Katrina Tweedie

AFTER six or so miles, slowly plodding uphill, face down against a fierce headwind as the rain battered my head, I began to feel better.

It marked the midway point in the half marathon, so the rest of the route was the homeward stretch, the prospect of a warm bath, hot soup and the comfort of home.

This makes me happy, in the way that winter, the weather and the news does not.

Last week’s run was the culmination of six weeks of training – no time for the recommended 16 weeks – and a challenge taken to combat seasonal blues.

Crossing the finish line was an excuse for celebration.

It was a metaphorical two fingers up to the dark mornings that have made it hard to get out of bed, the headlines that make me want to hide under the duvet, the fear about what the hell is going on in the world.

The simple act of putting one foot in front of the other and slowly making it up each hill and down the other side feels like a miracle.

After a while, conversation peters out but so does anxiety, when your only focus becomes each yellow painted mile marker.

It wasn’t one of the well-known events that populate the running calendar, with fanfare all the way and a route lined with cheering crowds. This was a small rural running club (of which I’m not a member) who, in the midst of every winter, kickstart the running season in one of the toughest terrains.

Whether it was the endorphins kicking in or the jelly babies, given to me by a cheering volunteer on an empty road, life seemed brighter. Of course there are other ways we combat the fug of misery – alcohol, food, retail therapy – and I’ve tried them too but we all know those highs are short lived. Recently, running has acquired a new found cult status. Writer Bryony Gordon has struggled with alcoholism and has found an unlikely saviour in running, while Bella Mackie’s new book Jog On is an account of her battle with anxiety. A former unfit smoker, I began running when I had two babies in nappies. More than a decade – and many pair of trainers later – it’s still my secret to sanity. “Better slow miles than no miles,” someone told me last week, a survivor of a cardiac arrest who maintains running keeps him alive. And this week, suddenly, life does look a little sunnier.

The simple act of making it up each hill and down the other side feels like a miracle