For the past two days, I have been sowing seeds; putting flyers in the most popular pubs in the centre of Edinburgh. A sensible person would not have had a sip of beer, but I have been in the wilderness for weeks and the lure of the city was too much. My excuse to myself was that I was working, but excuses are no less pitiful for their plausibility.

The next day I felt terrible – not sick, but low. As I walked around town, trying to figure out the best way to do this, the enormity of the task seemed to grow with each step and I found myself wondering if I was up to it. Don’t get me wrong, when you try the impossible, you are a fool if you are frightened of failure. But here, as Edinburgh shakes its crusty, magisterial cloak and puts on its artsy, vibrant, funny, fun, dangerous, delicious, courageous and outrageous warpaint, the streets and bars and stages come alive with performers, the buzz surrounding them filling the air with something close to magic. The energy is contagious. And yet, yesterday, all I saw was the mountain and my own inadequacies. It was enough to drive you to drink – to seek courage in the pub, to tear down the inhibitions and join the party.

Instead, I drove to the outskirts of town, put on my running kit and did something I’ve not done for over 30 years – I ran up a mountain. Now, this mountain is really a hill (1600 ft) and to call my gasping, wheezy effort a run is an insult to runners, but still, I wanted to die. I did it again tonight and I’ll keep doing it each night to put some fire into my belly and remind myself to fight for the prize.

The thought of failure does not worry me but the thought of failure without trying does. The hurdles are all lined up. They are just as high as they were on that first day and yet I want to run at them.

I’m ready.