Two days to go. We have a lot of paddling ahead of us. Don’t do anything silly, right?

Wrong.

Krista and I are adventurers, and outdoor enthusiasts. We will never do nothing if something is waiting for us. We will never be indoors if we can be outdoors. And so this morning we set off on the first subway train of the morning to get ourselves into mischief.

Nearly a year ago, Krista and I decided to run a footrace as part of our Falling Down the Thames paddling adventure. We briefly considered the London Marathon, but quickly discovered that the chances of us being allowed into the race without raising a huge pile of money for a charity of someone else’s choosing were virtually nil. Instead, we decided to run the Fuller’s Thames Towpath Ten mile race. Less painful than a marathon, the race had the added advantage of having the river’s name in the title. As though to add icing, each finisher would receive a specially-commissioned pint beer glass.

Writing to the race’s organizers, we were told that entries would likely open in January, and several weeks would pass before the entry limit was reached. Krista and I were among the first entrants for 2015.

The morning found Krista and I waiting at Paddington station for the first train to Waterloo station while nursing a coffee each. From Waterloo we caught a train destined for Chiswick, and at each station more runners entrained. At the Chiswick train station we followed the more experienced runners to the race’s starting line.

The weather was fabulous. The organizers had amassed a terrific crew of volunteers. And exactly nine o’clock, we all set off. Everything went perfectly for a little less than one mile. At that point, a brick in the sidewalk, slightly higher than its neighbours, grabbed the toe of my right shoe, and I went tumbling forward. To give me credit, the crash was spectacular. The ground came to me in slow motion, and when Krista and some of our fellow runners got me to my feet, I found that my left knee was bleeding rather freely. A couple of patches on my right hand were doing the same. I looked a mess. I had also slightly twisted my right ankle.

But you don’t cross an ocean to run less than ten percent of a race, and so we continued on. As we covered the miles, and the blood ran further and further down my leg, the more sympathy I got from race marshals. Goodness knows how many people offered to call for first aid. I was feeling rather special, even though we were very close to the back of the pack.

We arrived at the five mile marker, and a nagging injury in Krista’s right knee began to resurface. At least she claimed that an injury was troubling her. Part of me suspected that Krista was faking an injury so as to draw some of the sympathy away from me. We alternated walking and running for the remainder of the race, and completed the route in a few second shy of two hours. As we approached the finish line we heard clapping, and thought that it was sweet that fellow runners were cheering us home. We quickly discovered that they were clapping for assorted age-class winners. They hadn’t waited to start the awards ceremony until we finished. They had, however, saved us a beer glass each.

Tomorrow we depart for Kemble, and the Head of the Thames.

- Glen