I can’t claim to have mastered much in my relatively short life. But I am very good at suffering. I don’t remember, of course, but having arrived into the world three months early, it’s safe to say I was born struggling for every breath. And there has been plenty of pain along the way, including the death of my fiancée following a nine-month battle with cancer at the age of 25. Now, I’m in for some more.
In October last year, I was diagnosed with the stage bowel 4 cancer that will almost certainly kill me. Even before the cancer, loved ones who know my story have said, ‘That’s too much for a person to deal with in one lifetime’ and ‘Wow – you’ve had really shit luck!’
But I’m pragmatic and try to make the best of things. Here’s one example: all of this pain has made me quite good at suffering. I’m no stranger to pain – so what’s a bit more?
The most obvious manifestation of my strange association with suffering is definitely in running. It’s no surprise that, having discovered this most arduous yet joyfully fulfilling of activities around seven years ago, it ticked all the boxes. Over those tricky first few months, chronic unfitness made my introduction to running really hard work. In addition to the usual aching limbs, pounding heart and busting lungs you get when starting out, I really didn’t know what I was doing. My first running footwear choice was a pair of broken hiking sandals. And it will come as no surprise that my first running injury was achilles tendonitis.
But gradually, round the block progressed to a mile, to two, three, five, 10K, half marathon, marathon, all out marathon PB, 50K, 100K, 100 miles, 100 miles over mountains, 100-mile PB inside 23 hours, to the realistic goal of running 300km coast-to-coast in one go. Well, I’ve had to put the last one on indefinite hold now as I’ve got advanced bowel cancer, but I’m still very much in love with running.
Best winter running gear endorphins. These are the body’s natural anaesthetic and my definite drug of choice. The pursuit of these little happy chemicals goes a long way towards understanding what’s going on in my little brain most of the time. I’m not one for tattoos, but If I were to choose one, it would be a diagram of the endorphin molecule. On top of those wonderful sensations, running provides indisputable evidence of improvement, achievement, and the ability to get to the finish line, despite every fibre of my being screaming at me to seek comfort and stop. Striving is self-defining, after all. I couldn’t not keep striving – that’s just who I am.
Nothing alleviates my deep-seated imposter syndrome like finishing a race I didn’t think I could, but somehow did. Ultrarunning superstar Courtney Dauwalter sums this up in a beautifully succinct phrase: ‘The secret is, there is no secret. You just keep going.’ This mindset has gotten me through some very tough times in running and in life itself. Sooner than I’d prefer, cancer will ultimately force me to give in, but it’s with immense pride that I can say I’ve never failed to finish a race I started.
If nothing else, I can and will literally and metaphorically just keep putting one foot in front of the other, until the morphine kicks in and keeping going is no longer an option. That’s all I’ve really got to offer the world at this point. But it’s enough.
As I review the last few paragraphs, it occurs to me that this piece of writing has turned into a bit of a love letter to the glorious pursuit of running. But today, that love is very much unrequited. For I write this having just about found the energy to make it from bed to couch and wiggle my fingers over a keyboard. Chemo is not fun.
By contrast, a good many friends and fellow strivers are running the Benfleet 15, a tough local race over by the Thames Estuary. This is one of my absolute favourite sufferfests in the local running calendar and (as the name suggests) involves 15 solid miles of mud, sweat, hills, wind, rain and maybe even snow. So much striving. So many endorphins. All of the death is metaphorical, and none of the DNFs are terminal. I’d absolutely love to be there.
I’d also hate it, but that’s kind of the point.
All that’s left to do now is strive a bit more. I hope to be at Benfleet next year. But if I reach my finish line a bit earlier, promise me one thing: do some striving for me.
To follow Nathaniel’s cancer journey from 100 miles to cancer and (hopefully) back again, you can visit his blog: nathanielscancerchronicle.site
For more information on the symptoms and signs of bowel cancer, please visit Bowel Cancer UK: bowelcanceruk.org.uk
