andrew mitchell

It’s been three years since I broke my hip. Not a hairline fracture, not a sprain; proper shattered. Three breaks in the left femoral neck, which required a dynamic hip screw and months of physical rehabilitation. The sort of injury that alters the way you move through the world. I remember being sat in our spare room, strung out of my mind on top shelf painkillers, unable to do much.

At the time of my calamitous fall, I was told I shouldn’t run again. Or ride a bike. My hip was repaired, but fragile, thanks to a diagnosis of osteopenia, a condition where your bones begin to thin. As 40 hit, I started to, quite literally, drop to bits. It was the kind of warning that you don’t ignore.

So I stopped running and cycling dead. And, for a couple of years, that was that.

Running had once been a small but steady part of my weekly routine. Always done through gritted teeth; I knew it was good for me despite having never once felt the runner's high I've heard so much about. I'd twice before completed the Great North Run, raising money for Parkinson’s UK, a cause close to home. Emma’s dad, Dave, lives with Parkinson’s, so the GNR had always been about more than finishing times. It was about whacking hundreds in the fundraising tin. It was a way of turning helplessness into something active.

Still, I accepted my consultant's verdict, no more running. I focused on recovery. Strengthened the hip joint slowly with multiple rounds of daily exercises. Every day, teaching my body how to trust itself again, and not collapse in a heap. BTW looking for a quick mobility fix? Stand on one leg while brushing your teeth and swap legs halfway through, it’s a gamechanger.

But then came Emma’s diagnosis. Suddenly, our lives were overtaken by new routines; hospital appointments, consultations, endless scans. And in that shitty sea of uncertainty, Macmillan Cancer Support became a lighthouse.

They were more than a resource. They were clarity and calm. Along with Bowel Cancer UK's incredible forum, Macmillan’s website was the only one we truly trusted. Free from the noise and misinformation that seems to echo around a diagnosis like this. I'm looking at you Robbie, Emma's sisters downstairs neighbour and your 'Turbo Cancer' bullshit.

Beyond their online outreach, their physical presence within NHS wards, and dovetailed integration into the cancer care system, was invaluable. They were woven into the fabric of Emma’s treatment, and, as a result, our lives.

So when watching the 2024 GNR on the telly last year, eyes filled with tears in awe of the everyday athletes, how could I not sign up for another go?! Even though, physically, I still probably shouldn’t be running. But let's not dwell on that one eh?!

Starting Over

I slowly began running again in Autumn last year, using a version of the trusted Couch to 5K as my restart. Soon after, I signed up to the Runna app to structure a plan, complete with a body weight programme, to build up key muscles to help with the discomfort. My hip was NOT happy, flaring up more than once, groaning and aching at what I was putting it through. My gait had changed, as had my speed. Mr. Tumia, my consultant, had warned me, this isn’t a great idea. But I had to try.

Running had always been solitary for me. Headphones in, podcasts on, eyes fixed forward, one foot in front of the other, all through sensationally laboured breathing. But then in April, everything stopped. Emma went into surgery, and I became her full-time carer. Training fell to the wayside, despite it being somewhat of a release, a way out of the house at 5am before she woke up. However, when someone you love is recovering from a giant operation, the rhythm of your life changes entirely.

Alongside the change in routine came a shift in my mental health. I live with cyclothymia, a mood disorder on the bipolar spectrum. After spending much of the past year in a state of manic energy; cooking, cleaning, crying, caring; the pendulum, as it always does, swung back, dropping me into a deep depressive phase. The kind that makes even small things feel enormous. The kind that makes getting out for a run feel impossible.

My bodyweight exercises fell away. The consistency I'd built crumbled. But I kept the race in mind. Friends and family had joined in and Team Booze, the name given to our first GNR dalliance a decade ago was reborn. We were back under starters orders. There was zero chance of me not making the start line in September.

A New Kind of Running

On the longest day of the year, I joined Sarah, Emma’s sister, at a Macmillan fundraiser at Fausto Coffee in Roker. We met at the ungodly hour of 3.30am to hightail it to Sunderland, where we ran a few gentle miles along the beach with fifty or sixty others. Afterwards, we toasted the dawn with mimosas and an amazing picky breakfast. It was the first time I’d ever run with someone else. and you know what, it felt great!

The simplicity of it. The shared pace and support. So, since then, Sarah and I have been running together. Not all the time, but at least once a week. We’ve found a rhythm. My pace has slowed slightly. Hers has picked up. Benjamin Button style, we’ve met somewhere in the middle, where conversation is easy(ish) and the need for headphones and specific BPMs fades away. .

For me, it has completely changed the nature of the run. It's no longer about personal bests, it’s about being present. Being together. Emma and I lived with Sarah for several months when she was diagnosed and our house was being fettled. Our coming together to run 13.1 miles felt right.

So Race Day is looming again, and while a part of me still would love to break the two-hour mark, having missed it by 30 seconds last time when my legs worked properly. But that’s absolutely not the priority anymore.

This time, I want to take it in. The atmosphere, the energy, the stories of other runners, each with their own personal quest in front of them. My previous two efforts on the course were blinkered by that ridiculous need to achieve.

After both mine and Emma’s surgeries, I’ve learned not to take movement for granted. Whether it’s walking after injury or simply managing to get out of the house when depression tries to anchor you down. This run isn’t about achievement. It’s about acknowledgement. About marking the end of a year of treatment and fear, twelve months of resilience and support. I’ll be a clip at the end.

Support Us

Sarah, in the most generous act, has even chosen to include fundraising at her 40th birthday party later this month. There’ll be a big raffle, full of wonderful donations from lovely people, with all the proceeds going to Macmillan. It’s a selfless act, folding support for others into a day that should really be all about her. But that’s who Sarah is. I couldn’t be more proud to be running with her.

If you’re able to support us, we’d be incredibly grateful. Every donation helps Macmillan continue to provide information, guidance, and face to face support for people facing the hardest chapters of their lives. We’re proud to run for them and hopeful for a future where they’re no longer needed.

But until then, we’ll keep going.

Pop a pound in the hat here – https://www.justgiving.com/team/teambooze