Sunday saw a swift change of plan after noticing a run far nearer my base for the weekend at my parents' place in Herfordshire than the trek to Bedford I had planned. I travelled down to Rickmansworth, past the swarming groups of Saracens fans on their way to Vicarage Road in Watford, to the Stewartslaw Moor Park 10km by Merchants Taylor School; the venue for numerous sports fixtures during my school days at Berkhamsted.

A pretty huge field compared to other recent events congregated on the playing fields with a few stalls and a good atmosphere. My arrival time could have been better and after a hasty registration and an even briefer stretch we were off just ahead of schedule at around 3pm.

Having been so grateful for a musical boost towards the end of my last fixture, I was very disappointed to hear my cheap music player fail halfway round the second loop of the fields that started the race. Shortly afterwards a pretty debilitating headache followed, and I contemplated calling the day short and focusing on training for next weekend.

But I'm pleased to say I persevered, focusing on the good number of supportive spectators, including my mum and dad; the contrasting site of golfers enduring the weather to stroll along the fairways of the Sandy Lodge course; on the swirling rain; on the steady incline that accompanied the forth kilometere; on anything to take my mind of my pounding temples. I took on water twice early on, an inconvenience I normally skip. By the time I reached the sixth marker, I realised that, despite my difficulties, I was on course for a decent time and accelerated towards seven and eight. I found myself amongst the semi-serious runners for the first time in the race, with their figure hugging, specialist clothing, wirey frames and smugly well-balanced postures, and I felt pretty good about life, in spite of, and perhaps because of, my scruffy t-shirt, second hand running shorts and battered shoes.

My time was in the end disappointing because of my second half efforts, coming in over 53 minutes, but perhaps satisfactory given my slight illness. I am aware, though, that every week I have an excuse for failing to land a new personal best, but really it all comes back to my preparation, or lack of it: not training enough in the week, not eating properly in the few days before hand, a few more ales than was really necessary between fixtures. All-in-all, though, I'm happy with my performances, but it would be a shame not to see how well I could do one week if I were to focus on my result as much as the gangly athletes that most weeks finish those few minutes before me.

It was strange being back on the playing fields, and as I rounded the forth last corner back onto the pitches by the finish line I was reminded of a thrashing my hockey team had received at the hands of the home side circa 1994, and of an unnecessary fracas my enthusiastic tackling had caused with my opposing number, almost wholly bald despite his selection for the under-14s. I felt like I'd saved some face by returning and competing again. And whatever his athletic achievements over the last 16 years, my hairline has only just started to retreat, so who's the winner really, eh?

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