SOMETIMES the toughest journey is even reaching the start. When I signed up to run a half marathon, I visualised seamlessly ticking off boxes as the mileage grew and I built towards race day. 

Of course, like many things in life, it didn’t quite pan out like that. From illness to injury, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve written, wiped and rewritten “The Comeback” on my training plan whiteboard.

Yet, in hindsight, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because each time I had to heal and rebuild my body, it added another layer of steely mental resilience.

A few days before the race, I headed out for my penultimate training run. I spotted a lone L plate lying on the footpath, detached from a passing car. A message from the universe. Lessons learned? Or one final test to overcome? As it turned out, a bit of both.

Fast forward to last weekend. On Sunday morning, I joined 11,000 other runners on the start line at Potterrow in Edinburgh. The torrential rain was unanimously described as “biblical”. I half expected Noah to go floating by in his ark at any moment.

As we shivered, our makeshift ponchos billowing in the gusting wind, I took a moment to reflect on how far I had come. From setting myself the challenge of simply wanting to run a mile without stopping to now tackling the formidable 13.1 miles of a half marathon.

I thought about the version of me who, in 2022, was five stone heavier and had fallen into the rut of a sedentary lifestyle. Hamstrung by inertia. Stuck. But who woke up one day and couldn’t face another 10 years of self-inflicted purgatory. And decided to set herself some big and scary goals.

I snapped back to the present day as a roar went up around me. We were off. I spent the opening minutes carefully watching my footing, trying not to trip or slip on the slick, puddle-strewn roads.

When I finally looked up, I gasped. The sight of thousands of runners streaming across George IV Bridge was magnificent. A kaleidoscopic sea of colour and bobbing heads, all moving in unison.

No matter whether it was your first race or 400th, there was an unspoken camaraderie of everyone wanting to reach that same finish line in Musselburgh.

We thundered down The Mound, through Princes Street Gardens, past Edinburgh Waverley and back up onto the Royal Mile. The Scottish Parliament building and Holyrood Park passed in a blur. Then it was onwards through Meadowbank and Craigentinny, heading for the coast.

Running along the beachfront towards Portobello, the strong wind whipping off the Firth of Forth buffeted us with a relentless ferocity.

In one of the official photographs, I can be seen gazing wistfully out towards the distant waves as I run, seemingly deep in contemplation. I’ve no idea what I was thinking about in that moment, nor any memory of it being taken.

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As the miles ticked down and the minutes passed, I existed only in the bubble of running. I tuned my ear to the cheering spectators lining the route, throngs of kind-hearted strangers who would see the name on my race bib and shout, “Go Susan!”

I read the brilliantly funny signs they held aloft: “Toenails are overrated”; “Run like your ex is chasing you”; “You kick asphalt”; “Taylor Swift wrote 31 songs - you can run 13 miles”.

Then, just before mile six, I felt a sudden pain in my right foot. Every step was agony. I still had seven miles to go. It was time to dig deep …

What? Everyone loves a cliffhanger. You’ll need to come back next week to hear the rest.