Some months whisper past you.
This one grabbed me by the collar and said, “Keep up.”
Somewhere along the line, a switch flicked.
Training started.
The Keswick to Barrow walk isn’t just a stroll with a nice view. It’s a conversation with your legs that turns into an argument around mile twenty, then a full-blown negotiation by thirty. So I’ve been putting the miles in. Early starts. Late finishes. Feet learning the language of discomfort. There’s something honest about it. No shortcuts. No blagging it. You either walk… or you don’t.
And weirdly, I’ve started to enjoy that edge. That place where your body complains and your mind shrugs and carries on anyway.
Then there’s Derby. Again and again.
Floodlights, pints, that low hum before kickoff that feels like standing inside a live wire. Football has a way of resetting things. Ninety minutes where nothing else gets a vote. Doesn’t matter what’s going on outside the stadium, inside it’s tribal, simple, loud. Win, lose, or swear about it all the way home, it’s therapy in boots.
And then… the ink.
Five new tattoos this month. Five.
At some point it stops being “I’ll just get one more” and becomes a running joke with your own skin. Each one a marker. Not always deep or philosophical. Sometimes it’s just a moment, a feeling, or a “why not?” that stuck around long enough to become permanent.
There’s something grounding about it though. In a world where everything feels temporary, ink doesn’t pretend. It commits.
So March has been full. Not polished. Not perfect. But full.
Miles stacking up under stubborn feet.
Football lighting up the evenings.
Skin slowly turning into a storybook.
No grand conclusion this month. No neat little bow.
Just movement. Forward, sideways, occasionally limping… but moving all the same.
Bipolar Ironman 