I remember waking up in hospital a few days on with needles in both arms. Then hearing the drone of the machine as it signalled my heart had stopped.

A month later my doctor said I’d been lucky.

“And if you continue being lucky,” he added, “you might make a full physical recovery at some point.”

A frustrating year followed with me able to do little but potter around the house, grumbling and hating everything. Eventually too much daytime TV sent me over the edge and I pulled on my trainers before I was ready. I was scared of the open streets and crowds of people but it felt good to run after so much inactivity so I pushed myself hard. Too hard. My spleen split again. I bolted the front door and retreated back to the sofa, depressed.

Fast forward a few months to autumn 2007 and I, heartily sick of the self-pitying fat boy who peered out of the mirror every morning, joined a local gym. At first I spent more time on the toilet – sweating, white as a sheet, feeling the sickness draining out of me - than on the treadmill. But six months on I’d lost one of the three stones I’d put on since the attack and had begun to dream. Maybe I could run the Sri Lankan marathon this year, I thought, and inject some purpose into my life, and perhaps find a way to put what had happened firmly in the past and be a decent man once again…

I often felt like a hamster on the treadmill, pacing away going nowhere, so I wasn’t upset when, after giving up my house and car and moving to a very rural village, I also had to give up my gym membership and start training outdoors. Running through the county of my birth helped me love it once again, as I‘d done as a boy. I rediscovered the dark woodlands, the rolling North Downs, the long straight Roman roads, the sound of livestock calling across the misty fields, and witnessed the beauty through fresh eyes. Each run was special. I’d caught a glimpse of the void and now life looked all the better for having done so. I enjoyed training so much I was out almost every day, covering up to 40 miles a week. I wasn’t fast, and the nagging pain in my stomach told me I had to keep an eye on myself and not push it too hard, but at least I was putting myself in with a chance of actually making it to the finish line. 

My first days in Sri Lanka were oppressively hot and exhausting. Walking from sun lounger to ocean seemed an impossible task, let alone going for a run. To acclimatise slowly I hired a car and driver and toured the islands’ cultural highlights for a week, making images with my basic pinhole camera as I went.

The 30 year old civil war had devastated tourism in the country; at the 2,000 year old ruins of Hatheuthi Kuehchi a monk said he hadn’t had a foreign visitor for over a year. In Anuradhapura, at the equally ancient Jetvana Pagoda, the largest brick structure in the world and as important archaeologically as the Great Pyramids of Giza, only monkeys and soldiers looked on as I fiddled with my pinhole camera amid fallen columns and toppled pagodas.

“Where’s the lens?” asked an officer.

“There’s none,” I explained, “nor any film, or exposure meter, just a hole at the front and some photographic paper at the back.”

“How d’you aim it?’ he continued, “and how long d’you keep the shutter open for?”

“You guess.” He looked a touch confused. “30 seconds, a minute, it depends on the light and the subject. Mostly the pictures aren’t usable, but when they come out ok they’re the best images ever.”

I found it difficult to maintain my enthusiasm for the pinhole though towards the end of that first week in the face of the very visible poverty that surrounded me. Art is important but the stomach should be fed before the mind and I couldn’t ignore that my immediate world was full of people very genuinely in need of life’s basics.

I felt just as little enthusiasm for my training when I ventured out jogging in the late afternoons. How could I believe I was anything other than vain and surplus when I compared my shiny running gear and obsession with competing against the ranks of ragged, hungry old beggars who looked up from the roadside as I passed? 

Soldiers with guns cocked, guarding against the Tamil Tiger terrorist threat, lined the road to the World Heritage site of Sigiriya. I was astounded to summit this ancient mountain-top fortress and again find myself alone, admiring the sea of thick jungle below. It was a dream, really, to be able to experience these magical sites in silence; it almost made me wish for a bit of jihad in Egypt, just to clear the crowds out.

My training runs during the second week, when I travelled between towns on the south-east coast and had devised strategies to cope with the poverty (‘tip well’ and ‘don’t bargain with poor traders’ were good starters) were long and memorable. At the backpacker haunt of Unawatuna I followed a track for 5 miles up from the beach into mountainous jungle. The air among the trees tasted warm and spicy, monkeys screeched and there were multicoloured birds everywhere. Just along the coast the 16^thc Dutch fortifications in Galle were a mile in circumference, making for a picturesque circuit whilst watching the most intense sunsets I’ve ever experienced. And then there was my favourite route through the villages behind BentotaBeach. With wind streaming out of the sunset, rustling palms on both sides of the track, I trailed a mangrove river inland under soaring fish eagles towards a Buddha statue that towered 25 metres into the sky. Cows grazed on verges, massive vampire bats – their wings folded like cloaks - hung from branches and mothers washed their kids under standpipes, trying to keep their naked charges from exploding into soapy waves and shouts as I passed. As I neared my hotel an elephant lumbered around a corner moving towards me with pace and purpose. It was making for a shop between us where a lady held out a tempting loaf of bread and nothing was going to stop it, not even its owner who lagged behind bellowing threats and insults.

The temperature in Colombo at 5.30am on race day was 28c, the humidity 80%. The waking streets smelt of over-ripe fruit. Two fellow competitors, knowing that this was my first race of any kind, offered final advice. 

“Take money,” said Uwe Ellger, a 54 year old German attempting his 100^th marathon. “You’ll need it to buy drinks when the water points run dry.”

“And smear Vaseline over your eyebrows,” added Nick Joseph, a 67 year old Englishman running his 50^th, “it’ll keep your eyes free from sweat when the sun comes out.”

Limbering up alongside the other entrants, mostly locals but with a few North Americans, Europeans, Japanese and several top Kenyans thrown into the mix, I saw that around half of them were barefoot. They couldn’t afford proper running gear but it wasn’t going to stop them taking part. We sprinted off into the dawn. A girl competing in the 5km fun run streaked past me in a pleated skirt and pretty blouse, her waist length hair billowing behind her. The 2 lane road hadn’t been closed off and was heavy with traffic pumping out black exhaust fumes. Ramshackle shops, open flood-drains and heavily armed soldiers lined the road. I waved to spectators but then realised they were just waiting for the bus. 

Several times buses cut in front of me, stopping with a screech and the stink of burning brakes.

“Excuse me,” I shouted as I bumped into the alighting, bemused passengers, “yes, mind out please, there’s a marathon going on!” Motorbikes and 3 wheeled taxis buzzed too close; meandering cows, which are considered holy in Sri Lanka and are free to wander where they want, blocked my route. Then the sun appeared and the real fun started.

The ambulances were busy with dehydration cases. I vomited twice and reached the 30km water stop to find Uwe’s prediction had come true. The supplies had totally run out. It was 33c and I lay under the empty water table – the only shade I’d seen since I started - thinking I couldn’t go on.

My spleen vibrated frantically, like it was an over-stretched elastic band being plucked, telling me I should stop right there. But I so needed to complete the race. The finish line was to be my new beginning. Across the chaotic road a man was dragging himself from the dusty pavement up into a wheelchair. His legs were terribly crippled. He wasn’t competing in any race; this was just his everyday life. Could I really not go on?

Uwe caught up and handed me salt and water. Then I limped off the road following Richard, a Canadian, into a shop to share a coke. We carried on together, walking for a while when we tired, the only competitors in sight - the field were well strung out and we were in the middle. Shopkeepers waited ready with buckets of cooling water to dump over our heads. A sparkling blue lagoon, visible through gardens full of palm and banana trees, opened up on our left. At about the 38km mark we veered slightly downhill to the town of Negombo past a chaotic bus station, street markets heaving with shoppers and a waterside studded with debris from the recent tsunami disaster. Catholic churches dotted the town as did Hindu temples which pumped out incense and crazy jazz-like horn solos as women prostrated themselves at the entrances. I heard the slap of bare feet on tarmac. A local runner joined us as we turned the corner towards the beach and finish line.

We lay beside the other athletes in the ice bath tent. The top Kenyans, normally 2 hour 15 minute men, couldn’t believe they’d limped home in just over 3 hours. Uwe, celebrating his 100^th marathon finish, was saying this was the toughest of the lot (I believed him; out of 144 starters only 63 of us made it to the finish). And Nick, the 67 year old, was beaming ear to ear. Despite being knocked off the road at one point by a motorcycle he’d come in at 3 hour 9 minutes, which considering the conditions was quite an amazing feat for a veteran. 

We arranged to meet for the medal ceremony later. I swam in the warm ocean then sat gazing at the future. A shirt-less old beggar on crutches materialized before me with his hand out. A single leg sprouted from his ragged white shorts. Landmine victim I guessed. I pulled out my pockets to show I’d got nothing. My head hung heavy with relief at not being him and sadness that he had to be.

The sight of the beggar motivated me. I felt elated after the marathon; the attack was finally, truly in the past and now I wanted to begin my new life in the right, decent way. The next day I brought 200 kilos of dried food and, with the help of the management of Brown’s Beach Hotel, delivered it to a home for the mentally and physically disabled. The staff there were overjoyed. They didn’t receive any official funding so without donations they’d all go hungry. They showed me around. Within 5 minutes I knew I had to do more. The frightened face of one girl lying in a cot was covered in disease spreading flies. She had no use in her arms so couldn’t brush them away. The other 84 people there weren’t much better off. I left and spent a few hundred pounds more on mosquito nets and electric fans and, together with workmen from Browns, returned later that week to fit them. The kids could now sleep free of insects and gain some relief from the oppressive heat. It wasn’t much but it was a start. For them and for me.

This writing features in the book 'Carnet de Stenope Vol II - Sri Lanka', available it in the shop Here 

If you fancy running in Sri Lanka yourself, check out www.srilankamarathon.org