Don’t ask me how I did it, as I’m positive it was sheer bloody mindedness rather than any kind of skill, but I’m in the final. I’m waiting at the bottom of the towering log with a short piece of rope looped around my waist and some padding on my shins.

I have practiced this, and I hated every second. Plus, I’ve not trained enough, as I didn’t expect to get this far. Not ever. A few moments ago, my legs started shaking, and it was crunch point. I could decide to give in to fear and roll out an average performance, happy to just have come this far.

Or.

I can use every ounce of knowledge that I’ve learned over the years and harness those nerves, using them to fuel the adrenaline that will enhance my effectiveness.

‘And, we all know that Elliott Beaumont-Judd is a competitor!’

I bite down my anxiety, close out any thoughts of failing and against a backdrop of muffled cheers, I focus on the task at hand. I stare at the log I will conquer, and I decide how to attack my challenge. I plan my journey, imagine how the bark will feel under my touch, tighten the tendons in my quads to understand how they will grip as I grasp with my legs while flicking the lasso up a notch and hauling myself up another level.

I repeat the imagery in my mind, focusing on the burn in my legs, the ache in my chest and the pain in my shoulders. I prepare my body for the shock that scaling the pole ahead of me will bear.

By the time the horn goes, I know I can do this. I’m fired up and nothing will stop me.

Except I haven’t factored in the slip.

I’m so eager to get off to a good start that I lose my footing and wobble over on my ankle before I’ve even taken my first hop up that colossal tower.

But I don’t feel the throb. My internal system knows what it needs to do and blocks out the pain, concentrating instead on diverting all my energies to the parts that need them.

Fear and injury do not factor in my success.

I ignore the giant next to me, the so-called expert. I don’t look at him; rather, I concentrate on getting my performance right. I count the beat that will drive me to the summit first, and my body moves according to the drum beating in my head. It is the only thing I hear.

I maintain the rhythm, pass the sixty-foot mark, but I don’t recognize it, other than to know I must force my body to work harder, to speed up where others will slow. The final push.

When I hit the top, I have no time to judge who was there first; instead I stretch to reach the black mark with my rope before clinging on with every muscle fiber in my body and allowing the rope to slip down the log and take me back to earth at breakneck speed. My body batters against the log as I twist and twirl, the only control being gravity drawing me back down. My elbows knock as my legs swing out, but I grip tighter with my hands, clenching my biceps to ensure I don’t let go.

The stark blue of the crash mat is approaching fast. While I want to hit it first and win this championship, and my natural instinct is to strike out with my feet, Florian taught me to bend my knees and await the impact with flexibility to avoid crushing my legs again.

I tense my glutes, raising my legs and bend my knees, waiting. As my feet slam back to earth, my core braces and I cling on to the rope even tighter, steadying my balance against the shock.

When I whip my head around to see where the other guy is, he's also there.

“Who won?” I say to no one, searching for Kyle in the midst of the cheering throng.

I don’t see him. He’s not there, because he body slams me from behind. “You did it, you odd fucking man. You only went and won.” His words are loud, rattling around my brain without fully registering there. But, nothing else is important as he grabs me around my waist and screams the words into my ear.

And that’s when I feel it, the thing I hadn’t realized was missing. That security not only of being one half of a couple, but of being me.