If Carlsberg made years...

The title of this blog came to me as I was rounding a turn I'd taken on about 25 of the past 31 days, during yet another run, somewhere just past the twelve minute mark. I was watching the cars pass to my right, now a rabbit scampering up into the Town Mead, now my feet, and I look up in time to see a Carlsberg truck passing overhead on the M25.

Indeed, I thought. If Carlsberg made years...

Then too, this wasn't to be an ordinary year from the off. That said, I'd not have been terrifically disappointed if I'd have had half the success, because for me the success is really in the trying - or better still, in having the courage to persevere when the going gets ludicrous. To flip the doubters the bird, press shoulders back, even when I'm limping, and go forth to Buzz. I've never buzzed louder than this year and it's been absolutely magic.

There I was at the start of 2018, asking myself 'What would you do if you weren't afraid?'

2018, mate. 2018.

The pinnacle of this year: being honoured by my running tribe with the title Realbuzz Performance of the Year, coming atop a list of performances I am nowhere near delivering, yet still they thought of me. Every time I ask why, my eyes well up again.

I am so proud of that glorious 5:29:08 - a 21 minute PB - at the Chicago marathon (coincidence really IS cancelled) finding its way into their hearts. My good heavens, that was king catalyst amongst all things ever to touch my life and has put the mantra in my head that I must now earn it. I told myself on yesterday's day 30 of the month long Marcothon challenge that if my performance was a champion then I must now run like a champion. And there I only went and for the first time in my life clocked a sub-30 minute 5k. With...wait for it...21 seconds to spare.

21. 21. 21.

It's that trisomy that's changed our family's course forever. It's a talisman, and it really seems no coincidence that these 21s have found their way into the other side of my life in 2018.

It remains my duty to prove to the world - in any way I can - that slow is not broken. It is my duty to be a role model to my son. I have to be the best me I can be, and I thank everyone who's ever given me an 'atta girl' for anything I've done, as you've helped me find who that 'best me' is.

And so goes the personal annual, for posterity's sake...

In 2018, I found trails. I fought my way through injury to finish a half marathon in front of the pacer for the first time in March. I hobbled home in Brighton on a broken shoe with unbroken pride in April, walked the South Coast for marathon 5 in May before summiting Scafell Pike and putting a demon to rest once and for all. June's Realbuzz gathering down Hawkesbury way got me a 5k without stopping beside the powerhouse known as Libby and so went the bit between my teeth. More please. More.

July - oh JULY! Ultra Yve, Ultra Bev, Ultra Max and the magic Buzzer baton tromped across that roasting chalky Race to the Stones Ridgeway, supported by the magic pinging from the messenger thread and the world class sock retrieval service by our Tony, blistered toes were nothing for the pride that followed. I left a mere job to start work with a purpose. I spoke at the World Down Syndrome Congress. Our little family video of truth went a little bit viral. I summitted Scafell Pike again, because I could. Just for shits and giggles.

Tiger Mom roared. Rukai soared.

July was triumphant. July was painful. July was conflicting. My heart was so tired of defending disability. Of explaining why my son has a right to exist.

So rather than beat my head against the wall, I ran some more.

On to August, 35 miles and four hours off that 50k time with my Iron friend Kate. The South Coast Challenge didn't even leave a mark, and now - NOW - I'm feeling it. Mad Max? The woman, not the mum, not the campaigner, not the employee, not daughter, wife, sister in law, cousin, enemy, none of these. Mad Max came back in August.

I think I may have rested in September. Couple days and back in the gym. And then came Chicago.

I went home alone. I visited my Dad's grave, I passed all the sites I needed to see, I saw the original tribe, I stayed off my feet, I ate all the pizza in town, I foam rolled into oblivion, and then I went out with an old friend and truly enjoyed a marathon for the first time in my life. Triumph. Bliss. This is what I came for. And got my medal from The Paula. Come ON. Carlsberg year. All day long.

Snowdonia. Day before my birthday. Gathering of the tribe and off we went round that mighty mountain. Some were so fast, some were not. We were near the back and griped our way around grins. Me and the super Swede, doing a super Snowdon. And there, then, I thought it was over.

Not quite. Chairman Jim aka Gloshawk and his gauntlet of the mysterious Marcothon. Run 25 minutes or 3 miles every day in December.

I may be tired but I'm a Buzzer.

I ran. I got to day 30 and smashed that PB, and cried and couldn't even see straight. Day 31, finished, wrapped in a shiny box with a giant orange bow. When you are looking for the purpose in your life sometimes you have to make it happen.

So here we are. I want to tell everyone reading this that I think you are mighty and marvellous and unbeatable and legendary and all those superlatives that there isn't enough time for. Thank you for the journey. Onward we go into 2019.