Struggling around the Drogo 10

Struggling up the last few steps. Photograph: Jiva Finn

About half a mile from the end of the Drogo 10 on Sunday I saw my brother and my daughter standing among the trees cheering me on - my brother grinning and taking a picture of me with his camera. I'd just climbed up one side of the beautiful Teign Valley, a half-mile accent so steep I had to walk most of it. I was running along a rare stretch of flat, looking out across Dartmoor, when the race stewards directed me right and up another short, sharp incline. My legs turned to sand. I could hardly move them, even to walk. My daughter, who is four, looked very concerned.

This was not my kind of race. Too many steep hills. Up one of them, a man in his mid-60s - I'd guess - edged passed me wearing a pair of Nike Free - Nike's barefoot-style trainers. I suddenly felt like I was wearing bricks, especially as my trail running shoes are too big for me and were caked in mud.

I ended up trundling across the finish line in 65th position. In a local race in Devon. What hope does that give me when, in just a few weeks, I turn up at the fastest village on earth?