where re.race_id = r.race_id
and r.name = “Reading O2O 10K”
and re.runner_desc = “fat bloke”
Imagine the horror when my name popped up.
When fessing up my race calendar yesterday, I didn’t fess quite hard enough. There was the little matter of the O2O 10K, scheduled for 9 o’clock this morning.
A particularly painful moment in the 2004 Copenhagen Marathon (which is like saying “a particularly wet moment while swimming the English Channel”) came at around the 20 mile mark. Now the 20 mile mark of a marathon is painful enough, but it was around then that we ran past the Carlsberg brewery, followed by a series of lakeside drinkeries, outside which hundreds of grinning Danes raised their foaming, golden,ice-cold glasses at us as we struggled past, scarlet-faced and throats like sandpaper. I’ve hated Carlsberg ever since.
But they do make good TV ads. Carlsberg don’t organise 10K races, but if they did, I suspect they’d produce something similar to the Reading O2O 10K. This race employs a secret ingredient that isn’t a secret once you learn what the O in O2O stands for. All you do is get it organised and sponsored by one of the wealthiest corporations in the universe.
Apart from the actual running involved, this was a very enjoyable experience. Those 6.21 sweaty miles in the middle spoilt it a bit.
I was pretty scared by the prospect, if I’m honest. 10K is nothing to a hardened pounder like me, but after my recent… inconsistency, I drove over to the Thames Valley Business Park in East Reading, with some nervousness. I did try geeing myself up on the journey. To use the reassuring words of a seasoned decorator, called in to repair some damaged wallpaper: “Everything is recoverable”. (Crikey, why was I not too embarrassed to type those words?)
I’m not even sure that it’s true. But it’s almost true, and that’s good enough even if it’s not quite so snappily inspiring: “Most things are recoverable — up to a point, like.”
The glittering organisation was apparent within a kilometre of the venue, with professionally produced roadsigns, and an advance platoon of the regiment of marshals out there today, all kitted out in smart royal blue teeshirts replete with the race name on the front and SUPPORT STAFF on the back. There were swarms of them all over the course and at the start/finish — pointing, clapping, proffering opened water bottles, shouting encouragement, and all the while, mentally drafting fiendishly complex, nested SQL queries ready for Monday morning.
The roadsigns and grinning marshals multiplied as I neared the car park entrance, and there was no let-up once through the gates. As I parked, I could hear some sort of regimental sergeant-major bellowing commands — though I later found this to be just the aerobics instructor warming up the masses.
Jogging the hundred yards or so to the start was quite a struggle. This wasn’t a good sign. I met up with a few members of my running club, and had to explain why I wasn’t wearing the club singlet today: I didn’t want to bring shame on them. They looked at me quizzically, as if to say: “Well it’s a bit late to be thinking that, isn’t it?”
I have to be a bit careful when talking about the club. They got a bit sensitive about a jokey remark I made on the old RunningCommentary once. They haven’t really twigged that I operate on a faintly whimsical plane. I’d better spell it out: The previous paragraph is a total lie, pretty much like everything I write. No one else has ever complained…
I tried to have a pee in bush, but couldn’t even manage to do that. Things were not looking good.
The hooter hooted, the runners ran, the sun shone.
The race was nowhere near as bad as I feared. I set off with only one objective: to get round — despite being pretty round already. Ho ho. After an inert August, 6.2 miles would do me very nicely, thanks. Not a day for attempted PBs. Very much a jog; a training run.
And that’s what it was. A 5 mile jog, a two minute walk, then another jog for a mile, all punctuated with brief meetings with plump ladies, panting for England. A nice bunch of runners, it should be said. Full of chat and encouragement. Several I spoke to were doing their first or second race, and it reminded me that 10K really is quite a big deal for most people. It also prompted the thought that for me, and I suspect a lot of these people, running isn’t really about running at all, but something more nebulous.
To many runners, it will sound a bit too worthy to talk about challenging oneself. It’s a 10K, not an ultra-marathon. But you could tell from some of the entrants today that it was a pretty formidable task. I don’t have such a good excuse, being a relative veteran these days, but one who is let down by athletic inertia and fluctuating motivation: a negative side-effect of living in a village containing 6 pubs. But perhaps this will be the fillip I need.
At last, the finish appeared through the trees. The squeal of the chip mat said it all.
Collected the superb medal, good quality shoe bag, drink bottle, banana, muesli bar… blimey, this was a goody bag approaching the legendary Almeria Half Marathon quality, though no UK race will ever come close to the value of that excellent race.
That’s it. A good first step on the long haul back.
