I was lucky: my backpack softened the fall and stopped me from hitting my head. The car was going fast enough not to stop at seeing someone in the road but not fast enough to kill, and I’d gone with what seemed at the time to be a ridiculous natural instinct – putting my arm out to “stop” the car. That meant my arm broke but nothing else was harmed (and, obviously, it was my writing hand…).

Needless to say, the driver was forced to take me to A&E by the hoards of cyclists who had gathered to pick me and my bits up. After battling to stop nurses from cutting through my favourite running top (a broken arm < writing off the best bit of kit, amirite?). I had my broken bones pulled apart, my arm wrapped in a cast and was sent on my way. Seven days later, a scan revealed that the bones had slipped back so I had an emergency operation to have pins fixed, after which eight weeks of hand physiotherapy began. So far, so grim. It got grimmer when my consultant told me that I couldn’t weight train for six months and wouldn’t be able to run until there was “absolutely no pain in the arm at all.”

My dreams of cantering down the Champs-Élysées were crushed, as were any hopes of finishing the F45 Challenge I’d been following at the time. A horrible scar now ran down my wrist as a permanent reminder that I wasn’t as invincible as I’d imagined. Maybe it sounds odd then to say that being run over was probably one of the best things to ever happen to me.

“I was hit by a car mid-run and, in hindsight, it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to me”