*** Update ***

It’s hard to know where to start looking back on our journey to the finish line in Tallinn. This Ironman adventure began long before Saturday’s start line and has held deeper significance on a personal level than I thought any race ever would.

The day itself was hell on earth. The start was delayed by an hour due to dense fog, which meant it was impossible to see a thing in the swim. Cramp struck just 30 minutes in - followed immediately by a blow to the back of the head from a fellow swimmer - and, disorientated, I managed to swim more than an extra 100m for good measure, much of it with only one functioning leg.

With 222km left to go, I spun my legs as fast as they would physically go on the bike, desperately praying that the additional blood flow would help ease the cramp that had taken full control of my lower body. An hour-and-a-half into the cycle the plan seemed to be working and for a couple of hours I actually enjoyed zipping along the Estonian countryside.

That joy was short-lived. The forecast had threatened light showers but a storm of biblical proportions descended. Cue more than two-and-a-half hours of gale force wind and relentless rain. My body freezing cold and legs barely able to muster the energy to pedal. The final 30km of the cycle, heading straight into a headwind and joining other cyclists in being swept dangerously back-and-forth across the roads, was truly traumatic.

I wasn’t sure I would make it out for the run. I couldn’t stop shivering and had to fight the overwhelming urge to throw in the towel. A marathon in this storm just felt a bridge too far. Defeat felt inevitable.

Instead, I huddled with a bunch of men with chattering teeth, removed my drenched socks, wrapped a space blanket around my shoulders and thought “F-it. Let’s give it a go.”

To my great surprise, for the first 15km I felt unstoppable and, despite being sopping wet, surprisingly comfortable. But - with the universe determined to not let me enjoy the day - my stomach decided that it would follow the heavens in opening, forcing me into a hobble and requiring frequent stops at every aid station to squeeze in and out of a drenched trisuit.

Like my soul before it, my tracking chip then died meaning friends and family had no way of knowing where I was on the course. But our gang of supporters waited in the unrelenting rainstorm to cheer us on and over the line. The end of the ordeal was a moment of true euphoria and relief.

Throughout the day’s trials, I drew on Olly for inspiration. When I felt the cramp came on, I thought about everything he had taken in his stride and placed what I knew would be hours of pain into perspective. When I wanted to quit after the cycle, I was reminded of how he always kept going. So I forced myself to smile through gritted teeth (and even dance) as I set out on the run.

Olly had already helped me through a second knee surgery in ways he didn’t realise. Travelling together in Bruges with his father David and brother George, just months after going under the knife, I saw first-hand how Olly had dealt with his own - far more significant and life-altering - surgery get him down and he just carried on. As he always did. It really put my own wallowing and self-loathing into perspective and privately I knew I was going to build towards something really special.

I articulated my plan to one of my truly great friends, Jamie, several months later. I had been testing my knee over the summer and finally had confidence I could take on long distances again.

He needed little convincing and by September we had signed up to Tallinn. Throughout the whole process, Jamie has been an incredible support. His levelheadedness is in direct contrast to my erratic nature. He has been the most fantastic sounding board throughout the past nine months of training and we have built some incredible memories together on the road and in the water from Nottingham, Ipswich, the Isle of Wight, Birmingham, Coventry and, of course, Estonia. Not to mention the journey to Tallinn itself where we crossed Europe in the most creative way imaginable via bike-train-ferry-taxi-bus—bike-taxi-cruise-bike-ferry (we are currently in the midst of the reverse journey). He delivered a truly unbelievable sub-11 Ironman on the day, which in those conditions is just staggering.

We have received so much support along the way, not least from our amazing Tallinn squad of Mia, Maz, Lizzie, Michele, Dad and Will. Having you all there meant the world and we are lucky to have people willing to stand in 7 hours worth of storms just to cheer us on.

Greg, Mark and the Hard & Smart team have been truly incredible in getting someone with a childhood phobia of cycling and with dodgy knees to ride 180km and then run a marathon - they truly equipped me for every nightmare scenario faced along the way and made me secure that I had success in me regardless of what was thrown in my direction.

If you’re considering doing an Ironman (haven’t I made it sound fun?!), my main advice would be to build up to it a bit more slowly than we did! If you’re not already, get comfortable with open water swimming (something I didn’t master) and swimming with lots of people around you (conditions that are very hard to replicate outside of events). Also be aware that this is far from

a cheap endeavour (although you can definitely do it on more of a budget than our elaborate plans).

Even with the perfect preparation things will inevitably go wrong (and then some!), so the most important thing is to dig deep when it really matters. In finding that inner resilience, more than anyone else, I have Olly to thank. I’m so proud to have raised more than £3,500 in his memory already. Thank you so much to everyone who has already donated, it really means the world.

Total time: 13.33.00

3.8km swim: 1.27.47

180km cycle: 6.52.07

42.2km run: 4.48.46

Transitions: 0.24.20

And remember, if you feed The Drog, he will always score 👐🏊🚴🏻🏃

*** Story ***

On 22 August I'll stand on the shoreline in Tallinn, Estonia, preparing to swim 3.8 kilometres before cycling 180km and running a marathon. It will be the biggest physical challenge I've ever attempted. But however difficult the day becomes, I'll already know where to look for inspiration. I'll be thinking about my friend, Olly Adams.

I only knew Olly during the final years of his life, after becoming friends through his brother George. Like many friendships, ours revolved around football. We followed Aston Villa across Britain and Europe, sharing the unforgettable high of Bruges and plenty of considerably less glamorous afternoons wondering why we put ourselves through eternal torture. What I'll remember most, though, wasn't the football. It was Olly's dry wit, his razor-sharp intelligence and his refusal to surrender an argument, particularly if it involved Aston Villa. Even when you knew you weren't going to win the debate, you somehow enjoyed losing it.

Behind all of that was something that most of us can scarcely imagine. Olly had lived with a rare brain tumour for seven years. There were setbacks that would have overwhelmed many people. Yet he met them with a resilience that was never performative or self-pitying. He simply carried on living. Simply carried on being Olly.

In his final days, his family sat by his bedside watching a Villa match while he slept. Hearing one of them praise the much-maligned Ollie Watkins, Olly suddenly bolted upright.

“He's rubbish!"

Then he lay back down and went straight back to sleep.

Working in health and care policy, I spend much of my professional life thinking about how healthcare systems improve people's lives. It's easy to talk about research, innovation and investment in abstract terms. Knowing Olly made those conversations deeply personal. During the final years of his life, he and his family received outstanding care from the team at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. Supporting the QE Brain Tumour Fund isn't just about funding research into new treatments. It's about giving families more time together, improving care for future patients and creating hope where, too often, there isn't enough.

There was one final piece of footballing cruelty. Only weeks after Olly passed away, Aston Villa finally ended a 30-year wait for a major trophy. I travelled to Istanbul with his brother George and father David to watch Villa lift the Europa League. It was an unforgettable night, but there was an unmistakable sense that someone was missing. Olly should have been there, probably reminding us that despite the 3-0 win, striker Ollie Watkins was still his usual wasteful self.

Earlier this year I completed my first Half Ironman in Nottingham. Five minutes into the swim I lost my goggles. Soon afterwards the cramp began. I'd love to say I handled six-and-a-half hours of cramp with the same humour Olly showed through seven years of illness. I certainly didn't. But whenever I felt sorry for myself and thought about quitting, I found myself thinking about him instead.

Tallinn will demand far more: nearly 4km in the water, 180km on the bike and then a marathon to finish. There will certainly be moments - as there have been throughout gruelling months of training - when I wonder why I signed up for any of it.

When those moments come, I'll think about Olly. I'll think about someone who kept putting one foot in front of the other through challenges infinitely greater than anything an Ironman can throw at me. Someone who continued to laugh, to argue passionately about Aston Villa, to travel, to enjoy life and to make everyone around him better for having known him. If I cross the finish line, it won't simply be because of months of training. It'll be because one remarkable friend changed the way I think about resilience.

I'm proud to be raising money for the Queen Elizabeth Brain Tumour Fund in Olly's memory.