Last Place, Every Saturday

The first time I ran a 5k with my local club I finished behind a woman pushing a double buggy and a man who stopped to take a phone call. I know he stopped because I overtook him, and then he overtook me back.

I was 46, about four stone heavier than I'd told my doctor, and I'd only gone because my brother bet me twenty quid I wouldn't. I came last. There's a volunteer whose whole job is to walk behind the last runner, and she kept telling me I was doing great in the voice you'd use on a nervous horse.

I went home, lay on the kitchen floor and swore I'd never do it again. Then I went back the next Saturday, mostly because she'd said "see you next week" and I didn't know how to tell her no.

I came last for eleven weeks. In week twelve, a teenager with a bad ankle finished behind me and I felt so guilty I nearly waited for him.

I'm still slow. My best time wouldn't impress anyone under 70. But I've stopped lying to my doctor, and that volunteer and I have a standing argument about whether I'm allowed to walk the hill. I paid my brother back with interest: I made him come too.

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