Home Thoughts Weekly

After ominous forecasts for strong winds , race day dawns with cool temperatures, persistent drizzle but no wind. Hurrah! Tom and Ma head off to secure a good spot to watch the runners and I walk through Cardiff in my running gear, an old jumper to keep me warm and a tent-like rain poncho. There’s half an hour to go before I can enter my race pen, forty-five minutes before the elite runners set off. I faff around for a bit, skipping and stretching, brave the portaloos which are surprisingly ok and leave my jumper and poncho to be recycled. Then it’s time to take up my position in my pen. This point - the long wait for the starting klaxon - is a time for reflection. I think about Dad, I think about other families who have lost loved ones to pancreatic cancer, I think about my grandchildren and the future. I worry about how vulnerable we all are, some 20,000 runners and the spectators who’ve turned out on this damp day. I fret about about an outbreak of runners trots. AND THEN ...

I thought I’d give up this year . I decided that everyone’s seen enough pictures of me running in my Pancreatic Cancer UK vest so I’d run the Cardiff Half Marathon in six weeks time for myself. I thought it would be too embarrassing to open a new JustGiving page and announce - especially to those people who’ve already supported the charity I care so deeply about - that I’m fundraising for Pancreatic Cancer UK for a third time. But pancreatic cancer doesn’t give up . It’s still a silent killer and less than 7% of people with pancreatic cancer in the UK will survive beyond five years. A glance at Pancreatic Cancer UK’s Tribute Wal l shows what this means in terms of heartache and loss. At times it feels as if the sums I’ve raised through the generosity of others - some of whom are people I’ve never met but who have kindly lent their support nevertheless - are tiny drops in an ocean of need. What difference can such small amounts really make? Well, one of the reasons I d...