Over the hill and far away

Last week I was pondering whether, after running four consecutive half marathons in 1 hr 30 mins, I had reached my running peak. I was now 36, struggling around training runs, and just didn't feel like I was getting anywhere. How did I honestly expect to train in Kenya with the greatest runners in the world? Who was I kidding? With all this in mind, yesterday morning I lined up in the Autumn sunshine at the start of the Dartmoor Vale half marathon.

Worried about my fitness, and mindful that I had set off too fast in all those four previous half marathons, I held back at the beginning, sitting behind two men going at what seemed like a nice pace. They kept chatting to each other and both seemed a lot more comfortable than I felt, but once we hit the first big hill, at about 3 miles, I went passed them.

Normally I hate hills. My legs start aching and a steady stream of people begin overtaking me. Old men with bandy legs, short, hardy women with hunched shoulders, even dog walkers who happen to be traversing the same stretch of road. But yesterday, for some reason, I felt fine. Nobody passed me. I didn't even feel the urge to look back and see where they were. The hill went on and on for miles, but I just kept plugging away.

At the top there was a drinks station. I grabbed a cup of water but nearly choked trying to drink it. It was a stupid place to be handing out water, I decided, chucking my cup towards one of the bins. It went straight in.

From that point on the course seemed to be a gradual downhill back to where we started. I used the slope to pick up the pace and was soon overtaking struggling runners. Even when we got back to sea level, I still felt strong. The mile markers, which usually seem to take forever to appear, especially at the end of a half marathon, where popping up quicker than I expected each time.

I sprinted across the line in 11th place and 1 hr 26 mins and 54 secs. A big PB. I wasn't quite past it yet, after all.

While I was out racing around the lanes of south Devon, Jophie, my sister-in-law, and her husband Alistair, were in Iten in Kenya, looking for a house for us. Although they didn't find one, they said the area was one of the most beautiful places they had ever been. I spoke to Jophie on the phone after my race:

"I've picked up the number of someone called brother Colm," she said. "I think he's a priest, but I'm told he might be able to find you somewhere to stay."

"Brother Colm? Oh my god."

"You know him?"

Brother Colm is a living legend, one of the men most responsible for Kenya's running success, as far as I can tell, and currently the coach of David Rudisha, the 800m world record holder and, after Usain Bolt, probably the biggest thing in athletics right now.

She offered to sell me his phone number for £20.

"Done," I said.