This week I turned 30. My to-do list for the day read: Run 30km. Send flowers to Mum. Unsubscribe from all companies that send me Happy Birthday messages. Eat cake. I can’t stand the fake intimacy of general, automated emails, so No 3 acts as a good annual cull. And I’ve never understood why birthdays are about celebrating the child for a passive act of which they have no recollection rather than the mother for whom it was probably arduous and highly memorable, hence the flowers. But throughout my adult life, I have found myself at a loss for what to do with the rest of the day. Eating cake is undoubtedly pleasurable but, as an ultrarunner, it is also an at-least-daily occurrence. So, from now on, I intend to run my age in kilometres each year. Cynics will no doubt point out that I have taken the easy option by choosing metric rather then imperial measurement. But 30 miles before work seemed a tall order and I need to think a few decades ahead. It turns out I am far