I hate the cold and I hate running.. or so I thought. At school I managed to evade physical education for the best part of my secondary career, mostly by learning to cry at the drop of a hat and to fake my parents’ signature with uncanny accuracy. At university I discovered Wednesday sports rather later than most, in that I attended the evening celebrations having not stepped foot on a pitch all day. I took up squash with a good friend of mine and we introduced a new vogue in small shorts and sweatbands, but never did we understand the rules. When I came to London I danced my way across the alcopop ridden floors of every bad club in zone 2. Finally in 2009, when everyone I knew started eating sushi and spending more hours in the gym than watching West Wing, I relented and I started running.

So… don’t laugh.

My brothers are heroes in the world of energy and exertion (at least in my eyes). They joined the gym around the same time that they had their chickenpox vaccines, they ride bikes to work, they run marathons, participate in triathlons and one of them has recently had his nose broken three times in the name of white collar boxing. Said brother sent me an email in february, outlining his next proposed challenge; The Polar Circle Marathon. Are you in? He said.

I’m not sure how it happened.. for just a short moment I took leave of my senses. And yes.. in appears I am.. IN.