7th July 2018. 14:05:13 hours. I can still remember the elated feeling, glancing at my watch on the way out of Carey Burn and realising I was almost bang on target. After over three and a half hours of racing in the sweltering sun I was within thirteen seconds of my pre-race goal.
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On Sunday the elites of world mountain running raced at Zegama. It’s a race so legendary that they say, “Zegama is Zegama,” as though nothing could convey the essence of the race except the name itself.
There was a moment, twenty five miles into the Edinburgh Marathon on Sunday, when I passed a group of spectators and one of them shouted, “come on Peter, you’re looking good”.
On Sunday morning, at about 9:59, I’ll take a moment to remember JFK. It’s not his birthday or the anniversary of his assassination or anything like that; it’s the start of the Edinburgh Marathon.
Well, I thought, eyeing the other patients in accident and emergency, that escalated quickly. One day I’d been entering my first relays with the club and relieved to find I’ve not lost all my pace, the next I’d noticed a mild discolouration on my calf, and then the next I somehow end up sat in A&E wondering how I got there.