This is me on the Prince of Wales Ward at Dorset County Hospital. I was admitted very late on the night of 12 August 2026, after a relapse bad enough that there was no more putting it off.

And I had put it off. Again. I left it far too long before going to see someone. If there’s one thing I want anyone reading this to take from Day Zero, it’s that. Don’t wait until it’s this bad. Go and get checked.

By the time I was in that bed the fluid retention had taken over. I weighed 107kg, most of it water, and my face had swollen up like a pufferfish. Some of that the medication can shift quickly. The rest will be a lot harder.

Every story needs an honest starting point. This is mine.

I’m not posting this for sympathy. I’m posting it because what comes next only means something if you can see where it started. At this moment I wasn’t thinking about running anywhere. I was thinking about getting home.

But I’ve run London. I’ve run the Dorset coast for years. I’m 50, and I’m not done. My mate Andy has been on his own road back from the Fortuneswell ward, and between us we’ve set ourselves something ridiculous: run from Bridport to Paris, 350+ miles, and raise money for the wards that put us back together.

This blog is the record of that road, from this bed to the Arc de Triomphe in April 2028. Every walk, every run, every setback. All dated. All real.

The road starts here.

— James