Dad’s proudest sporting achievement – except perhaps that famous goal from the half-way line – was winning first place in the 1975 East Hull Harriers Summer League Invitation race. He gave up running when we were young kids because of his dodgy knees, but he was forever threatening a comeback.

He died of pancreatic cancer on 1 May this year, and I’m running the Great North Run for him. In my case, it won’t be a comeback, exactly. Except hellish school cross-country, I’ve never run before in my life. But, in the days just after dad died, when things seemed totally askew, training for a half-marathon seemed like a good idea – like an appropriate way to spend a summer when you don’t know what else to do with yourself.

I’m running to raise money for Pancreatic Cancer UK, who support people who are affected by pancreatic cancer and fund research and lobbying. Pancreatic cancer is rapid, merciless and devastating. By the point of diagnosis it’s almost always too late and the survival rates are awful. Dad had had a stomach ache and six weeks later he was gone.