🩺 Disclaimer:

All opinions expressed are my own and not those of the NHS, the NMC, or the Upper GI team—who, while excellent at managing perforated ulcers and bile leaks, remain strangely uninterested in my 2k split times.

No scopes were delayed, no patients were harmed, and no MDT WhatsApp threads were consulted before publishing this blog. Any references to exercise-induced breathlessness are purely personal and not to be mistaken for clinical symptoms—although a debrief in the theatre coffee room may still be required.

How it all started

A few weeks ago, our son spotted a colourful school noticeboard poster: “Junior Parkrun – Free Sports Activity for Kids!”

And just like that, we were dragged—smiling, reluctantly stretching hamstrings we’d forgotten we had—into the chaotic charm that is Junior Parkrun. Now, as veteran observers of the adult Parkrun (you know, that glorious Saturday morning 5k where people run, sweat, and then Instagram it), we were aware of the concept.

What we didn’t expect was how rapidly the junior version would morph from “that cute weekend activity” into a bi-weekly fitness humiliation ritual for two fairly active-ish parents.

The Start Line: Innocence Meets Ambition

On our very first outing, something mildly terrifying happened: we bumped into one of my consultants with her kids, stretching and smiling like a Nike advert. As if that wasn’t enough, several other NHS colleagues were also there, cheerily corralling their own offspring into cardiovascular brilliance.

Apparently, Sunday mornings at Longrun Meadows are less “day of rest” and more “day of relentless NHS peer pressure.” Who knew that the same people I usually see triaging bariatric patient or biliary colic were now sprinting with six-year-olds in Paw Patrol trainers?

Anyway, our son’s first run? A respectable 13 minutes for 2k. We puffed along at his side, all smiles and motivational quotes like “It’s not about the time, it’s about the trying!”.

Then came “The Stitch Run“

Barely 200 metres in, he clutched his side with drama worthy of an Oscar.

We suggested he stop.

Did he listen?

Nope.

In pain, in tears, in full stubborn mode, he hobbled to the end in 17 eternal minutes.

A week later?

Sub-12 minutes. I struggled so badly to finish one lap that he ran the second alone and still nearly broke his PB. (Personal Best, not Peanut Butter – although I was thinking more about toast than times.)

The Wake-Up Lap

Last Sunday, we finally agreed to “run at his pace.” You know, support him properly. Help him strive. Build his confidence. Teach him to pace himself…

Bad idea.

We lined up near the front. The horn went off. Our son took off like he was being chased by wild geese. By the 500m mark, I was pretty sure my lungs had left the chat.

By the end of Lap 1, I was absolutely done. (My Garmin said I was “in anaerobic territory”—I think that’s science speak for “you might die soon.”)

I passed the baton (a.k.a. parental responsibility) to my wife. Then, as I leaned against a tree trying not to vomit, I saw a small figure sprinting heroically towards the finish line.

Our son. Alone. Beaming. Flying.

Final time? 10:56.
Position? 31st.
Parents’ fitness status? Spiritually retired.

The results are right here if you think I’m exaggerating.

The Fast and the Flawless

Now, don’t get me wrong. The top times at junior parkruns hover around 8 minutes, which I assume involves older kids with suspiciously long legs and rocket boosters in their trainers.

But our son? He’s doing it his way—sometimes gritty, sometimes glorious—but always turning up.

We even recruited our neighbour’s daughter Isla and her dad. She now races with joy and zero pressure.

Unlike our son, who has decided that 31st place is a moral failure. Where did he get that from?

(Narrator: It was the tennis.)

So What’s Next?

We need to train. No more pretending we’re “just taking it easy to let him shine.” The reality is: our child is faster than us, and the gap is widening like the Grand Canyon.

He’s already muttering about being “disappointed” in his time, wondering how to beat that elusive 10-minute mark. There’s no tantrum. No quitting. Just a quiet, determined “I need to do better.”

Honestly, for all his grumbles, that mindset—resilient, gritty, no medal needed—might be the secret sauce to life itself.

The runs might be free, but the lessons? Priceless.

To the next PB (and the next parental ego bruising)

Pseudocyst