Run of the Week: Week 1... Adam Widdrington

Taking on a challenge of this magnitude was always going to need an outrageous beginning to make sure my ‘game teeth’ were in and it’s fair to say I didn’t disappoint myself.

Having given myself four days off, the pressure intensified as I watched fellow 5000er Ben Harrison run three times in the first three days of the year. I’ve been competitive with Ben since he beat me at noughts and crosses at the age of three, so I couldn’t let him get too far ahead of me so early on.

I’ve just moved to Gosforth, so I eyed a loop around the town moor and back home which would give me a starting tally of about six miles, potentially sneaking in a second town moor revolution before sauntering off home to enjoy the Sunday football

Then something happened

An internal battle between my ambition and my better judgement ensued, AFTER I set off, I might add. I say battle, it began as a car salesman-like negotiation: ‘Well if I’m doing six miles, I might as well do eight. If I’m doing eight – let’s just make it double figures…’ The negotiation was quick and ruthless. Before I knew it I was heading across the footbridge over the Central Motorway on my way to…Jesmond?

By this point I was looking very unimpressive, gleaned by reactions looking back at me running past various coffee establishments. I was still notching a decent mile average of around 11 minutes and this was the first exercise I had done since overstretching my groin playing football in November.

By the time I got back to the town moor, the thought of completing another revolution made me shudder and I’m certain my testicles retreated an extra inch back into my abdomen. I had to sit down on a nearby bench (which given the testicle situation had to be approached with caution).

Nine miles in and I suddenly considered the adulation and respect of my peers that running a half marathon would bring. The trophies, the endless retweets and Facebook likes. I could go viral. I leapt to my feet and set off back down the Great North Road in search of fame.

After some complex mental arithmetic, I worked out the exact point where I could stop running further away from the leftover pizza in my fridge, and start bridging that gap. And bridge I did. Extremely slowly. I adopted the running style which makes it appear like you’re expending a lot of energy, however in seriousness; a child’s stride would leave you for dust.

I went past a Subway, Pizza Express and Greggs on Gosforth High Street lamenting my decision to head out without any cash and even had to text my fiancée Isobel to inform her that I wasn’t dead. I was to be gone for almost three hours and 13.77 miles later, my withered body arrived home, urgently needing support from Isobel who begrudgingly helped me into a new set of clothes in the living room. ‘It weren’t pretty’

This tale is far from heroic. It does not truly represent my running ability. I did not receive the expected adulation. This was a random act of lunacy but one that I have no regrets about, although my thighs may have something to say about that

I can still smell the lactic acid.

Bring on the other 486.23 miles!!

PS At least I got my pizza: