I got married in October 2020. Without doubt the guest I was most pleased to see was my mother-in-law, Sue. 6 months earlier she had suffered a huge stroke that had left her with near paralysis on the right side and severe aphasia, a condition where you struggle to speak after she emerged from her coma. With a huge amount of support from her family, including husband Dave and the Stroke Association, she smiled her way through the day and can now walk and communicate. Throughout this process Dave had been her constant loving, dedicated carer.

In April 2021, he too suffered a life changing stroke. The chances are now that they will never return home together, after 40 years of marriage. This cruel story will seem familiar in one way or another to too many of us. I couldn't stand by and do nothing. So, I wrote this post:

“When stroke strikes, part of your brain shuts down. And so does a part of you. Life changes instantly and recovery is tough. But the brain can adapt. The Stroke Association provides specialist support, research and campaigning, which are only possible with the courage and determination of the stroke community. I've seen, first hand, the work the Stroke Association do and this is my thank you. 

On September 15th, I will run up Snowdon, the highest mountain in Wales to my home in Liverpool, 75 miles away and if I can, then on to Scafell, the loftiest peak in the England, another 90 miles away. A peak for Sue, a peak for Dave. Will I make it? I hope so, but I don't know. Just like every stroke patient, I'll do my best, but not everyone who suffers a stroke does reach their summit. One thing I can tell you is this. I'll try as hard as I can and I'll have the Stroke Association at my back, doing everything they can to get me there. Please help us too. 

For Dave, for Sue, for your family and friends, for those who have no-one and for all we know, one day, it could be any of us. Please donate what you can. 

Thank you.”

After that, it was time to put those words into action and here is my account of that run.

It'd been a while. Four years to the day, I'd set out from the Bragg-Mitchell Mansion in Mobile, Alabama on what turned out to be quite the long run. Come to think of it, it was three years since I'd become the first person to run across the United States three times in a year. I'd missed being on the road, but hadn't had the drive to tear myself away for a long period of time to just run, especially as my life had gotten a lot more complicated since then (in a good way, of course). My father-in-law Dave's stroke, on top of the one his wife Sue had endured while I was off running in the Sahara, on top of a feeling I needed to be doing "more" to help (anyone else felt a bit useless recently?) had led me to a single room above a pub in Llanberis with a rucksack containing everything I'd need for a few days. The challenge I'd set myself was to run up Snowdon and then on to Scafell Pike and Keswick, 180 miles away, in three days, in aid of the Stroke Association, whose incredible work I'd recently become all too familiar with.

I'd needed to run a few miles that night to catch my final bus of the night if I didn't fancy a twenty-mile warm-up to reach the start line, but now, here I was. After a rubbish sleep and a 5 am alarm call, a breakfast of four Bakewell tarts and a milkshake did the trick and I left the room at just after half five, headtorch on, in an attempt to get up Snowdon for sunrise at 0650. Seventy minutes were clearly than enough to do five miles, right? That was before I remembered one thing. I don't do hills. Liverpool isn't really the place for that and even in the States, I was at pains to avoid/minimise these as much as possible. Anyways, once I say I'll do something, I usually give it my best shot and it seemed that that was enough. I'd had a couple of days relative rest from my hastily assembled four (count 'em!) week training plan and felt great, despite my Garmin telling me my heart rate peaked at 158 on the way up (with a pre-run aim of not going over 130 if I could help it).

As it happened, I was rewarded with a beautiful sunset atop Snowdon, Sue's chosen peak having gotten up there in 76. Close enough, I thought. I'd engaged my Gump Run playlist at the start. 30+ hours of every Tune of the Day from America and as I reached the summit, Bruce Springsteen told me it was "...gonna be a long walk home." Quite.Maybe having a "peak" so early in the run was a bad idea emotionally as it at once reminded me of why I was running, why it was so important to get to the next peak and also, just how far away that peak was. Additionally, it also got me a bit excited and I decided to see if I could do some quick descending of Snowdon's Pyg Track, despite me warning myself prior to the run that it would be a bad idea. It, of course, was. Turns out I'm not very good at thundering down rocky descents and my quads shuddered with every footstrike all the way to the bottom, where I tucked into some more sweeties and set off on my way to Capel Curig. Being used to running at a certain pace and one not suitable for three 50+ days, I tried to apply the brakes until I reached Llanwrst, where I'd planned second breakfast. With no need, apart from a self-imposed deadline of 1930 to reach the Mersey, 73 miles from Llanberis, I wolfed down a jacket spud and beans with a huge pile of lentils and I think that's where the problems started. It had also gotten really hot and the hills kept on coming.

By the time I reached 30 miles, I felt a little delicate and wondered if it was hunger so took the opportunity to get some ice cream and a brownie in me, but it made things a lot worse. I'd been seeing a friendly face, Helen, from the Stroke Association who popped up every now and again to clap me on, but by the last time I saw her, I wasn't the most sparkling of company.

40 miles in, St Asaph was the cue to take a proper break and I managed to get some food down me which at least made me a pleasant radio interviewee before I hit the road, with caution now the watchword. With the hit in energy levels came the hit in pace and confidence of making the Mersey at all, which became a pipe dream as soon as the vomiting hit soon after I set off. I love new experiences, but my first "ultra-spew" was no more enjoyed than the four more that would follow that day.

My mind would flick back to the words of Chris Conlon, the inspirational stroke survivor I'd met at the 2017 Boston Marathon during the Gump Run. "Keep on going." Flint came and went with some advice from Susie Maire, a fellow endurance athlete (and also an excellent sports masseuse on the Wirral) to get liquid calories in the form of a couple of protein shakes. I also grabbed a Red Bull, given the fact I was now flagging severely and as I at least got my weary frame over the border, I started to get a slight second wind. My experience here though told me that if this was a one-off run, I'd be grand, but it would be a mistake to go too deep if I wanted tomorrow to be viable, so time was called at the Wheatsheaf in Ness, where the 487 bus would deliver me to day 2. U2 sang out the evening. She moves in mysterious ways, apparently. I bloody hoped so.

Systems check in the morning was initially great. I didn't feel tired and my nausea had gone. Then I moved. Snowdon had destroyed my quads. I don't know what I expected really, but it should have been this. The 10 miles to the river in perfect running conditions should have been a joy, but for those of you who've done a marathon and "really enjoyed" going downstairs the day after, you'll know where I was at. Every step. Seeing as I'd taken over 100,000 the day before, this was going to be a real treat. Luckily, I'm alright with a bit of pain and I'd enough time still to make Scafell Pike by sunset on Thursday, so it really wasn't that bad.

As I reached my hometown, I wondered if my grimness from the previous day was due to overheating as the sun blazed and my new front pack that, while it allowed convenient access to gels and my phone camera, likely reduced my ability to cool, so I put that in the rucksack and found new places for my essentials, including my bank card that I put in a pocket I'd not noticed before on the pack, which looked suitably snug. I'd gone a mile before I realised at a shop that the pocket was, in fact, a "tube" and my card was gone. I fully retraced my steps and by the time I realised it wasn't for finding, that was another few miles on the clock and an hour and a half gone. I don't know if having Nadine come out to give me her card blows my "unsupported" claims, but I was past caring. I'd bizarrely enjoyed my painful 20 miles by the time I was financially viable again and given the fact that this was no race, I resolved to enjoy just "being" and that meant running.

I upped the pace and enjoyed real breaks that gloriously involved eating food that stayed within my four walls. A few miles along a canal path preceded my passing through Preston and having no wish to be running on busy dark roads with no sidewalks, I called time at an Ibis next to a Hungry Horse to fill my saddlebags while I planned my route for the following day. Grabbing a shower first thing, I looked down at my left foot. A huge bruise and swelling had developed on the inside top of my foot. I messaged Jon Power, a sports doc pal of mine. "That's the insertion of tib post, or at least it was. Can you walk?". Riiiiiiiight. We'll see how that went, hey?

It turned out from my research that Scafell is a bit tougher than Snowdon, by all accounts, with some tricky scrambling sections and seeing as there'd be no way I'd be down from Scafell by nightfall, I reset the target to Ambleside and resolved to have a lovely "jaunt" up the Pike the next morning, in the last of the autumn sunshine. That still meant 53 miles of running after yesterday's "easy" 45 and the hills would be back, so there would be no lie in. The legs were still reminding me of their Snowdon upset, my left foot was terrifyingly sending me erratic messages that I imagined would signal a tendon ripping off the bone and I still felt a bit weak after almost emptying the tank alongside my stomach, but the pretty villages and at least the views of rolling hills would make the day a decent one.

What made it great, however, was the sight of a steady stream of friendly faces that came throughout the day. Brian and Ben, from my old uni; Colin, a keen runner and Insta follower who came for a few miles before old pals Tim and Lucy did the same. Eventually, I'd meet up with a peloton of local cyclists and beer enthusiasts I knew from the New Union pub in Kendal (best cider pub in the UK, 2020) led by Phil Walker, the landlord, on the way to Levens, where they plied me with ice lollies and Red Bull as we waited for another pal, Annie to arrive. My final companion on the road was no less than Alex Staniforth, who'd recently completed the whole three peaks route on foot, so he knew exactly where I was coming from. Literally. Sensibly, he'd joined on two wheels and was maybe responsible for a refound turn of pace on the drop into Bowness where I caught up with the lads, plus Ben and another uni pal and keen fellrunner, Alex (different one - Kirby and local vet) for a couple of strange premature celebration beers (it must have been all the clapping from the roadside) before a final five miles to Ambleside and a restorative curry. I strolled the last 2km to Brathay House, the HQ of the fantastic youth outdoors charity organisation who host the awesome Windermere Marathon (seriously, try it next year - I'll be there) and tonight, put me up. I don't know if it was the beers or the knowledge of a finish line in sight that did it, but the legs didn't feel that bad! 

I think my pace to the bottom of Scafell the next morning may have been faster if it wasn't for the sheer beauty of the area forcing me to either take a photo or just stare. Snowdonia had of course been beautiful, but I'd more focus at that point, until, I of course got double vision. Now it was very much possible to dally and I rarely need a second invite to do that. I eventually reached the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel, the start point for the Langdale approach to the Pike and I remembered the words of fellrunner Aleks (another fellrunner - Kashefi this time, who likes his fell runs barefoot. Seriously, what is it about all these Alex/Aleks's?) in that it starts easy, before the advent of steep stone steps, followed by some scrambling, then a boulder field (whatever that was) before the summit. I made hay while the gradient was kind then power walked the steps, with my legs feeling weak, but my heart rate staying low, clearly showing me where my training was sorely lacking) before I'd eventually come to the boulder field. No thanks. Ever since baby Bee was born, I have a weird protectiveness over my mortality and this is accompanied by a severe reluctance to have broken bones too. I watched in the MdS as more technically adept descenders glided over rough ground and now, here, with my shaky legs, climbers that I'd steamed past running a few minutes previously would pass me as I farted about moving from stone to stone. I began to follow one, getting braver, like when you can drive quicker on a country road when you're behind someone and see where they brake. I'd seen the summit a good mile off and now after a very long 25 minutes, I climbed the monument that serves as the highest war memorial in the country and I was there. Dave's summit. The views were worth the effort of the previous few days, but the climb was sufficiently tough that you wouldn't feel you'd cheated by just doing that. The weather was so clear you could see the Isle of Man, seventy miles away and, as I looked around in a full 360, I imagined everybody in my line of sight who was going through a rough time with stroke, whether it was them directly, or friends and family. It was their peak too if they wanted it to be. I ate some biscuits, had a few gels and set off for Keswick. The descent was a bit hairier than Snowdon and involved some actual rock climbing on the route I'd foolishly elected to take. Though I was safe enough in the dry, the internal review of slipping if it was wet and looking down wasn't the smartest thing I'd done recently. I plopped down off every rock with the feeling that my internal shock absorbers were shot and it was during thinking this and taking my eye off my landing (stop being so stunning, Lake District!) that I rolled my right ankle to the extent that I had to stop and wait five minutes to see if it was genuinely bust and I'd be needing to call Mountain Rescue, which would not be a good look for a charitable venture. It seemed just about ok and I managed to get back onto less hairy ground just as Tina Turner was rolling down the river through my earphones. I rolled alongside the stream that took me to Seathwaite, Seatoller and the road that would take me to Keswick. No breaks now, no allowances for the quad pain, the tib post insertion, nor my sprained ankle. No concerns about pace either, with the last mile approaching six-minute mile pace by the end, with that end being the Moot Hall, the start and finish point of the Bob Graham Round, a fell running route of legend. As I sat in the pub opposite, with a pint of cola, a pint of pale ale and a huge plate of lentil chilli topped chips, I looked at the Moot Hall and pondered whether I was that rubbish on the mountains after all and whether I just needed a bit more time to get me some "hill legs". That could wait for another time though - I checked the fundraising totaliser and saw how incredibly generous so many people had been and were continuing to be. People had identified with the run but I reckon people had really identified with Dave and Sue too and that's what made me smile. Life doesn't have to stop when a stroke hits, but it is when the hard work often starts and that's why the Stroke Association is so important. Everyone needs a helping hand. If you haven't donated yet, I'd love it if you did. It'll make my roadside heaving seem more worthwhile. If you have, thank you from the bottom of my mileage-adapted heart, from my family, from Dave and Sue and from the Stroke Association. You're ace.

As it happened, we hit and exceeded our £10,000 target, but the Stroke Association’s work never stops. My donation page is still up and running as we write, so feel free to head over and pop a few pounds or whatever currency their way, but why don’t you consider getting involved and running (or do something else cool) for them and spreading the word, helping people all over the country.

Dave and Sue update: While still changed forever by their conditions, they are currently living together with my brother-in-law, Mark, his wife Lorraine and their family, not far from their old home. They’re moving house soon to somewhere bigger to allow them a bit more space, which will be ace. They recently came up to Liverpool to spend 10 days with Nadine and me and while Dave can’t do the labour any more, he gave me some tips on building a lean to at the side of my house which will hopefully mean it will stand for more than five minutes! It was great for bee to spend some proper time with nanna and granddad too - time we thought we may never have.

Stay safe everyone.