I was introduced to distance running by my Uncle Ian when I was 10. An 8 k Goulburn Runners Club loop around the back of Rocky Hill on a blustery Autumn afternoon.

I can still picture the pre run warm up on the lounge room floor. Sinewy calves and bulky quads being rubbed and stretched. The sweet stench of deep heat in the air.

Astounded and impressed by the collection of running shoes in his laundry in various states of wear, I knew one day I too would have my own shoe addiction.

That was all it took. I was now a runner.

 More than 30 years later I am still a runner.

What else could bring such combinations of pleasure and pain?

The ecstasy of the first marathon finish. The stupidity of doing it again.

The smell of new running shoes and the dilemma of a half size too small.

Getting down to race weight and being told you are all prick and ribs.

Strava kudos and CR’s stolen by cyclists.

High hopes and race day plans gone to shit.

The majesty of getting faster and the tragedy of getting slower.

Then there’s the ‘could have gone faster’ post-race debrief;

The pre City to Surf Gatorade bottle urinal.

Gut trouble, and the runners runs.

Tight hammys and weak glutes.

Planning to stretch more but never getting around to it.

The solitude of the open road and the crisp air of a frosty morning.

Runners high and injury lows

Dehydration and hitting the wall.

Blisters and sunburn.

Bleeding nipples and chaffed balls.

Headwinds and hill sessions.

V02 max and beetroot juice,

 Shaved legs and short shorts.

When it is all said and done, why walk when you can run.