It was a bright and breezy morning along the Antrim Coast on the 29th of August 2021, and race day had arrived. Andrew stood in the crowd, nerves mingling with excitement, as he prepared for his first official half marathon—a gruelling 13.1 miles along a stunning coastal road.

The fact that Andrew hadn’t trained a single day didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, even years later, his “tactic” for races was the same: show up, wing it, and hope for the best. But that day, his friend Colin had a plan. “I’ll pace him,” Colin thought, “and get him to the finish line in one piece.”

Of course, things didn’t quite start as smoothly as planned. The pair found themselves in a long queue, and Colin assumed it was the line to reach the starting point. They weren’t alone in their confusion; dozens of others seemed equally clueless. The only problem? They were queuing for the toilets. To make matters worse, they were all standing on the wrong side of the start line, facing the wrong direction. Trying to corral hundreds of confused runners into the right place felt like herding cats, but the race finally kicked off after a comical 30-minute delay.

Andrew, to everyone’s surprise, started at a steady pace. The views were magnificent—the crisp sea air, rolling cliffs, and miles of open road stretched out ahead. By mile 7, though, the cracks began to show. Andrew’s early energy started to fade, and suddenly, he was hobbling. Not just any hobble this was a full-on Quasimodo impersonation, with his right leg dragging behind him as though it had been swapped out for a useless prop. Colin couldn’t help but watch in awe as Andrew’s gait turned into something out of a slapstick comedy routine. Every step was an exaggerated shuffle as if Andrew was trying to make sure everyone around him knew just how much his body was protesting.

By mile 8, Andrew’s limp had become almost heroic in its absurdity. His right leg appeared to have fully shut down, leaving the left to do all the work. Colin wondered if Andrew might have to crawl to the finish. But Andrew—stubborn and full of surprises—kept moving forward, albeit at a snail’s pace.

Not just any hobble—this was a full-on Quasimodo impersonation

Then, with only 500 metres to go, something miraculous happened. As the finish line came into view, Andrew straightened up, cracked his neck, and suddenly looked like a new man. He turned to Colin with a grin and said, “I’ll race you!”

Colin, baffled, watched as Andrew who had spent the last several miles stumbling around like an extra from The Walking Dead, suddenly took off like a sprinter. He wasn’t faking it. Despite the hobbled drama of the past few miles, Andrew surged ahead, sprinting with the energy of someone who had just started the race. Colin tried to keep up, but Andrew was too fast. He crossed the finish line with a triumphant 10-second lead, leaving Colin in disbelief.

That day marked the beginning of Andrew’s unique and very alternative running strategy. This strategy involved minimal training, maximum improvisation, and, apparently, an untapped reserve of last-minute speed.