In a bid to get back into the saddle, I entered the Derby 10km race. Alas, Cassie, my usual canine running partner, was barred from this event. I had all the cheer that my PB (obtained in 2009) was not so much unachievable but a mere whiff of a memory of times past. In fact, I had all the reassurance that most people would be not just over the finish line, but massaged, nourished with a cup of tea and a biscuit and settled into the car for the journey home at the point of my finish.

The day proved to be a gorgeous one for running – sunny but not too hot and I left my house early aspiring to bag a parking space (bag a parking space full stop – nevermind close to the race or even in the overflow!). Fate had another thought in mind though. As I turned onto the A610 the vision of a motorcyclist emerged. The bike was no longer balanced on two wheels but upended and prostrate over the carriageway with a dazed and thrown rider on the side of the road.

That thought of, “do I stop and use up my precious window of time or even miss the race?” flitted through my brain, shortly followed by, “if I missed this race, no-one will believe that the underlying reason has heroic undertones.” Two other runners had stopped, but they felt powerless to do much other than call an ambulance, which although had yet to arrive, was exactly the correct response. There is then the problem – as a healthcare professional, I can diagnose, but I don’t carry any medical kit beyond a face mask in my car.

I did stop of course. There’s a reassurance that everyone feels when you mention what you do for a living. The patient was escorted to safety and a basic examination performed. My skillset found it’s limitations at trying to right the bike and take it off the road, but thankfully teamwork proved to be the order of the day. The ambulance responded quickly and politely took my handover. I was allowed to proceed on my way.

The chaos that I’d hoped to avoid became apparent – how to negotiate the closed roads, yet find somehwere to park. The temptation to yell, “do you know what I’ve done just to get here?” boiled underneath my larynx. Suddenly, a miracle of miracless occurred and a genuine legal parking space close to the start appeared.

Following the adventure that was the outward journey, the race itself was an anticlimax! A cruel headwind into the first uphill was energy sapping, but I found my rhythm and the general plod. The race route passed Derby Cathedral, ensuring ringside seats to view the Bishop and her entourage on the Palm Sunday parade. I remain to be convinced that cheering sweaty, beetroot faced runners is part of the Palm Sunday liturgy though.

I had a time in my head to beat. Despite all the adventures, I did it! Still room for improvement though!

Fast forward one week to Easter Monday and an entirely different race filled the calendar. An out and back race along the trails around Matlock (about 7 miles). However, not only was I racing other runners, I was racing a steam train. I’d entered the race with some friends who had put their children onto the train, so the kids had the amazing experience of a literal trackside view, cheering on all the runners, but simultaneously hoping that they would “beat Mummy!” Steam definitely beat this runner, but a great experience nonetheless.

My experience at Runner vs Steam convinced me that I could once again up the distance, so I entered Carsington 7.5. If you think that a race around a resevoir will be flat – think again. Even seasoned runners describe this one as “undulating!” A warm and humid day does not suit my English constituion. When the marshall running at the back explained that there was provision for stopping at the first checkpoint, she was subjected to a withering, “but I’ve only done two miles!” Wisely, she changed her tactic and began a lecture on the perils of dehydration – points that were well heeded.

The route is beautfiul and a slow plod facilitates appreciation of woodland, meadows, flowers (although species recognition passed me by) and of course the lake. Well-meaning visitors cheered – I was particularly encouraged by the “You’re nearly half way!” at 5 miles into a 7.5 mile race. Finally, I came to the dam, with it’s welcoming cooling breeze, followed by the final narrow paths. The cheering visitors and mountain bikers now morphed into jeopardous obstructions requiring careful overtaking. I emerged from the trees to the salute of a whistle and a welcome from the Derwent Runner girls who had delayed vital ice cream consumption to cheer me home.