I have to admit, I really wasn’t looking forward to my latest long run.

It’s not even as though I’ve reached the stage where I can really classify my Sunday efforts as ‘long runs’, after all they’re barely registering double figures, let alone flirting with the kind of mileage some people run in the weeks before a marathon.

Still, the prospect of between 10 and 12 miles in the heat and humidity of France, where I’ve spent the past few days working whilst my parents look after my daughter, was enough to instil me with The Fear.

Perhaps it’s because my two previous runs since arriving here have rendered me a bedraggled wreck, so sweaty that my daughter tried to paddle in the pool that had spread around my feet after one of them.

And then, there are the scary French dogs. Once upon a run here, I had to barricade myself behind the gate of some total strangers and then beg them to drive me back home after being chased by a crazy canine.

On another occasion, the pet of some friends of my parents, was apparently so excited to see me run past, that she threw herself at me, drawing blood. I’m not sure I buy the ‘she won’t hurt a fly’ excuse any more.

I’ve now managed to mark out the safe routes, where I’m unlikely to have my run curtailed by curs with tails, but it does limit the opportunities in a country where it seems almost everyone has a dog.

So when my Dad offered to accompany me, to ensure I didn’t get lost, I had enough water and in order to offer the dogs an alternative, bigger, faster target, I jumped at the opportunity.

Thirteen years ago, we ran the London marathon together, dragging each other through the hard parts when we each hit the wall at separate times, finally crossing the line together in shared excitement and exhaustion.

It was my first marathon, his third, and I’ve run ever since. Through the trials and tribulations of marriage, divorce, heartache and loss, we’ve run together. It doesn’t happen very often, as we live a long way apart. But every time it does happen - even now Dad has swapped his trainers for bike tyres - it means something very special.

And so we moved through the honey, sun-dappled fields of south-west France, past quaint villages and along quiet roads, Dad handing me the water, and the sweets I’d pilfered from my daughter’s stash, talking about running and cycling, or just nothing at all.

Running steadily, one mile at a time, up and down hills, past sunflower crops, barely a car or canine in sight, I kept an easy rhythm for over 11 miles – and he was thrilled to report that unlike me, he barely broke a sweat.

Sadly my parents won’t be there when I head to our home city of York to run my next marathon there in October, but I’m fairly sure my Dad will be accompanying me in his mind, encouraging me on one mile at a time. And, though it’s quite a few years away, I do hope that - just as he helped me - I can one day run with my daughter - and keep it in the family for another generation.

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