I met Mark during the Everest Marathon, only a few months after I’d come out of hospital. I was still a bit lost, still carrying more weight inside than I ever admitted out loud, and somehow, he saw that straight away. He didn’t push, didn’t pry, just understood, and we laughed so much.
We kept in touch over social media. One day, he noticed a little painting I’d done of Everest, something I thought was childish, almost embarrassing. He asked if I’d paint one for him too. When he received it, he sent me a photo of it hanging proudly in his office. I don’t think he ever realised how much that meant to me. In that moment, I felt so proud.
Since then, we crossed paths at mountain marathons. We always ran as individuals, partly because I knew I’d never keep up with him, but also because there was a kind of joy in trying to match his score, then comparing notes over a brew in the event tent. He was an exceptional fell runner: strong, light-footed, quietly competitive in that gentle way that made you want to be better simply by standing next to him.
At the end of May, I’ll run my next mountain marathon, one that I know Mark wanted to do, even if it was only to the first checkpoint, given his battle with cancer. It won’t be the same. I know I’ll feel the absence of him on that first climb, that moment when the world narrows to breath and effort, and I’ll probably shed a tear wondering whether he’d have chosen the same route. And then, as always, I’ll picture that familiar smile waiting in the brew tent afterwards, the smile of a man who simply loved being out on the fells.
Thank you, Mark, for inadvertently pushing me when I wanted to take an easier route. I always thought, ‘I bet Mark would take that climb.’ For making me feel proud, making me smile in a lonely world and for that warm welcome at the end of a long day in the hills. You made the tough world mountain marathons seem friendlier and life so much happier.
Rob Shenton
12/05/2026
