"Why do you think you are here?"

“So, why do you think you are here Robin?”

“Due to you the fact that you are wearing a Macmillan Cancer lanyard, and you are the Macmillan Specialist Urology Nurse, I think I am here for you to tell me that I have cancer.”

This is what I felt like saying. Instead I said “I’m here to receive the results of my biopsy.” Like that, matter-of-fact. I think, deep down, even before the obvious visual cues, I knew what was coming. There was a deep, pit-of-my-stomach feeling that I had cancer. There were no physical symptoms, at least not since I had blood in my urine some 8 months earlier. But as the tests, scans and finally the world’s most undignified biopsy mounted up I just knew it was serious, and it was. The news was that I had advanced, localised prostate cancer. I had two treatment options: radiotherapy, or surgery to remove my prostate.

Naturally one of the first questions I asked was “would I be able to run again?”

“Oh yes, we had a gentleman who was back to running marathons in a year or two.”

We ultrarunners face challenges head-on; it’s what we do. But this seemed incomprehensible, I couldn’t compute that I might only be at marathon distance in a year or two. A year! I had big plans, big races to do, and quite frankly this cancer malarky was just a bloody inconvenience. It might seem strange but it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t recover. I am young (48), fit, and apart from the occasional Ben and Jerry’s binge I eat healthily enough. I have never had any major surgery and I hadn’t had a day off work through illness for about 15 years. Prostate cancer was just a nuisance, and I decided to take the treatment option that would give the best chance of getting rid of it for good and get me back up and running (literally) with the least side-effects as soon as possible.

Having spoken to both the radiotherapist and the surgeon I was assured that surgery would be the best option. Right-o then, I thought; let’s get organised. I was originally given the 16th December for a surgery date, which meant 10 days self-isolation due to Covid. Being divorced this meant not seeing my son for 10 days, but forever trying to be positive I set myself some running challenges. For three weekends I took to the hills. I did an anticlockwise Abraham’s Tea Round, the Yorkshire Three Peaks in a hurricane, and a took a very ambitious and ultimately unsuccessful attempt at a solo unsupported Bob Graham (I binned it at Lord’s Rake and hiked back via the Moses trod). I was determined to be as fit as I could be before the surgery and continued my training as per normal.

On the 11th December I was informed that my surgery had been cancelled and rescheduled for the 6th January. I was quite philosophical about this at first, but the thought of self-isolating and being on my own over Christmas and New Year had the potential to really grind my gears. My running coach, Paul Tierney, was so supportive, speaking to friends of his who were runners but also in the medical profession, to try and get some advice that was sorely lacking from the clinicians who were meant to be caring for me.  We worked out a training plan that would ensure I was in top shape before surgery, and to try and keep my spirits up I rediscovered my love of cooking fine dining.

I tapered before the surgery date and headed into hospital as planned, and by 19:00 on the 6th January I woke sans prostate. My surgery had taken a few hours longer than the guy in the next bed, but I didn’t think that was much to worry about. Sadly I was wrong. Despite being told otherwise by the registrar and the specialist nurse, the surgery had not saved both nerves required for erectile function, and it also later transpired that it hadn’t cleared the cancer…

7 ½ weeks after surgery I sat facing an oncologist who rather matter-of-factly told me that my cancer was incurable, and “hopefully she’d be treating me for quite a few years, although there are no guarantees.”

What do you do when faced with bombshell after bombshell? What would you do? I know what I did. I reached for my trainers and headed out for a run.

I did 8km. 8… slow… kilometres. Welcome to the start of the rest of my life.