I remember the first time I watched the London Marathon on television.
I remember the ice-cold rush that swirled at the bottom of my spine as it slowly crawled towards the nape of my neck, fibre by fibre, spilling into my head with a colliding crash.
My eyes scoured over the multi-coloured blanket of motion, an ant-like army of bobbing human heads, an incomprehensible mass of people moving in regimented formation with one shared goal in mind: 26.2 miles.
I sat quietly, soaking up the soulful emotion that quietly simmered and weaved its way around the ankles of the runners; tens of thousands of individual stories, kicked up like dust and sent spiralling skywards.
“I’ll run the London Marathon, one day”, I thought.
But in that moment, I don’t think I actually believed I would.
I wasn’t a runner.