I used to love running, but then life got in the way. Which is silly really as I loved it so much it should have been a part of my life, but I found once I stopped it was hard to get back into the habit again.

Last summer I made a concerted effort: a local running club was running a Couch to 5k course, and then after that a 5k to 10k. I went along and briefly remembered what I'd loved about it. But then I had a collision with a large dog and twisted my knee, so that was me out for a month or so, and I didn't finish the course. I needed some motivation to carry on, so I signed up for a 10k canicross race with Raffi.

He's a wonderful running partner. He stays close, and I feel safe enough with him that even after I lost confidence after suffering a violent mugging some years back, as long as he's with me I feel I can run anywhere, however remote. He's not, however, an ideal canicross dog. He has a different focus from a husky, say, or a collie. He gets bored easily, so running ahead of me in a harness for miles is a no for him. So on our training runs I rewarded him with plenty of off-harness time. And I gave him lots of praise when he was on-harness – for pulling, turning right and left, for 'leave it' (useful for passing dogs who want to play, and for squirrels) and for speeding up and slowing down.

Through a local canicross group I found other people to run with occasionally, and his boredom threshold was less when running with other dogs: the thrill of chasing or being chased made it more fun for him. At the end of our training we'd managed a 10k. It was slow - which was entirely down to me and not him - but we'd done it.

The race was in the Afan Forest in South Wales. The day was cold with a threat of rain. I'd planned the morning meticulously – arrive early, eat a banana, have a walk around to settle Raffi – but of course I was late. I rushed to find the loo, to find the start, forgot to eat my banana, and Raffi and I arrived at the start completely unprepared for the chaos.

There were hundreds of dogs crammed into a small area, all excited and barking. I'd planned to start right at the back to calm both of us down, but the 5k racers were waiting right behind us, so there was nowhere to give Raffi space. He's not a reactive dog, but surrounded by all this arousal made him stressed and he started barking too, and lunging at any dog who was near us. I clung on to him and told him, and me, 'calm, calm...'

At last the race started, and I hung back, and finally we had space. But the track immediately dropped downhill and he started racing after the other dogs, too fast for me; I was afraid I'd fall. I was asking him to 'whoa' but he was too excited to listen and in trying to slow him I accidentally hit the emergency release button on the bungee lead, and he was off, a riderless racehorse. He found my family among the onlookers and I caught him. I was aware of everyone staring at this out of control canicross team, and I said to no-one in particular, 'He's got himself all stressed out,' and a steward looked concerned as it was clear it was not just the dog who was fraught. 'Take your time,' she told me.

The day hadn't started well.

My hands were shaking but after a few attempts I re-attached the bungee lead and we set off. But now the path went immediately uphill and he was in no mood to run and I was over-breathing and couldn't. Right behind us was a steward whose job it was to bring up the very back of the race. Raffi was busy sniffing all the new scents on the path and I had given up before we'd started. We did run a bit after a while, but then we were overtaken by the frontrunners of the 5k race and I stopped and took Raffi off the path in case he was still feeling upset by the close proximity of other dogs.

Then, we were on our own, both of us calmer at last, and we started running. I spoke to him: good boy, good running, and he picked up his pace in response, eager, pulling me. I concentrated on my breathing – out for three, in for two. We'd walked for about 2k but now we were passing the kilometer markers – 3, 4, 5. We passed a few other runners: 'Runner coming through on the right!' Raffi had forgotten his upset, was passing other dogs without worry.

Brown winter trees and hills. A lovely tumbling river down below. And me and my best friend running, running, through a forest.

We were going at a steady pace, faster than I would have done without him. We were making up some of the time we'd lost at the start. But then the path veered to the right and ahead of us there was the infamous part of the race that was called, ominously, The Wall. It rose above us, up into the sky.

It would have helped if Raffi had pulled me, as even walking it was killing me, but he was now more interested in sniffing all the good smells from the streams that ran down along the side of the path, and from the dogs who had been here before us. The hill felt like it would never stop. We reached the sky, turned the corner, and up the path went up again, even steeper now. Endless.

But at last, at last, I heard music through the trees, and at the top of the hill I saw blurred shapes, and as we got closer I saw they were people: cheering, clapping people. A friend of mine was there with her dog, and her dog leapt forward to greet Raffi. Raffi went to say hello to the spectators and I said, 'Raffi, this isn't a social event!' and people laughed, and I asked him to please, please, pull one last time. And he did, and we raced to the finish, to my waiting family. A woman put a medal round my neck.

We'd done it.

I used to run, years ago, and I have medals, but this one is precious. It represents the bond I have with my dog. There is something so special about being with him in a beautiful place, asking him to run, and him listening to me, making me run harder and faster than I could ever run alone. The two of us communicating.

As soon as we'd finished I wanted to do it again.

Canicross