009: The Road So Often Travelled

I can still remember my very first run.

Or rather, the run that would become the first step on the road that leads me here.

It was supposed to be five kilometres.I think I made it to three before I turned around and walked home, my pride left somewhere on the footpath behind me.

I’d set out from the entrance of our estate, up the half-kilometre stretch to the top of town, where a left turn dropped me down toward the leisure centre and the park where I planned to run laps until I hit my target.

It’s not lost on me now: I ran hesitant loops around that park, self-conscious and half-believing in myself, never knowing then that I’d one day run two 24-hour races on a single-mile loop, tracing the same circle through day and night.

If only that version of me had known.

I chose the park because I didn’t want anyone to see me. 

I didn’t trust my legs yet, didn’t want to be watched. Cheap headphones shut out the world so completely that passing traffic felt like a hazard best avoided. So I kept myself in that small orbit: from the house, down the hill, around the park. 

A single lap was barely 600 metres, but it was a whole universe back then.

For two years, I trained for four marathons on that same patch of tarmac, repeating those loops until the

day’s distance was done.

Over time, my confidence grew. I no longer felt like someone pretending to be a runner. I branched out. I ran up the Main Street hill, now a staple of every town run. I ran out to Laurelvale, Gilford, Portadown, places that seemed impossibly far when I first laced up my shoes.

And yet, no matter how far my legs carry me, almost every run still begins with that same stretch: the 500 metres from our estate to the top of town. The footpath that’s carried every version of me toward the next. It’s seen every new shoe choice, every favourite brand. It’s taken the impact of my tears, my sweat, and once or twice, my face.

There are days when that road feels easy beneath me, and days when it feels like it’s pushing back.

But the path itself is constant, contending quietly with the seasons of my temperament.

It bears silent witness to my human condition.

When training feels impossible, when doubt circles like a vulture overhead, I think of that first hesitant run. Of that version of me who’d never have believed he’d one day strike those same pavers as an ultramarathon runner, on his way to his first 100-mile race.

Now I have routes everywhere, some saved for hard sessions, and some for days when I just want to remember that I love running. Each one sacred in its own way.

To everyone else, it’s just the first exit at the roundabout by the school gates. But to me, it’s the point where I decide: am I tired, or am I going to do that one last lap of the town I know I should?

So next time you’re out on one of your well-worn routes, pause for a moment. 

Consider the many versions of you that have tread the same path. The hopeful and the hurting, the strong and the spent. The same stretch of earth, indifferent yet faithful, a quiet shrine to your progression.

It might be hilly. It might be boring. But it’s shaped who you are today, and who you’re still on the way to becoming.