As I hurtled towards a cheering crowd and the local newspaper’s photographer, I felt it: vomit, threatening to rise up from my stomach and out of my mouth. The headline ‘Local girl vomits after 10k race’ flashed across my mind.

I crossed the finish line at one hour and six minutes, gutted to have missed my target but thankful that I was able to dart out of sight to, erm, recover in private.

Since then, I’ve continued to have a tricky relationship with speed and it’s only recently that the way I feel about my pace has been completely transformed. I’ve always chased the numbers on the treadmill, compulsively checked how I’m doing on my Fitbit and pushed myself far beyond what feels comfortable.

I’ve celebrated when I’ve run faster and further than ever before and then felt crushingly disappointed in myself when my performance wasn’t up to par. I’ve been caught up in a self-imposed pressure to always be progressing.

Need for speed: “How I’ve made peace with being a slow runner – and you can too”