Why relays matter...

Earlier this year, I stopped running. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly. It felt like something was being taken from me, piece by piece. Injury after injury had worn me down. Every time I thought I’d turned a corner, my body failed me again. It wasn’t just frustrating, it had got into my head. Running had always been the thing that gave me structure, pride, and an outlet, and suddenly it became the thing that left me angry and defeated. Eventually, I just couldn’t keep going. For five long months, I barely ran.

I told myself it was what I needed for my mental health. Maybe it was, but it left a big hole in my life. Without running, I felt flat. I missed the feeling of moving freely, of working hard, of being part of something bigger than just myself. And more than anything, I missed running with my friends

What pulled me back wasn’t some lightning-bolt moment, it was a mate. Paul kept nudging me, reminding me that I wasn’t done. He believed I could get back, that I could fight for a spot in the Scottish M50 A team. At first, I brushed it off. In July, running at 5 minute kilometres was enough to leave me shattered. I could barely imagine being fit enough to compete, let alone contribute to a team chasing medals. The gap between where I was and where I needed to be felt impossibly wide.

Then something shifted. I reminded myself that I wasn’t just a runner, I was also a coach. If an athlete came to me in the same position, I wouldn’t tell them to give up. I’d tell them to build a plan, to trust the process, and to believe that small steps could lead somewhere big. So I took my own advice and I started coaching myself.

The early days were so humbling. Runs that used to feel like a jog left me bent over, and gasping. My progress was slow and almost invisible at times. However I stuck with it, and each week I ticked the boxes, built the consistency, layered the work. Then, little by little, I began to feel glimmers of hope. In mid-August I raced twice, not perfect performances, but enough to tell me the plan was working. Enough to quietly whisper, “Maybe you can do this.”

The key race came on September 13, the Wellington 10km Road Champs and the selection race. The one I’d built everything towards. Just as things were finally lining up, I got sick a few days out. I felt absolutely robbed! After all the hard work, was this how it was going to end? I knew I absolutely had to race but couldn’t run the race I wanted, so I had to change the goal. Instead of chasing a fast time, I focused on doing enough and just proving I could handle the effort...that I could be relied upon in the team. I had to swallow my pride and run a personal worst. In the end, it was enough. I ran smart, and I did what I needed to do. To my great relief, I made the team.

The pride I felt in that moment wasn’t about running fast. It was about clawing my way back from almost nothing. About refusing to let that dark five-month break be the end of the story. It was about believing in myself again.

Now, with National Road Relays just days away, I feel a surge of excitement that I honestly wasn’t sure I’d feel again. Road Relays are different from anything else. They’re not just a race, they’re an experience. They’re mates squeezed into an average motel room the night before, nerves buzzing as we try to pretend we’ll sleep well. They’re the supermarket dash for coffee, cereal, milk, lollies, and a six-pack for the van. They’re the early morning wake-up, the shaky hands pinning numbers on singlets, the whispered nerves as you check in with teammates and know you’re all in it together.

Here’s the thing...running is such an individual sport. Day after day, it’s you versus yourself...your body, your watch, your limits. Relays turn all of that on its head. For once, it’s not just about you. It’s about the team. Your leg isn’t run for your own PB or individual glory, it’s run for your mates, for the club, for something bigger. You’re not out there alone, you’re part of a chain, and the weight of the baton, real or metaphorical, is shared across every runner. That’s what makes relays so special.

They’re also just so much fun in a way running often isn’t. I love seeing the decorated vans rolling up, plastered with slogans, balloons, and streamers. The teams rocking face paint, coloured hair ties, matching socks. Everyone showing up with their own little traditions, jokes, and rituals. It’s silly, but it adds to the magic. This mix of fierce competition and childlike play that makes relays unlike anything else in the sport.

They’re standing by the roadside screaming until your throat burns, because you care as much about your mate’s leg as your own. They’re lining up for your leg, knowing the whole team is counting on you, and leaving every single ounce of yourself out on the road. They’re collapsing after your leg, sweaty, dry-wretching and wrecked. Then cracking a beer at 10am...because at relays, that’s never too early.

They’re the celebrations afterward, whether you medal or not, because the day itself is worth celebrating. They’re catching up with old friends you might only see once a year, but who feel like lifelong mates because you’ve fought the same battles together on the road for years. They’re the club dinner that night, raising a glass to every grade, every runner, every leg of the journey. For me, yes, they’re the inevitable night out where you forget you’re 50 and let yourself get dragged a little too far into the fun.

Road relays are everything that’s great about running. They’re what pulled me back when I thought I was done. They gave me a reason to fight through the doubts, to believe again, to put the work in.

This year, I get to stand on the start line again, shoulder to shoulder with mates, chasing the same goal. I can’t wait!

If you're doing karaoke in Palmy North at 2am post Relays, you might be out too late...or are you?