Every Christmas, my dad’s side of the family make a point of coming together and having a grand old party. We meet at my dad’s cousins’ house and then some of our relatives return to our place in Wymondham to stay with us.

Last Christmas, we were languidly dwelling in our living room when my sister piped up: “Tickets for the Oxford Half Marathon are up! Who’s in?” What followed was a chorus of awkward laughs, “ums”, and “why nots?” which prompted her to sign up herself and eight others. My aunt quipped that if anyone were tracking online bank activity, they’d have seen a tsunami of money change hands that night as we all forced ourselves to pay my sister the entry fee.

Ten months later, the day was here. Firstly, It was an achievement to make it there in one piece. Two of my cousins had been ill the previous week; they soldiered through and turned up anyway. My mum had injured her leg the week before and was consequently very dismayed when it recovered in time. And my calves were not at their finest because I misread the training plan and ran 16 miles the previous Wednesday, which is about 5km longer than a half marathon. (Had I read further on the plan, I would have realised that it thought I was doing a full marathon in six weeks. My level’s not quite up to that.)

So, apart from one absence because of a wedding (the cousin in question sent us a selfie to prove she wasn’t “on the sofa with a tub of ice cream”), we rocked up at Oxford.

We made it to the start line, notwithstanding some mild transport panic. The Oxford Half website had helpfully suggested their Park and Ride services. Fair enough, we thought. My sister, mum and I turned up at the allotted time, saw a bus at the station, jovially thought, “fab, let’s hop on that one,” then turned the corner and saw a queue longer than the Coventry ring road. We finally boarded only for the bus to stop five minutes later and make us walk the rest of the way because the Oxford authorities had closed the roads for the event. (Top organisation.) This did not help my growing paranoia that I wouldn’t make it in time for baggage drop-off. Had I missed it, my travel bag and its contents would have been donated to charity, a prospect which gave my sister much hilarity.

I was worried about nothing. The baggage drop-off went without a hitch. Those of us running took our places at the start line, and my two fabulous aunts at the sidelines took snaps of us all before we started. Then – off we went.

One of the fun things about a running event is hearing everyone’s stories after the fact. Everyone has a different experience. My cousin breezed through the first 18km and then the last three felt like “the longest of her life”. My equivalent “crash” moment had come earlier – at about 11km – partly prompted by my attempt to eat a Colin-the-Caterpillar sweet while still in motion. (It’s quite difficult.) Not helped by the fact that I had put the sweets in my money belt, and one place you definitely do not want to be seen pulling anything out of that area is a running track surrounded by thousands of spectators and cameras. (My uncle had no such problem – he powered through with zero mid-run nutrition and finished three minutes shy of two hours.)

At the sidelines were some adorable children high-fiving the runners, and some hilarious handmade motivational signs. Among the most memorable were “Run if you think I’m sexy”, “Toenails are overrated anyway”, and – my personal favourite – “Worst Parade Ever.”

Then our lovely aunt hosted us at her (much warmer) house for showers and food. She made a delicious chicken, rice and veg concoction. Very much appreciated after 13 miles.

I’ve done a few events before (though not as many as some of my relatives) – but in my limited experience, it is always more fun doing it with other people. Especially family - my cousin’s fiancée joined us which was doubly nice. As much as we joked about how much we dreaded it after the Christmas party, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

(Next time you Wymondham readers are hosting Christmas parties, remember nothing says festive like an intensive training commitment!)