TLDR: I’m going on a very long walk through the Peak District – 100k over two days. About 62 miles, so well over a marathon a day. I’m raising money for Move Against Cancer. You can sponsor me here.
It’s Tuesday, May 28th, 2024. I’m sat in the Elizabeth Suite in Nottingham City Hospital, waiting for an appointment with my oncologist. Because, as I was told the week before, the cancer is back. I don’t want to overstate the issue. It’s testicular cancer, which is among the most treatable, and of the types of testicular cancer, the one I have is the least serious. Also, because I was still being monitored, it was caught early.
I don’t want to understate either. It’s going to take about three months of fairly aggressive chemo. It’s going to involve three hospital stays of four or five days, plus outpatient top-ups in between. It’s going to mess me up.
We don’t talk about “fighting” cancer any more – we talk about being the battleground. Or, we talk about the “cancer journey”. I know there is every chance that my destination is a cure, but I also know that it’s going to be a shocker of a journey. At this stage, I don’t understand quite what how that will feel, or how bad it will be. But…. this too shall pass, right?
I’ve written about some of this before, and I’ve asked for sponsorship before. Last time, and the time before that – before I knew I had cancer – for Cancer Research. Like I said, I’ve got a treatable version, and I wanted to pay it forward through research funding for those kinds that are harder to treat.
And yet here I am, asking for sponsorship again, for a different charity.
One week earlier, on Monday 20th May, my wife and I had been in a Post-Adoption review meeting. It had been about three months since Human Child Number One and Human Child Number Two had been placed with us. Everyone agreed that everything was going swimmingly well – adoptive parents, teachers, our social worker, the children’s social worker, the independent social worker, the social workers’ social worker and that we could definitely start to move forward with formal adoption proceedings because, why not? What possible reason might there be not to…. oh.
We make plans, and God laughs. Because the very next day, I get a phone call about some test results, and the very next week, I’m sat in the Elizabeth Suite. About to have much the same conversation I had the week before, but in person, and with the benefit of a week to come to terms with it all.
It’s hard to describe what it’s like sitting there, if you’ve not been there, or to a place like it. Probably most of you reading this have experienced your own version at some point, for yourself or a loved one. First thing to say is that the staff are all lovely, and everything possible has been done to try to create a peaceful, calm, and safe environment. It’s very quiet. That’s unusual, because most hospital settings are not. The fact that there’s no through traffic helps.
People don’t talk much, but there’s a sense of a quiet solidarity. A nod of acknowledgement says all that needs to be said. Most of the time there’s only a handful of people waiting. Sometimes with a partner, friend, or relative, but more often alone.
There’s an atmosphere. It’s like… the whole place is holding its breath, about to exhale. There’s a tension to it, no, a heaviness… but also a serenity: que sera, sera. It feels like an island, a pocket dimension. Like the weight of all the emotion has seeped into the fabric of the building, and just settled. Deep, but not, for some reason, raw. Like a perpetual pause button. Appointments often run late, sometimes very late, but no-one minds, because everyone instinctively knows that this is probably because someone else is having an awful day.
Of course, all this ‘atmosphere’ stuff is entirely in my head. That’s just me projecting. It’s a waiting room. A Room of Waiting.
All of which is preamble to talk about the one thing in the waiting room I wanted to mention. A banner for ‘5K your Way‘, a Move Against Cancer initiative. I’d seen it before, first time round. Even before my first diagnosis, I was vaguely aware that there was a group of cancer patients, survivors, friends, and family that came to my local Parkrun (at the time Forest Rec) on the last Sunday of the month. Some walked, some ran, some volunteered. I don’t remember noticing them, but my own parkrun attendance was sporadic at best back then.
I was due to run the Robin Hood Half Marathon in Nottingham, in late September that year. And then the Dublin Marathon in October. I was already trying to look ahead… my treatment would be done by then. Could I still? Should I still? I discussed all this with my oncologist, who is a fourteen times Iron Man champion and champion ultra-runner. She’s also the co-founder of Move Against Cancer. No, I’ve no idea how she fits it all in either.
As we’re discussing all this, the expression on the face of the cancer nurse specialist sitting with us is one of absolute horror. She’s shaking her head and mouthing “don’t do it” at me. But she knows I’m gonna. I bailed on the marathon, though… come on, I’m not completely insane… but I’d go on to complete my hometown half, run every step and love every moment of it. And some of you kind people sponsored me for Cancer Research.
Anyway, I’m sat in the waiting room. I see the banner I’ve seen before, for the group I’ve heard of before. And I think: I could do that. I could keep doing parkruns… or at least for as long as possible. Doesn’t matter if I have to walk some of it… or all of it. Lots of people do that. Parkrun is no longer just about running.
And then a thought pops into my head, fully formed and vocalised: what better way to track my mental and physical decline over the course of my treatment? Which is very much what happened. But what I don’t realise yet is that it will also track my recovery as I started to come out the other side and start to get quicker again.
I’ve only been to about four 5k Your Way events at Forest Rec. Partly it’s tricky for me to get to, and is no longer my local parkun now we have Wollaton Hall. Partly I’m just busy, and stuff clashes. And, you know, we have Human Child Number 1 and Human Child Number 2, who we have now officially adopted. I’d like to say I’ve stopped calling them that, but I haven’t. I’ve been to two 5KYW events as a parkrun tourist – once while on holiday, and once when visiting family. Both were great experiences.
It’s not a traditional support group, I don’t think. I don’t know, because I’m not really a support group type of person. We don’t sit round in a circle and talk about our feelings. Sometimes we’ve talked diagnoses, sometimes treatments. Sometimes football. Or running. Or cake. I always try to wear my 5kYW t-shirt to parkrun… they’re like my unofficial second-claim running club. And sometimes people come and talk to me because of it. Or just say hello. Cancer is one hell of a thing to go through, even if your journey’s end is recovery and even if you feel like a bit of a fraud, what with your highly-treatable “cancer”.
Bottom line: we know we’re not alone. But 5kYW makes us feel like we’re not alone. And walking…. running… volunteering… make us feel alive.
And that’s why I want to raise money for them.
If you’re going through cancer treatment, or coming out the other end, or know someone who is… I cannot recommend 5KYW enough. Doesn’t matter if you’re not a runner. Doesn’t matter if you don’t want to or aren’t able to walk 5k. Doesn’t matter if you don’t feel confident about volunteering yet. Just go. Tell your local group you’re coming, and just go. If it’s not for you, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
You might be thinking that all this sounds a bit… niche. Reminding a runner that he can still go for a run is great, but it’s not world changing. True enough. But that’s not all that Move Against Cancer does, and that’s not all exercise can do. Listen, I can’t tell you what they do better than they can, and I can’t summarise the evidence for the efficacy of exercise as medicine better than our glorious leader. This isn’t just some fluffy-nice-feelings-great-to-have-woo, exercise is a force multiplier effect, as is social connection.
So, what act of folly am I up to? It’s the Peak District Ultra Challenge. I’ve done a more difficult variant before – a 100k continuous challenge involving walking through the night. I’ve also completed a similar 100k continuous event in Yorkshire. This time, it’s back to the Peaks, and over two days. I don’t do well with darkness or sleep deprivation. I can no longer justify the luxury of the recovery time needed, nor the extra risks involved in walking through the night.
For transparency, I’ve paid the entry fee in full, so every penny of sponsorship goes direct to the charity – you’re not subsiding my leisure activities attempt to get a bit of peace and quiet. I’m not doing this alone. There will be two of us. It’s an organised event, and there will be plenty of company.
So, anyway. If anything I’ve written here has been in any way useful to you, and you weren’t able to contribute last time, please consider sponsoring me this time. Or instead contributing to a charity that’s close to your heart.