There’s something magical about race day.

You can train on your own, map out routes, lace up in the pouring rain or baking sun, and do everything by the book, but nothing compares to the buzz of a race morning. It’s like matchday for runners—a bit of pre-race nerves, a good helping of adrenaline, and the sense that you’re part of something bigger. It’s community. It’s shared suffering and shared glory. And, just like standing on the terrace on a Saturday afternoon, it’s about belonging.

For me, the Lincoln 10K has always held that special status. It was the goal. The biggie. The one you circle on the calendar in January and build everything around. Not this year. This year was different. This year, the 10K was just the undercard. A training run with medals. The main event is in London, where 26.2 miles of emotion, fundraising, and personal challenges are held. So, while I wanted a PB, the 10K itself wasn’t the be-all and end-all. If anything, the fact I approached it like a warm-up gave me a strange kind of freedom. A quiet confidence.

And I’ll say this now: it was a cracking event, probably one of the best I’ve experienced. They’d made improvements: the start line, usually a bit of a bun fight, was far better managed. Two lanes this time, which thinned the field out a touch quicker and gave everyone a bit of breathing space. Of course, the queues for the loos were still pretty big, and the baggage drop was a little manic, but that’s part and parcel of these events. It wouldn’t feel right if everything went too smoothly, would it?

The sun was out, high and proud, which is great for spectators, less so for runners. There’s a reason most of us dream of overcast skies and a mild drizzle—it’s not just because we’re British.

You can still sponsor me for London here

Normally, I’m a lone wolf on race day. It’s not that I’m antisocial anymore (I’ve mellowed a bit over the years), but I see running as a solitary thing. Me, the road, the rhythm of my music. That’s enough. But this time, I started with Dayle—friend of 40 years, comrade in pavement pounding. We were aiming for roughly the same pace, so we lined up together, slotted ourselves in the 55:00 pacer group, and got ready to go. It felt doable, if right at the top end of what I thought possible. My fastest 10K before this was 54:46. I’d shaved that down to 53:07 around Wragby. Anything quicker would need a good day and a good plan.

Luckily, I had both. Paul, my coach, had drilled into me the importance of negative splits. Go out steady, build into it, finish strong. Logical, yes. Natural? No. But I was willing to try. The target was simple: 5:19 per kilometre would see me beat my PB. So I packed a gel, plotted a 27-minute first 5K, and told myself not to panic if it felt a bit slow early on.

I followed Dayle at first, using him like a human metronome, adjusting pace with him as I’d done at Scunthorpe with a random (whose head also shined like Dayle’s, keeping him in my eyeline). But, like in the half marathon, by 3K I could feel the itch. I wanted to run my own race. So I eased past, knowing he’d probably catch me when I stopped for the gel. Only, I never did stop.

I felt that good.

At 5K, I was bang on pace—25:42, quicker than planned but comfortably so. Grabbed a water, took the gel mid-stride like I was born to do it, and carried on. And that’s when the magic kicked in. The crowd. Maybe the best I’ve ever heard. There’s something powerful about strangers shouting your name, even if it’s only because it’s printed on your shirt. Still, it worked. It lifted me. It reminded me why I’m doing this, why London means so much, why I’m writing a book on running to try and inspire you.

By 7K, I felt the switch. That moment when you dig in and go for it. Shift into sixth gear, pull out into the fast lane, and see what’s left in the tank. Kilometre eight: 4:59. Kilometre nine: 4:56. I was flying, weaving through tired legs, hunting down the finish line. I could feel the PB, not just within reach, but almost inevitable. Along Nettleham Road towards the Cathedral, I saw a kid with one of those ‘tap for a power-up’ signs. I tapped it and mimicked speeding up immediately. It felt fun.

And then… the wall. Not the dramatic, collapse-in-a-heap type, but a more subtle betrayal. A gentle whisper from the legs saying, “Oi, pal, you’ve peaked.” The final 400 metres were tough. Sun in my face, slight incline, lungs burning. I had to ease off, just a touch. But even then, the final kilometre came in at 4:42. That’s not easing off—that’s thriving.

Now, here’s where I moan (as I do), just for a moment. My official chip time was 51:07, and I was absolutely over the moon with that. Honestly. But Strava, ever the faithful companion, told me I’d done it in 50:35. That’s a 32-second difference. Why? Because official times don’t factor in the extra bits—going wide on corners, ducking and weaving. GPS tells a fuller story. According to my watch, I ran further than 10K. And if you’re measuring by actual distance covered, then 50:35 is my new gold standard. Splitting hairs? Maybe. But every second counts when you’re chasing goals.

Post-race was a joy. Dayle came through strong, and we caught up with his wife Rachel and Ruth, an old school friend. Fe arrived soon after—her own incredible journey from Couch to 5K in January to smashing out a 10K two months later. Inspirational doesn’t even begin to cover it. We all wandered off for a drink with Mum, Mel, Dad, Mo, Jason and Mark, the athlete who has inspired me the most on my journey. It felt like a proper celebration, like a little family festival of running.

But the best thing? This race wasn’t about me.

Yes, I got my PB. Yes, I hit my targets. But everywhere I looked, there were stories. Real, raw, moving stories. James Christopher, five weeks post-back injection, powering through to an impressive finish. Fe, finding strength she didn’t know she had inside three months. Runners of all shapes, sizes, ages, and backgrounds chasing their own moments of glory. And that’s what this is really about. As we left there was a family still going, crossing the line in maybe two hours. They were fighting their battle, achieving their goals. That is what the day is all about.

You can still sponsor me for London here

My book, the one a longer version of this article will appear in, isn’t just a record of my road to London. It’s a love letter to the power of putting one foot in front of the other, to community, to challenge, to charity, to purpose. And if, by the end, one person decides to enter the City of Lincoln 10K in 2026 because of something they read here, then I’ll consider it a job well done.

Because that’s where it all started for me, doing a 10-kilometre run around the familiar streets of Lincoln. In three weeks, I’ll be running 26.2 miles around London.

You could, too.