Back in January 2022, I competed in the 3,000 meters at the British Masters Indoor Championships in Sheffield in the M40 category. I was not in peak shape; my winter training had not gone to plan due to a lingering niggle I was carrying.
Still, I committed from the gun. I went through the first kilometer in 2:55 and clocked the second in 3:00, passing the 2K mark in roughly 5:55.
Then came the final kilometer, and it was a disaster.
I completely lost the ability to hold that pace. The realistic plan had been to average around 72 seconds per 400 meters, which meant clicking through steady 36-second laps on the 200m indoor track. Instead, my pace dropped dramatically. My body flooded with lactic acid, and my speed endurance simply vanished. I staggered across the line in around 9:12. Standing there after the race, I knew the hard truth: I had only a couple of weeks left before flying out to Braga, Portugal, for the European Masters Athletics Indoor Championships.
I entered two events in Braga: the 8K cross country and the indoor 3,000 meters.
The cross country race followed a painfully familiar script. It was a tough, undulating course made up of four 2K laps. For the first three laps, I ran well—holding third place in my age category and fighting for the podium. But those hills proved to be my downfall. On the final lap, I had nothing left in the tank. I slowed down a lot and crossed the line in fourth place, just outside the medals.
That left me with only three days to recover and reset before the 3,000m final on the track.
When race day arrived, the pace was honest right from the gun. We hit 72-second 400m splits, running consistent 36-second 200m laps. I settled into eighth place early on. Having faded so hard after 2K in Sheffield just weeks prior, I harbored no illusions about making reckless moves or chasing fast times.
Today was not about the clock; it was purely about racing for positions.
My family was right there in the arena, shouting my name with every lap. Competing here—in Portugal, close to where I was born—gave me a reserve of energy I did not know I had. My legs were heavy and tired, but quitting was never an option.
I did not check a single split time on the scoreboard. I just focused on picking off runners ahead of me.
The top three broke away, opening up a noticeable gap. In front of me was a German runner in fourth place. I latched onto him, and together we ran fourth and fifth, trying to keep the podium within sight.
With three laps to go, the pace surged hard. At first, I could not match the sudden change of gear, and the gap to the front grew. But I refused to let the race slip away. I managed to pass the German athlete to take fourth place and set my sights on the trio ahead.
With two laps remaining, I clawed my way back into striking distance. Entering the final lap, I committed everything I had. On that last 200-meter bank, I kicked as hard as I could, sprinting like it was the final straight of an 800m race.
I covered that closing 200 meters in around 28 to 29 seconds, moving from fourth place into third to take the bronze medal.
Crossing that line and celebrating my first European medal on home soil with my family there in the stands was an unforgettable, emotional moment. It proved that even when preparation is far from perfect, grit and tactical focus can carry you onto the podium.
