I have a slight confession. By Tim Budd

I have a slight confession. 

I am not a runner. Never have been. I'm barely even a walker. I hated running at school, and the most I ever did was running around a football pitch, attempting to stop someone scoring. Once my friends worked out how to pass, that became pretty redundant in terms of fun. 

In high school I barely did any real exercise, and in university I didn't run, didn't really climb much - although I considered myself a climber, and I hadn't even heard of fell running. Oh yes, I walked a little bit, and I enjoyed that, but running? I laughed at those who went out for 5 miles, 10 miles and more. Why would you ever want to do that?

Then a friend in the Expedition society entered the London marathon, and twisted his ankle about 5 weeks out, and passed the entry on to, of all people, me. 

I started out running once a week- ignoring distance, mainly because I had nothing to conveniently measure it with, but rather for time. I ran for an hour. I ran for 2 hours. And a week before the marathon, I thought... I wonder if I can actually run for 26 miles? That’s a long way.

So, going against all marathon intelligence (of which I was blissfully unaware at that time), I mapped out 28 miles on an OS map, got a rucksack, some water and bananas and went out and ran it. - Well. I ran 25 miles and walked the last 3, but figured that I'd be ok for the next week. 

I went. I ran it. I got around in 4 and a half hours. To be honest, it was the best sightseeing trip around London that I've ever done. 

However. I still didn't really get it. 

I left to go to Japan, and ran a bit there, enjoying moving faster than walking pace in the outdoors, though I was really much more into climbing. Back in the UK, again, I was more into climbing- and ran a little to lose weight. 

The partial epiphany came when my climbing partner and I started doing adventure racing. We knew we were rubbish at running, so spent as much time on Bikes as possible, and just gave the running part of it cursory lip service. 

As time went by, we realised that running was a bit of a necessity, and so started practising a bit more. 

A couple of times we headed to the peak district and it rained, so (shock horror) we ran instead of climbing, so as not to waste the trip. 

I got a place in the London marathon again, and clocked 3:45, and for 3 years running I entered the only fell race I could get to- Box hill fell race, getting faster each time by about 5 minutes. 

Yet, I still wasn't a runner. 

We moved up north and joined Glossopdale Harriers. I can't remember why I wanted to go fell running. The freedom? The speed? The delight at thrashing downhill as fast as possible? The feeling of elation at getting to the top of a climb for a great view? All of them really.

I’m not fast, certainly when I look at the times a lot of the best runners are posting, and indeed, looking back at the times being posted in the past by some of our club elders, I realise just how far I have yet to go. Those race times and places from a decade ago and more, crikey…. Whenever I think I’m getting OK at this running lark, I have a look back at those results realise just how fast they were. Even now, a podium place, though a possibility if the right race is chosen and enough people fail to turn up, is a bit of a pipe dream. It’s almost like I’m a bit of a rubbish trophy hunter. 

I’d love to win, but just don’t have the legs to carry it off. 

Slowly, but surely, I’ve started getting sucked into getting faster. Practising running. Practising hills. Getting stronger.

Perhaps I’ve begun to think like a runner, but to be honest. I don’t think I’m there yet. 

Tim