Today, I completed my first running race. I faced down the heat in Lycra – from a time when my curves were in check. A time before babies, middle age and cookie love.

I had been halfheartedly training since January, pushing my lazy limbs to go further. Always horribly un-sporty, PE was my torment. I’d do anything to avoid it – fake notes and trimonthly periods – just to avoid being picked last.

I’d always longed to be lissom limbed, one of those ‘netball girls’ – flowing hair, pout and perky tits. However my self doubt, tragic perm and heavy thighs, left me on the sidelines.

I’ll never forget one sports day, circa 1990, trudging the field to the starters spot. Teenage eyes followed me, the chorus of “cauliflower head” filling the air. I’d go on to stumble in that sprint, skinning my knees in front of the chanters – kids can be shits sometimes.

Years of self loathing stretched out before me. Maudlin, patchouli scented, diary angst, with Indie ballads on repeat. Then came the diets, the overexercising, torturing myself by leafing through magazines. Comparing, always comparing – never thin enough, pretty enough, fun enough; it’s the curse of the perfectionist you see.

Fast forward a few decades and here I am, one June day getting ready for the Hull 10k. With a husband, a pre-schooler and a career of sorts, you could say I’ve come along way. Yet as I board the bus and pin on my race number, I swell with doubt. Should I be here? Am I good enough? Can I do this?

At the start line, the surging crowd pushes me forward. The sun burns as the music booms and runners jockey for position. Then we’re off! My feet find their rhythm, the muscle memory, the release. I feel invincible for a moment, the river breeze lifts me. Then, as we round the bend, the heat strikes, the thirst, the leaden legs; I’m back on the sports field with a stitch.

But a miracle happens – out of nowhere I dig a little deeper, dragging myself around the marina. Hitting the town centre, I feel I might actually do this. As sweat pours, I imagine laughing in the face of that gym teacher, who smirked as I fell.

I stumbled on jelly legs, as I passed 7k, 8k and 9k markers. The bystanders thronged, cheering us – the weary and wasted. Every inch of me ached, my lungs were on fire. Unexpectedly, a sob rose in me, nearly throwing me off course. Just then, I remembered the girl that hated herself, that denied the body that was powering me now.

Suddenly, the last yards were upon me, I saw the finish line ahead. Like some bizarre, ‘Chariots of Fire’ moment the elation kicked in and I began to run. I ran and I ran and then, just like that, I had done it!

As I hung my medal round my neck, I felt exhausted but elated. I returned home a little lighter, leaving a past self on the kerbside, where city streets meet. A sadder, teen self, in too baggy clothes and torn inside. In that moment, I felt strong, I felt proud of the body that had carried me through.