It was at the Race For Life. (£2,400 raised; 45 minute finish… step aside, Nell McAndrew.) With the event being in aid of Cancer Research UK, each participant was sent a sign to wear on their back, with space to write a dedication for whoever they were racing for life for. Some people raced for their parents, some for their children, some for their patients, some for themselves. In absence of anyone else to race for, my sign stated that my Race For Life was being done for, well, me.
I race for life for…
‘Evry1 whose suffering with cancer’
I wish I could tell you I was making this up. I swear, you could hear the tuts from heaven.
But there’s a business idea in this, no? Surely, beside the Cancer Research merchandise stall and the portaloos and the burger van, there’s space for a proofreading service? In fact, screw money-making – I’d gladly do it for nowt.
That said, though, I fear it would make for a far less entertaining race. And, believe me, it wasn’t half entertaining. Because it was those signs – as well as the cheering onlookers, the kind pats on my back and the frankly terrifying volume of pink tutus – that got me round. Besides, who am I to change such a terrific event that does so much to assist a hugely important charity? In fact, the Race For Life is so terrific that I’ll be doing it again next year. And, provided there’s been no return of The Bullshit, I’ll be racing with a different dedication on my back. In 2010, I think, I’ll race for life for: ‘Evry1 who helped 2 get me thru da Bullshit. Your the best.’