Published: 18th Jan 2025
I think I went into 2023 with high hopes for the year as a whole. I had entered Race to the Stones again, hell bent on achieving that daylight goal, and thought it would also be a good year for my personal life as well. My PhD was coming to an end and was ending on a high with an oral presentation at a big conference. I had a job lined up, with the possibility of another job starting as that first one ended. The house Alex and I bought together was coming along. Covid seemed to be behind us. 2023 was going to be a good year.
My Dad came to visit us in January. He’d said the year before that he would come up to help with the house Alex and I bought together in 2022, and that’s what he was there to do. He was an engineer and very handy. He’d already helped us out via video call when Alex decided to drill through an electrical cable and tripped the fuse for the entire downstairs of the house. You may say “he should have had a stud/cable finder”. He did, and it was beeping, and I said don’t drill, but the beeping and I were ignored. Anyway, Dad was going to be a huge help with the house project and we were excited to have him stay and give us some pointers. He was a little out of sorts, a bit more self-deprecating than usual and he made a few errors he didn’t usually make. But I knew he had some stress in life – work and buying a house, and so I didn’t think on it too hard.
In February, we went down south to Dad’s workshop, and he was due to help us with a service on the car. He seemed more out of sorts this time, confusing the oil filter for the gearbox oil filter, something he wouldn’t normally do. He mentioned he was feeling a bit off and that he’d booked a private “health MOT” in to see if something was going on. He asked “but what if they find something?” to which I said something along the lines of “then they’ll do something about it”. He had a house viewing to get to that afternoon so didn’t hang around too long to chat beyond that.
The following morning we got a phone call from Dad’s fiancé. He couldn’t remember how to speak. Something was wrong and he was on his way to the hospital. Close friends around me tried to suggest it might be a stroke or something, which would be terrible but people recovered from that. But deep in my gut, I knew it wouldn’t be good. Dad’s eldest brother had died from glioblastoma in 2005; surely it couldn’t strike our family again?! The diagnosis was confirmed the following day.
I know the NHS gets a lot of criticism, but Dad was fitted for a radiotherapy mask very fast and started on chemotherapy almost immediately. Maybe he was lucky with his postcode, but the NHS didn’t really let us down. Despite this, and the hopeful comments we got from anyone and everyone who knew Dad, we knew our time together was short and things weren’t going to get better.
As a side note, very much from my own experience – the hopeful “maybe he’ll get better” and “don’t give up” comments are the most fucking awful comments I received. Maybe it’s my background in science, and the fact I’d seen the stats for glioblastoma at numerous conferences. Maybe it’s because we’d seen first hand how quickly people can go downhill, and I know that isn’t the case for everyone, but the exceptions tend to be young, with a single tumour that can be surgically removed. Dad wasn’t super young. Too young to die, sure, but no spring chicken. Also, we’d been told the tumours were inoperable and like a bunch of grapes, and his MGMT status told us the chemotherapy wouldn’t work for long. So yeah, those comments can get in the bin, in my opinion.
Anyway, it was a shit time. The hopes for the year shattered just 2 months in. 2023, you suck. There were some moments of light – Dad and Jo got married, which was a joyous day. I fought to meet the summer graduation deadline for my PhD so Dad could attend. Alex and I got married in a small ceremony, Dad made it to that too. We went on a final family holiday and crammed in as many memories as possible. But it was tough, and I don’t think I’d have made it through without my friends and family, and running.
To give ourselves something to focus on, and because Dad was such a central member of the team the previous year, Kimberley and I entered Endure24 as team “Nash Siblings”, and started raising money for The Brain Tumour Charity. I was also still supposed to be running Race to the Stones later in the year to raise money for the British Heart Foundation, but that took a backseat. Life stress meant I felt injured most of the time, and too much time sitting for travel and thesis writing meant running felt creaky, so the longer runs were hard to get in, but I ran most days for around 30-60 minutes. I found those runs gave me time to process emotions. I could work through the anger and the sadness without the inevitable tears. I find it nearly impossible to cry whilst running, though there were a couple of exceptions, running generally gave my eyes a much needed break.
I want to take some time to commend Kimberley for her valiant training effort. We entered Endure24 at the end of February, which left about 3 months for her to go from complete non-runner, to 24-hour racer. And when I say non-runner, I mean potato. Her son was just over 2, so time was not an ally and running not a priority. She hated it, complained about how much it hurt, and had absolutely no concept of pacing herself.
The race weekend came around, and hot doesn’t even cover it. The temperature was baking, we were camping in the outer rings of hell. Every movement sent sweat pouring down our bodies. We could have roasted a chicken inside the tents. It was “well hot”.
Our rough plan as a pair was that I would run two laps to every one that Kimberley completed, with the exception of the first lap where I would start with just the one. I headed out with the masses, pleased to make it into the cooler shade of the trees. Kimberley was full of excitement when I returned to camp to hand over, and handled the first lap and the heat exceptionally well. I headed out for a second and third lap after she returned, and came back feeling hot. I was hydrated; I’d kept on top of drinking and electrolytes, but I had a headache from the heat of the day. Kimberley headed out for her second lap and I continued to bake in camp. Jo bought Dad to the camp to see how we were doing, but due to the heat, they didn’t stay too long. Dad wasn’t handling the hot weather so well, and we wouldn’t risk making him more ill. But it was good to see him.
As the evening came, mercifully the temperature began to drop. I remember handing over to Kimberley for her forth lap and she was still in remarkably good spirits. However, she returned with a face of thunder, having left her good spirits somewhere in Wasing Woods. I think her lack of training really hit her during that forth lap. I was surprised it hadn’t hit sooner! She went to bed and was still sleeping when I returned from my 7th and 8th laps. I let her sleep a little longer, mainly because we couldn’t wake her up! But eventually I kicked her airbed enough that she stirred. I think some choice words were thrown in my direction, and I told her I was going to sleep for an hour, and that if she wanted to head out again, now was her chance. Despite the grumbling, she hauled herself out of bed and headed off into the dawn light. I awoke an hour later to messages telling me she “couldn’t finish” (at 2km), then that she was “taking it slow”, (about 4km), then the most recent one was that she was at 5km and would be back at some point. I think that final lap took her about 2.5 hours but she did it. She was really waddling when she handed over, but I was proud of her. Non-runner, to covering 40km was not a bad effort. I took it easy for my 9th and 10th lap, bringing our final lap count to 15 laps. But what was more important to us was that through our collective fundraising efforts, with the team helping to spread awareness and fundraise with us, we raised £5,000 for The Brain Tumour Charity.
October came, and we lost Dad. We told his story at his funeral, and I kept running to deal with the grief. Running was always something I’d shared with Dad. Many weekends of my teenage years were spent at cross-country events in the winters, and track athletics events in the summers. He was always there to support me, never once complaining about all the driving or the days spent in a camping chair at the side of the track, or helping out with field events as a volunteer. He took me to the track twice a week, eventually finding a couple of other dads to run with. When I decided to run my first half marathon, he came with me every Sunday for the long training runs. He would be the first person I’d send running pictures to, and call when I got back if the route was particularly remarkable. He was my number one cheerleader and my best friend. I didn’t know how else to honour him, except through running.
Christmas 2023 was the first spent without him. Once when we were kids, we spend Christmas in Wales. On Boxing Day, he’d headed up Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon) alone in the snow and not seen a single other person. It was also the first mountain I’d ever been up with Dad, begging him to take me up when I was 9 years old. So that was how I was going to spend Christmas. We stayed at the bottom of the mountain for two weeks, and on Christmas Day, I ran up and down the Ranger’s track with Alex, James, and Milo the beagle. We toasted Dad with Jelly Babies at the top – his favourite snack when hiking or biking. I vowed to keep his memory alive by pursuing the sport he’d always supported me with, entering the races that seem hard, running in beautiful places, and always keeping a bag of Jelly Babies handy to keep me going.
Distinctly Average Ultra Runner 