Of all the disciplines in triathlon, running is the one that I fear the most. 

There is a reason for this: my body is not optimally designed for running. 

Let me explain – I do not look like Paula Radcliffe. 

We’ll start with the top. My cheeks might charitably be called chubby and display the full benefit of a lifetime’s training in cake eating. My chin, in sympathy with the other portions of my face has tripled in size. 

I have shoulders that could not so much take on Joan Collins in all her Alexis Carrington 1980s shoulder padded glory, but with a mere hint of movement could elbow her into oblivion. 

A larger bust is often seen as an asset – certainly so when paraded by tanned young 20-something actresses who have minimal need of brassieres to display their breasts in a pert-like manner. A buxom corsage when approaching 50 frankly means that these mammary glands oscillate with a rhythm entirely out of time with my arms and legs and require industrial scale, civil engineer designed scaffolding to be appropriately attired for public view. My waist is carefully camouflaged by hypertrophied adipose tissue. Kindly folk might describe the effect as “Rubenesque.” 

I was gifted with height – a feature really useful when reaching for things on the top shelf or peering over crowds. However, my height seems to be derived, less from long legs, which would be really helpful in getting from A to B in a timely manner and more from a long back, which just creates the problem of buying suit jackets.  

Finally my feet. I would like to argue that size 9 feet are vaguely in proportion with the rest of me, but this is an argument that is well and truly lost every time I enter a shoe shop. The response never varies: requests for shoes in the aforementioned size are met with a look that suggests that I must be an inbred cross between an alien and a Sasquatch before an offer to supply the footwear in a size 6 (if I wanted a size 6, I’d have asked for a size 6…) Added to this, my feet are essentially triangular, other people have toes that line up in beautiful diagonals, but my toes stick resolutely to the horizonal. You’d have thought that with such a stable base, it would be impossible to fall over, but alas this is not the case. I have joints that can move in directions that they aren’t supposed to go in (although I have very tight muscles that limit yoga movements) and a brain that cannot tell left from right.  

For all of this, my feet have pounded out miles – actin and myosin overlapping and forming their crossbridges, only to release and go again. I reconcile myself to the fact that I’ll be one of those middle-aged women at the back of the race who’ll be beetroot-faced and panting rather than those front-running gazelle-like graceful creatures who defy gravity and float above the ground for 10km before attiring themselves in the T-shirt du jour. (My Dad would tell me that I was getting my money’s worth of race!).  

The trick to simply being able to run is to run regularly and consistently – a feat that can be difficult to achieve when doing a job that seeks to steal evenings, weekends and nights. However, this steady running routine also has to overcome those demons who have a thumb on the running off-switch and whisper how difficult those training sessions will be and perhaps tomorrow will be a better running day.  

I ran today. Not far, but some running miles are better than no running miles.