched my Mum run in 15 years prior. 

Everything felt right about this being my first official run. 

Training for it was as hard as expected, but I had run a few half-marathons in preparation so I felt fairly confident that I could achieve my goal of a sub 2 hour time. What I failed to take into account was as I set off I would get carried away in a shoal of people.

As I ascended up a hill out of Coniston village centre, it didn’t even feel as if I was running, more of just a constant flow with hundreds of people around me. This was a mistake. 

I felt good up until about mile 5, still feeling the tangible buzz of everyone around me which carried on lifting me down the road. It was at mile 6 I got into trouble.

I checked my strava and realised I was going a whole minute per mile quicker than I set out to do, in turn leaving me with very, very, little energy as I hit the halfway point. To make matters worse, as you reach the tip of the lake to head back towards the village you’re greeted with a lot of hills.

As I mentioned at the start, I’m not a professional, or even know what I’m doing when it comes to running.

 I carry my phone in my hand, whack on a football top and the same running shorts I’ve always had and just start running. However, I do feel as if I’m used to the pain that comes with it, this was something I’d come to realise wasn’t true at all. 

The stretch of road between mile 8 and the finish was the longest, more grueling stretch of awful asphalt concrete I’d ever step foot on. I’d never doubted my ability to finish the race until I was there, struggling to keep planting one foot in front of the other. 

As if things couldn’t get worse, at mile 11 you’re very kindly greeted by the steepest and longest hill on the course. If my legs weren’t weak through fatigue before, they felt weak through fear now.

I managed to climb the hill—slowly to say the least, but as I looked once again to my strava, I realised I was still on for my sub 2 hour time. Even though I had nothing left to give, I managed to push further, slowly plodding down the hill and getting a faint whiff of the finishing line.

In the distance I could hear the announcer reeling off finishers names as they ended their runs, I could yet only imagine the beauty of the feeling. I once again pushed myself further and deeper into my own pain as I entered the village, passing pedestrians and high-fiving kids who had their hands out. I turned the last corner and put my foot on the gas. I’m not sure if you could call it sprinting but it was what I was attempting. I started to well up at the sight of a huge red digital clock which read 1 Hour 58 Mins, I knew I was going to reach my goal, and I was overcome with emotion as I crossed the line.

I’m not sure if it was complete exhaustion, the fact I couldn’t believe I’d finish or a mix of emotion for how hard the months leading up to the race were, but in that moment as I collected my finishers medal, nothing else mattered. I cried with pure joy.