I made a promise inside a tube which banged loudly and was horrifically claustrophobic. I made it last year. I made it because I thought briefly I was skating on the edge of bad diagnoses of bad things, bad things with bad futures and bad pain and bad everything.
I promised I would do what made me happy.
That might sound selfish. It might sound self indulgent. It might sound plain impossible.
I thought I was going to die. The dye ran around my brain and in the end what they thought they'd seen was not. I was lucky. There might be a next time. I might not be quite so lucky next time. I do not want to get to 80 and regret anything. I do not want to waste a second. This week we have been on holiday and people ask when we're going to stop.
The answer is, when I'm 80. That's when I'll stop. When I can't ride or climb or dance or run or hike or scramble or slide or swim or wriggle or marvel or aspire or inspire or dream, anymore.
Everyone says life's too short. Some know it is, to some they're just words to be thrown away, lip service. People laugh at me for this attitude, laugh at the determination to experience absolutely everything, absolutely right now. They think nothing bad will ever happen. That the 1 in 4 will always be someone else. That running the Race for Life will always be for someone else.
I made a promise. Don't waste it, don't get blasé, don't assume, don't turn your back, don't ignore, don't laugh. Both hands, fingernails, fingertips. Hold on as tight as you can, for as long as you can, see everything, fear nothing, breath deeply and laugh.
So I'm asking a pretty big question this week. I've been asking it for a long long time. Am I good enough? Am I any good at all? Should I just give up and go home?
Because there's got to be a question, and the answer has to be yes. Yes, I am happy.