🧭 Paula’s Passion vs. My Sanity
Paula loves trail races. She thrives on mud, mystery footing, and the kind of hills that make your lungs file for divorce. Me? I like road running. Flat. Preferably downhill. Ideally with cake at the end. But somehow, I found myself signed up for a half marathon along the Cornish Coastal Path—from Harlyn Bay to Padstow and back. Why? Because Paula.
📚 The Route I Shouldn’t Have Researched
I made the rookie mistake of reading the route description. It started on a beach (nice) and quickly escalated to “undulating, rugged coastal cliffs” via Stepper Point and Roundhole Point (not nice). I stopped reading. Just sat there, chin on the table, mentally Googling “how to fake an injury convincingly.”
🚐 Victor Prepares for Battle
Saturday. I get home from work to find Paula loading Victor like a woman possessed. She’d already smashed a Parkrun that morning and was now prepping for our overnight stay:
- Vest bladders: frozen solid (my genius idea—hydration by mile 11 or Tuesday)
- Gels: chillin’ like villains in the cool box
- Mattress: inflated, duvet fluffed, creaky noises fully operational
- Camping chairs: packed for dramatic post-run collapses
- Bubbly: one for luck, one for survival
- Snacks: half for carb-loading, half for panic-eating
⚓ Padstow: Harbour Views & Tupperware Missions
We wandered Padstow harbour, watching yacht folk sip wine while seagulls plotted pastry theft. Eventually, we parked in St Merryn—outside someone’s house. Our new Airbnb: The Curb. Paula sent me on a mission to find a Tupperware container. Not for leftovers. For her midnight pee. Dignity? Gone.
Dinner was a triumph of shame: deep-fried regret from the local chippy, soaked in vinegar and wrapped in paper. Perfect.
🌙 Night Before the Madness
We turned in early. I slept surprisingly well—until Paula’s midnight Tupperware moment rocked the van like a budget earthquake. She was trying to “aim with dignity.” I was trying not to laugh myself awake.
🏞️ Race Day: 13.1 Miles of Coastal Cruelty
Let me paint the picture: A scenic out-and-back half marathon along the Cornish coast. Sounds idyllic, right? Dolphins leaping, birds singing, gentle sea breeze. Lies. All lies.
- Weather: decent
- Rain: dodged (barely)
- Views: stunning—when I could lift my head between gasps
- Terrain: cliffs disguised as hills, paths disguised as ankle traps
Every climb was a vertical insult. And the worst part? Knowing I’d have to do it all again on the way back.
🐐 Paula the Mountain Goat
Paula doesn’t run—she levitates. She’s got three gears: fast, faster, and teleportation. While I trudged like a fridge-dragging snail, she floated up cliffs, filming motivational videos and probably knitting a jumper. She waited at the top of each climb, cheering me on like a caffeinated coach with a GoPro.
🐄 Gorse, Cattle & Cliffside Despair
We climbed stiles, ran through gorse, and passed cows who looked at us like we were unhinged. There were moments—honest, desperate moments—where I considered lying down in the ferns and becoming one with the landscape. But Paula’s voice echoed from the next summit: “You’ve got this!” I’d reach her 20 minutes later, wheezing like a haunted accordion.
🔥 Chafing, Lycra & Lobster Bits
By mile 6, my legs had resigned. My thighs were jelly babies in trail shoes. The path narrowed to single file, with one wrong step meaning “goodbye ankle, hello air ambulance.”
- Lycra undershorts: essential
- Anti-chafe cream: applied liberally
- Reality: by mile 5, I was waddling like a penguin with sunburn
- Pain scale: somewhere between “mild discomfort” and “sandpapered by Satan”
🔥 Chafing, Lycra & Lobster Bits
By mile 6, my legs had resigned. My thighs were jelly babies in trail shoes. The path narrowed to single file, with one wrong step meaning “goodbye ankle, hello air ambulance.”
- Lycra undershorts: essential
- Anti-chafe cream: applied liberally
- Reality: by mile 5, I was waddling like a penguin with sunburn
- Pain scale: somewhere between “mild discomfort” and “sandpapered by Satan”
📸 Shame, Survival & Sudocrem
What kept me going?
- Paula’s motivational yells from the horizon
- The shame of being filmed crawling like a dehydrated tortoise
I couldn’t let those Instagram stories win.
🏁 The Finish Line
I did it. 13.1 miles of sheer, scenic hell. I’m alive. Slightly broken. And full of admiration for the elite-level nutters who call this “fun.” You people are not okay. But I respect you.
At 57, I should be doing gentle downhill 5Ks followed by cake. Not this gladiatorial punishment disguised as a “fun run.”
⚠️ Final Thought
Next time someone says “coastal path,” I’m throwing them off it.