They were speaking Portuguese, so I couldn’t be 100 per cent sure they were laughing at me. But as I had just done my finest impression of a drunken 90-year-old descending a steep slope (while, er, descending a steep slope), there was a good chance I was the group’s prime source of mirth.
They carried on tittering as I wobbled pathetically past. Finally one of them gave into the abject sight, announced she was a “therapist” and offered help. The type of therapy she specialised in was lost in translation. But as she didn’t start asking searching questions about my childhood,
I assumed she was a physiotherapist. She did a weird but welcome stretching thing on my inner quad, which enabled me to shuffle on. Thank you Portuguese therapist! Not that it made much difference in the end.
Women’s Running’s ace editor is probably a bit disappointed in me. When I first started writing this column the unspoken idea was that I’d entertain readers with tales of marvellous mishaps and slapstick stuff-ups. You know, the vomiting, topographical befuddlement and sitting in a puddle of urine crying my eyes out type thing, expected when running distances longer than is probably good for you. But instead, this column has been a lucky charm and I’ve had my best year of ultra running. Which must have been pretty boring to read about actually. But I’ve finally made amends. Luckily my tale of running woe wasn’t a big race. Only the IAU Trail World Championships and my debut in a GB vest. Ahem.
It seemed totally surreal to be selected to represent my country. I only ever thought that might happen for an international stupidest haircut competition – something I’ve long aspired to, with everything from a mullet to a Madchester undercut.