Barry Island 10K 2025

On 15th June 2025, I did something I once would’ve laughed at.

I ran the Barry Island 10K.

Not gracefully.  Not quickly.  But completely.  I made it round.  And that still feels slightly surreal to write.

Let’s get something straight.  I did not sign myself up for this race.  Stuart did.  Now, to be fair, there may have been a moment where I said, “Yeah, go on then,” in what I believed was a casual, non-binding conversational tone.  Apparently, that counted as consent.  Next thing I know, I’m entered.

Stuart has absolutely smashed his own running journey, half marathon after half marathon, then taking on the legendary London Marathon like it was just another casual challenge.  Watching him push himself has been inspiring.  Slightly intimidating.  But mostly inspiring.  He believed I could do this long before I did.  And sometimes that’s all it takes, someone seeing a version of you that you haven’t quite met yet.

When I first started my weight loss journey, the aim wasn’t medals or race bibs.  It was survival mode.  Feel better.  Move more.  Take control.  I wasn’t dreaming of 10Ks.  I was just trying to get through a workout without feeling defeated.

One walk became regular walks.  Walks became short jogs.  Jogging became something I didn’t dread.  And somewhere along the way, the idea of running 10K shifted from impossible to maybe.  Still unlikely, but maybe.

Standing on the start line at Barry Island, there was a moment of “What have I agreed to?” The atmosphere was electric.  Runners everywhere.  Music.  Nervous laughter.  And me, internally renegotiating the life choices that led to this moment.

The first few kilometres weren’t too bad.  Adrenaline is a wonderful liar.  Then halfway arrived and my legs filed a formal complaint.  But I didn’t stop.  I slowed when I needed to.  I breathed.  I focused on getting to the next corner, the next lamppost, the next cheering group.

And what a crowd.

The people of Barry were unreal.  Strangers cheering like you were leading the race.  Kids shouting encouragement.  Music playing outside houses.  It genuinely lifted you when the tank felt low.

And then the garden hoses.

On a warm June day, those unexpected soakings were a blessing.  A blast of cold water as you ran past felt like a mini revival.  I was grateful for every single one.  Never thought I’d be thankful for being sprayed while running down a street, but here we are.  It didn’t feel like just a race.  It felt like a whole community willing you to succeed.

I wasn’t chasing a personal best, although, as this was my first race, anything was a personal best.  I wasn’t racing anyone else.  I was racing the old version of me, the one who wouldn’t even have considered standing at that start line.  And I won.

The clock might not say fast, but the medal says I finished.  And that’s more than enough.

I ran 10K.  Not because I woke up one day fearless.  Not because I suddenly became an athlete.  But because I kept showing up.  Because a friend believed in me.  Because somewhere along the way I stopped quitting on myself.

I didn’t think this was something I’d ever achieve.

But I did.

And yeah, I’m proud.  Very proud.

Also mildly concerned about what Stuart is signing me up for next.