Cleared to run (and my chiropractor is more excited than I am)

Three days out from my first race in years, and the picture came together today.

Pilates in the morning, then an hour later an easy run to break in my brand-new shoes — New Balance 880s, fitted properly at the running shop, sized up two like my old ones so my feet have room to swell and move. And I have to say: they’re the most comfortable running shoes I’ve ever put on. Nice and bouncy, no rubbing, no complaints. My feet were quietly delighted. Short and easy, exactly how you’re meant to break shoes in, and they passed with flying colours.

But the bigger news is my back.

For weeks it’s been the one thing I’ve been watching — the recurring niggle, the weak link, the reason for a whole recovery week and a growing team of professionals. And this week my sports chiropractor put hands on it, gave me a set of strengthening exercises, booked me out four weeks (not weekly-forever, which tells me he actually thinks I’m on track), and then — this is the part that got me — said he’s genuinely excited about my race. So excited he asked me to message him afterward to tell him how it went and how it felt.

You don’t get “excited” and “message me after” from the person who assessed your back if he’s worried about it. That, right there, was my clearance. The fear I’d been carrying — will my body actually hold? — got answered by the one person qualified to answer it. The back is ready. I’m cleared to run.

Which leaves me with exactly one nerve remaining, and it’s a much smaller one: I’m a little anxious about being surrounded by all those people.

And I know, rationally, that this is the most ordinary first-race feeling there is. The crowd thins out in the first kilometre. Nobody’s watching me. Everyone’s lost in their own run, their own pace, their own walls. I can start at the back, let the fast ones go, and run my own easy, walk-broken race with room to breathe. The anticipation is worse than the reality — everyone says so.

But knowing that and feeling it are two different things, and I’d rather be honest here than pretend I’m cooler about it than I am. I’m nervous. First-timer nervous. The good kind, probably — the kind that means it matters.

So: comfortable shoes, a cleared back, a chiropractor in my corner who wants a match report, and a small, human flutter of nerves about the crowd. Three days to go. Let’s find out what a start line feels like.