At Revitalize Clinic, we often talk about transformation—not just in terms of pain relief, but in helping people rediscover what they are truly capable of.
Steve Denniss is a powerful example of exactly that and he was kind to feature us in chapter 11 of his new book.
What began as a personal crossroads evolved into an extraordinary journey from non-runner to marathon finisher, overcoming multiple injuries along the way. Supported by a collaborative approach combining osteopathy and sports therapy, Steve’s progress was not only physical, but deeply mental and emotional.
In this chapter from his memoir, Steve shares the honest, moving story behind his running journey—shaped by resilience, family, loss, and an unwavering commitment to personal growth. It’s a reminder that progress is rarely linear, but with the right support and mindset, even the most unlikely goals can become reality.
Steve, it has been our absolute pleasure and privilege to be of assistance to you. Keep doing what you’re doing and I’m sure you’ll continue to light the way for others.
Steve was kind enough to share chapter 11 of his book. Please find chapter 11 and links to purchase his book below.
Chapter 11: I Need a Few Days to Get Over This
I once believed that progress was a simple equation: the more miles I ran, the faster and stronger I would become. In those early, heady days of my running journey, enthusiasm easily tipped into obsession. I’d head out every day, convinced that improvement was just one more session away, that discipline was proven by never letting up. I was, in a way, chasing the invincible runner I imagined I could be if only I tried hard enough. But it wouldn’t take long for reality to intervene: twinges in my knees, a dull ache in my shins, and a fatigue that settled in my bones like a stubborn winter fog. At first I dismissed these signs, mentally waving them away as rites of passage—growing pains, necessary sacrifices on the altar of ambition. But as the niggles grew persistent and the sense of exhaustion refused to lift, I faced an inescapable truth: bodies, however fiercely willed, have limits. To ignore them was not to demonstrate strength but to court injury and disillusionment.
Looking back, those early struggles feel almost inevitable—a learning experience not just in running but in any meaningful pursuit. We often start out believing that relentless effort is the only currency of growth, only to learn, sometimes painfully, that wisdom lies in knowing when to press on and when to step back. The lesson came quietly at first—a missed session here, a forced rest day there—until, finally, I understood that rest was not an admission of weakness but an essential part of progress. True improvement, I realised, is built not just in sweat-streaked miles but on the foundation of care, patience, and listening to the subtle signals of body and mind.
With humility—hard-won and often relearned—my weekly routine grew into a careful balance, each day woven with intention. Saturday mornings became an ingrained habit in their own right: the anticipation of parkrun, a gentle, or not so gentle 5K in the local park, where the focus is less on competition and more on community, consistency, and self-discovery. There’s a peculiar magic in the crowd that gathers each week—faces familiar and new, united by nothing more than a shared willingness to turn up. The gentle murmur of greetings, the nervous laughter as the start time approaches, and the quiet encouragement between runners as we line up: each detail speaks of a collective spirit that buoys even the most reluctant participant. Some mornings my legs feel like lead, yet as the group sets off, I find myself lifted by the energy around me, each stride echoing with the unspoken permission to try, to fail, and to begin again. I gradually came to use the 5k as a way of developing speed over shorter distances, always respecting the overall spirit of it being a run not a race.
Tuesdays draw me back to the Harriers Athletics Club (in my earlier running days Dartford Harriers, more recently the Halifax variety)—a gathering of runners whose collective experience dwarfs my own but whose inclusivity never fails. The sessions are structured but never rigid: hill repeats, intervals, tempo runs. Each week offers a fresh challenge, pushing me out of my comfort zone and reminding me that progress is rarely easy. I still remember the first time I tried to keep up on a particularly brisk interval. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, and I finished well behind the lead group. It would have been easy to retreat, to let embarrassment close the door on future attempts. Instead, I found myself cheered for the effort, not the outcome. The club’s culture is rooted in the shared experience of striving—everyone, at some level, is learning, adapting, and growing together. The hard sessions have taught me more about resilience and humility than any solitary run could.
Thursdays were reserved by me for the distance run—the anchor point of my week, and often, the linchpin of my confidence. The length varied with the seasons and the goals on the horizon: the steady build towards a 10K, the extended grind of half-marathon training, or, on rare and daunting occasions, the slow, measured push towards a marathon. These longer efforts were a test of patience as much as stamina. I set out tracing familiar streets or charting new routes, my mind oscillating between focus and gentle wandering. The first few miles always a negotiation between body and will. Some days rhythm came easily; on others progress felt hard-won, each step a small victory over inertia. Along the way I pay attention to the small details: the rhythm of breath, the feel of footfall, the shifting landscape of energy and fatigue. These moments—alone with my thoughts, body working and mind at ease—are as restorative as any rest day.
If my running has taught me anything, it’s that recovery is neither passive nor unimportant. On non-running days, I devote time to stretching—an act that, in its quiet repetition, has become as comforting as the most familiar run. There’s a meditative quality to the gentle tug of muscles, to the easing of tightness and coaxing suppleness back into tired limbs. Often, I’ll play some soft music or simply listen to the sounds outside my window, letting my attention drift as I move through the routine. It’s in these moments that I’m reminded that progress is not always measured in numbers. Sometimes growth is found in stillness, in the willingness to let go of striving and simply allow the body to heal.
Sports massages have become not only a means of recovery but a kind of physical therapy for the psyche as well. Sometimes I arrive on the treatment table with a dull ache and other times with the sharper edge of a looming injury. Either way, the experience forces me to confront my own vulnerability, to admit that I cannot always fix or control everything myself. There is a humility in seeking help, in entrusting my battered legs to someone with more knowledge. Each session is a reminder that running is not a solitary affair but a dialogue—with my own body, with those who support me, and with the wider community of runners who know these aches all too well.
Rest days, once a source of guilt and impatience, are now welcomed as crucial. They are not empty spaces in the training calendar but vital interludes that allow for adaptation, repair, and reflection. I’ve learned to savour the slower pace, to spend time with family and friends, to explore other hobbies, and to reconnect with the world beyond my running shoes. Sometimes the best thing I can do for my running is to live more fully outside of it—to be present in conversations, to linger over meals, to notice the changing seasons. In this, I find a lesson for life: growth requires balance, and intensity must be tempered with gentleness if it is to endure.
Inevitably, setbacks have come. Some are minor—a twinge here, a sore Achilles there. Others have threatened to derail months of preparation, forcing me to halt completely. Each injury, however unwelcome, brings its own hard-earned wisdom. I’ve spent frustrated weeks sidelined, watching friends progress while I nursed a strained muscle or waited for a stubborn tendon to settle. The initial reaction is always disappointment, tinged with fear that all progress will be lost. Yet over time, I have learned that injury is not failure but a call to adapt—a lesson in flexibility, patience, and self-forgiveness.
Seeking help from physiotherapists has become both a practical necessity and an emotional lifeline. There’s comfort in hearing, “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.” The jargon of runners—IT band syndrome, plantar fasciitis, shin splints—becomes a language of shared experience, a shorthand for the common challenges we all face. In the club, stories of injury and recovery are exchanged as freely as training tips. There is solidarity in these admissions, a reassurance that no one is immune to setbacks, and that each of us, in our own way, is learning how to navigate the unpredictable terrain of progress. When I return after a layoff, the compliments are never for the pace or the place but for the simple act of showing up again. In my early days of running, I found an excellent physio at Revitalize in Gravesend. It was the insightful guidance of Elliot Reid, and the expert manipulation of Ellie Bearman that steered me through initial pains of pushing my body to new limits.
As time moved on and I moved home, I made a good friend in my physio in Halifax West Yorkshire—John Gonzalez at “Piece by Piece” Physiotherapy. Together as a team we managed to achieve more than we imagined possible. For the first London Marathon I did, he trained me how to strap up my foot to slow the onset of plantar fasciitis, and incredibly, it worked. I think having a good relationship with your physio is essential.
The body needs rest and so does the mind. In the pursuit of improvement, it’s easy to be consumed by numbers—splits, distances, heart rates—until the joy of running is replaced by a relentless drive for more. I’ve had periods where the pressure to improve sapped the pleasure from every session, where motivation became a brittle thing, easily shattered by a bad run or a missed target. Learning to step back, to allow myself days without goals or expectations, has been transformative.
Sometimes mental recovery is as simple as heading out without a watch, running for the sheer pleasure of moving through space, feeling the air and the ground rather than counting steps. Other times, it means not running at all—taking a day, or even a week, to rest, reflect, or pursue something different. Walks in the park, evenings spent reading or listening to music, moments of quiet meditation: these are the spaces where I rediscover the joy that first drew me to running. I remind myself, again and again, that the mind, like the body, cannot endure unending strain. Renewal requires stepping away, allowing time for perspective to soften sharp edges, and for motivation to rekindle itself without force.
With each passing season, I’ve come to embrace a more holistic view of running—and of life. Training, rest, nutrition, mental health, and social connection are not separate pursuits but interwoven threads that strengthen or weaken each other. Neglect one, and the whole fabric suffers; attend to each, and the system grows resilient and adaptable. I have learned the importance of fuelling well, of sleeping enough, of stretching not just my muscles but my capacity for self-care. I make time for laughter, for conversation, for the things that make life rich beyond the stopwatch and the start line.
The connections formed through running—the camaraderie of clubmates, the encouragement given and received in races, the quiet understanding between fellow stragglers on a cold evening—have become as important as any physical gain. In these relationships I find support, perspective, and the reminder that, though the path is sometimes solitary, running is rarely a lonely endeavour. We carry each other, in ways both seen and unseen, and it is this sense of shared purpose that keeps me coming back, even after setbacks.
Of all the lessons running has offered, perhaps the deepest is the enduring value of kindness—towards myself as much as towards others. The urge to criticise, to dwell on missed opportunities or slow times, is persistent. But each time I choose compassion instead—allowing a missed session, celebrating a small improvement, forgiving a moment of weakness—I am reminded that there are good days and bad, easy victories and hard-fought recoveries, and each has its place in the journey.
The culture we inhabit often rewards relentless striving, casting rest as laziness and setbacks as failure. Yet in the quiet spaces between effort, I have found a different measure of success: the ability to treat myself gently, to recognise that long-term achievement is built not on perfection but on patience, adaptability, and the courage to continue. In the moments when running feels most daunting, it is self-compassion that allows me to endure—to accept imperfection, to start again, and to find joy in the process rather than the result.
Each week, as I move through the rhythms of training and rest, I am struck by the parallels between running and life itself. The journey is rarely direct; progress is shaped as much by setbacks as by achievements. Patience, I have learned, is more powerful than force, and adaptability more valuable than rigid adherence to a plan. The setbacks—injuries, missed targets, faltering motivation—have humbled me, forcing me to reconsider what matters most. They have taught me resilience: not the brittle refusal to give in but the gentle, persistent willingness to try again.
In moments of doubt, when the finish line seems distant and the effort overwhelming, I draw on lessons from the path. The importance of breaking big goals into smaller, more manageable steps. The power of repetition and routine to anchor us when uncertainty looms. The necessity of listening—to our bodies, our minds, and the world around us—so that we might respond with wisdom rather than bravado. And above all, the enduring value of hope, of believing that each effort, however small, carries us forward.
Running has not just made me fitter or faster; it has changed the way I live. Through effort and rest, joy and frustration, I have learned to embrace the process, to value progress over perfection, and to treat myself and others with greater compassion. The path continues—sometimes smooth, sometimes rough—but each step taken with intention brings me closer to the person I hope to become. In the gentle art of moving forward, in the balance of effort and recovery, I have found not just a way to run, but a way to live.
About the author:
Steve lives in Halifax and has his office at The Croft Myl. He is the founder of acornITy established to help people of all ages to realise their dreams. He is currently delivering Space related projects for the European Space Agency in schools across Calderdale.
He is an active member of the Halifax Harriers Athletics Club, and principal Trumpet of the Halifax Concert Band and Linthwaite Brass Band. In his professional life he is an Engineer based in Leeds with over 40 years’ experience implementing iconic projects around the world winning awards and the respect of his peers. He has devoted the last 5 years as a STEM ambassador for Science and Engineering in schools, colleges and Universities and was STEM Climate ambassador of the year 2025.
He took up running at the age of 50 at a personal crossroads and over the next sixteen years against all expectations, through mental and physical motivation has run 5 marathons including 3 London. He is an award-winning amateur musician and part time music teacher, he holds a Private Pilots licence and is a self-confessed space geek, owning multiple astronomical telescopes. He is an avid reader of science, history and psychology. He is a husband, Father and grandfather, and servant to one cat.
About the book:
This memoir is a heartfelt exploration of one man’s unlikely journey from a self-confessed non-runner to a marathon finisher, inspired by familial love and loss. Set against the poignant backdrop of his mother’s passing, the narrative weaves together memories, gentle familial scepticism, and the gradual evolution of personal ambition. The author’s late-blooming passion for running is ignited by a challenge and sustained through moments of doubt, humour, and the subtle encouragement of those closest to him. Through tales of training, setbacks, and triumphs—culminating in the emotional completion of the Brighton, and ultimately London Marathons—the book captures the resilience and transformation that come from pursuing what once seemed impossible. It also reflects on the complex, ever-shifting relationships within families, the power of laughter and shared experiences, and the enduring influence of loved ones, even after they are gone.
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The prologue
Standing here, with my two sisters and our close family at mum’s bedside as she passes peacefully from us, I am overwhelmed by a rush of memories and emotions. In that poignant silence, my mind wanders back over the countless conversations shared with her throughout my life. One memory, in particular, rings out as clear as a bell. I can almost hear her voice—warm, loving, and with that unmistakable hint of gentle mockery—in the moment when I’d first told her I was planning to run the London 10k. “Stephen, don’t be silly. You don’t run,” she’d said, her words laced with affectionate disbelief and just a touch of admonishment.
That phrase, so ordinary at the time, became a kind of refrain in my journey. It played back in my mind every time I put on my running shoes, every time I doubted myself, and even when I found unexpected resilience in moments of exhaustion. Mum’s scepticism somehow spurred me on. I felt both challenged and comforted by her words; they reminded me of her unique way of expressing concern, mixed with a wry humour that was so characteristic of her. I often wondered if she could really picture me in running gear, pounding the pavements in pursuit of distances that once seemed impossible to both of us.
Over the years, as tales of weekend runs peppered our conversations, I sensed a subtle change in her attitude. It was never an outright declaration, but I could tell she was beginning to take my running more seriously. There was a quiet pride behind the way she’d ask about my next event, even if she’d still refer to “that walk you’re doing,” as though running such distances was just an extended stroll for the slightly eccentric. The idea that I might have made up my running exploits always hovered in the background—if anyone had tried to argue that I was exaggerating, I’m fairly sure she wouldn’t have needed much persuading. Yet beneath the surface, I knew she was proud. Her teasing was a mask for her interest and growing support.
One of my most treasured memories from those final years was sharing the news that I’d finally secured a place in the London Marathon 2020. It had been a dream—and an annual disappointment—after several failed attempts in the general ballot. When I told her I’d be running for Headway, in memory of her great niece Amy, I saw genuine delight in her eyes. For the first time, there was no teasing, just heartfelt happiness and a sense of connection. The knowledge that I was dedicating my sixtieth year to this run, asking for donations to my fundraising in lieu of birthday presents, seemed to lift a great weight from her shoulders. “That’s wonderful news. We had no idea what to get you,” she said, a smile breaking through her usual reserve. In that moment, I felt a surge of gratitude—not just for her support, but for the deepening of our relationship through this shared experience. Ironically, fate in the form of Covid was to intervene so that she died before I got to complete this event, but even in her final days, her approval meant the world to me, and the memory of her laughter and love continues to inspire every step I take.
Introduction
Crossing the finish line of the Brighton Marathon in 2018—clocking in just shy of four and a half hours—wasn’t merely a tick on my bucket list; it felt like the crowning moment of nearly eight years marked by dogged determination, a fair share of heartache, and the unwavering encouragement of friends and family. As I stumbled, somewhere between elation and exhaustion, across that line, I was immediately engulfed by a wave of emotions that I hadn’t anticipated. There was pride, of course, but also a profound sense of disbelief that refused to dissipate. My legs were trembling, my chest heaving with ragged breaths, yet I was buoyed by a surge of joy that seemed to lift me above the aches and blisters. Even as the sweat stung my eyes and the cheers of the crowd in the background washed over me, I found myself blinking back tears—tears not just of relief at having finished, but of gratitude for every faltering step and every small victory along the way.
In that moment, I thought back to the start of the journey in 2010. The idea that I could ever attempt, let alone complete, a marathon seemed laughable then—an absurd daydream for someone who had spent years on the sidelines of physical activity. The notion of finishing, and with a sprint (well, a determined shuffle that felt like a sprint to me), smashing my target time by over fifteen minutes, was the stuff of wild fantasy. To be perfectly honest, even the concept of having a ‘target time’ would have been laughable in those early days. Merely surviving the distance, dragging myself across the finish, would have been a miracle. Yet here I was, clutching my finisher’s medal, proof in my hand that I had done something that once felt entirely out of reach.
It’s almost impossible to trace the path from that starting point—a man uncertain, battered by self-doubt, and haunted by the spectre of middle age—to the finish line of the Brighton marathon with the shimmering waves of the English channel on one side and the impressive regency-era architecture on the other. How does one go from nothing to becoming, if not a great marathon runner, at least an adequate one, especially when time and age seem stacked against you? The truth is, my story isn’t a neat, linear progression; it’s a series of missteps, stumbles, and unexpected turns. Like so many transformative journeys, it began almost by accident—serendipity, disguised as a casual invitation.
In the wake of my divorce, my life took on a new, unfamiliar shape. I suddenly found myself with time—precious, solitary hours that both weighed heavily and shimmered with possibility. There was a longing to rediscover parts of myself I’d set aside, and to forge new connections with my children, who were, by then, finding their own footing in the world. The urge to fill this newfound space with meaningful experiences led me to try different things: ice skating (at which I was barely competent), and running—an activity that, on the surface, seemed less perilous to my pride, though no less fraught with hazards for my sense of self.
The running truly began when my son Jacob, with the innocence of youth and none of the baggage I carried, invited me to the gym as his guest. That simple question—“Dad, why don’t you come to the gym with me?”—was the sonic trigger that set the entire avalanche in motion. I can still recall my own hesitation: the self-consciousness, the fear of looking foolish, the certainty that I was out of my depth. But beneath that fear was a flicker of hope, the idea that perhaps this could be a way forward, a chance to bridge the gap between the man I was and the one I aspired to be.
As I reflect on the years that followed, I’m struck by how running became both a metaphor and a vehicle for transformation. The novelist and inspirational writer Haruki Murakami who’s wisdom I discovered like a lot of things later in life writes in What I Talk About When I Talk About Running that “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” Those words echoed in my mind during the countless training runs, the dark mornings when only my doubts kept me company, and the moments when it would have been so much easier to simply give up. I also found companionship in the stories of other runners—Christopher McDougall’s tales of perseverance in Born to Run reminded me that the most extraordinary feats so often begin with ordinary, uncertain steps and, from small acorns great oaks grow, but that’s another story.
Of course, I didn’t travel this road alone. My family’s encouragement, the camaraderie of running partners, the subtle but significant pride in my mother’s eyes, and the unwavering support of my wife all stitched together a safety net that caught me in moments of despair.
After remarrying, I discovered in my wife not only a steadfast partner but the greatest source of encouragement I could have wished for. She became my best coach and confidant, offering unwavering support on days when motivation deserted me and celebrating every small victory as if it were her own. Her patience was limitless—she listened to my endless tales of training woes and triumphs, always ready with a reassuring word or a practical suggestion to help me through rough patches. Her quiet determination matched my own, grounding me when my self-doubt threatened to overwhelm. Most of all, her warmth, humour and belief in my abilities transformed what could have been a solitary struggle into a shared journey. In every sense, she brought out a better version of me, making each success feel all the more meaningful because it was ours to celebrate together.
Every setback—each injury, every humiliating run when finishing seemed impossible—was tempered by the realisation that I was part of something bigger, a shared tradition of striving, faltering, and rising to try again.
The Brighton Marathon wasn’t just about distance or time. It was a journey toward self-acceptance, an affirmation that change is possible at any age, and a reminder that perseverance can outlast the harshest doubts. Running became not just an act of physical endurance, but a way of life—a testament to the belief that, no matter how late you start or how improbable your dreams, there is always a path forward. In the end, perhaps the greatest lesson I learned is that transformation seldom happens in grand, cinematic leaps; it unfolds in the quiet moments of struggle and the accumulation of small, stubborn acts of hope. As you read this book see it as an ongoing journey with milestones, some still to be reached.
Back Cover
He wasn’t born a runner. In fact, for years the very idea felt ridiculous – until one decision, one awkward first attempt, and one stubborn step at a time began to change everything. What starts as a private battle with doubt grows into a journey shaped by injury, community, laughter, and the quiet determination to keep showing up. Along the way come unforgettable races, unexpected kindness from strangers, and finish lines that mean far more than a time on the clock. From early fears of being seen, to the roar of London crowds, this is a story about proving something to yourself – again and again – and discovering that resilience isn’t a dramatic moment, but a thousand small choices. If you’ve ever thought “I can’t”, this book is a reminder that progress is possible, at any age, and that the finish line is just another beginning.