Hangovers are rare beasts around these parts, but one has come a-prowling today. Not a desperately savage example, but enough to keep me subdued. It’s prompted the usual self-interrogation, and taken me through the drinker’s faulty arithmetic in which two parts of pleasure somehow have to be shown to equal the three parts of pain that follow. The proposition never quite works out.
It seemed such a good idea at the time. A post-race reward. Liverpool v Arsenal on the TV on the pub, and a few pints of London Pride. Exchanging manly small-talk about the referee. Then home to cook and eat the pork, swilling it down with a glass or two of Aldi’s reliable Chianti. And all very enjoyable it was too. I simply don’t understand how, at my advanced age, I continue to think I can make this large withdrawal of pleasure without having to pay it back, with interest.
To worsen my mood further, with my resistance down, I’ve spent today eating delicious rubbish for the first time in 13 weeks. Tomorrow, I fear the scales will pass sentence. It won’t make me feel any better.
As for the race, it was a curious affair. Billed as 8 miles, though the Garmin had it as 7.87. I have a feeling that this PB will last for some time, as I’m unlikely to find many more races of 7.87 miles, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to motivate myself to run this one again. The most memorable aspect was the question being loudly asked as I approached the start area: “Is there anyone here whose surname does NOT start with the letter M?”
Quite a few of us, judging by the number who made a beeline for the lady bellowing the question. Fortunately I reached her before most of the others, and was able to get my race number quickly. I took the envelope and hurried back to the car to sit out the half hour before the off.
By now, the sky had begun its bombardment of big, cold raindrops. As I sat leaning on the steering wheel, staring at the opaque windscreen, I experienced my expected “Why the hell do we do this?” moment. After a week of early rising to attend a course, I would happily have stayed in bed the entire day. Shame, or the impulse to avoid it, eventually yanked the duvet off me and tipped me into the day.
A cold, grey morning. Better for running than general-purpose living. It was cool enough to persuade me to do something I’ve done only once before in a race: wear leggings. My legs don’t get cold, and I’m normally happy to stick with shorts and flesh. But I’m fearful of a recurrence of the calf injuries of last year, and reckon that a bit of compression, and keeping my tendons warm, will help to keep these problems at bay. Running in leggings wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, and had the unexpected bonus of allowing me to admire the elegant svelteness newly installed in my lower limbs.
The rain eased off a little, and as I jogged back to the start, I felt marginally better disposed towards the task at hand. Less cheerful was a nervous looking blonde lady I found myself lining up behind. With an unexpectedly serious tone in her voice, she turned round and said to anyone in earshot: “As long as I survive to see my two year old again, I’ll be happy.” This in turn made me feel ever so slightly uneasy. Was it that bad?
It is a tricky course, the shape of an inverted V, but not too punishing. The first 3.5 miles are pretty much all uphill (the Hog’s Back of the title), with the second half of the race flat or downhill. It was a fairly straightforward plod. I’d decided this would be a training run, and managed to get through it without undue discomfort. Given the contours of the course, and the order in which they arrive, it was no surprise to manage negative splits. In fact, I finished quite strongly, probably helped by walking up some of the steeper stretches at the start. I had decided to run the whole way, but it was one of those curious cases where I noticed that my uphill running was actually no faster than the determined walking of those around me. After a couple of hundred yards of virile plodding, I realised I’d made no progress on the walkers up ahead, and decided to fall in with the crowd.
Organisation wasn’t brilliant at this race. The single drinks station ran out of water long before I reached it, and the baggage system, which resulted in our bags being left out in the rain while we ran, wasn’t perfect. The memento, a cheap mug, seemed a bit lacking in quality, especially considering that this was the 50th running of the race. But I don’t want to moan too much. It was a nice enough event, and the marshals were supportive and pleasant. It’s the boss who needs to sharpen up his act a bit.
Oh yes, and just in case anyone was worried, I can report that after I crossed the finish line, I spied the blonde lady again. This time she was grinning broadly, her grateful arms wrapped around the giggling two year old she feared she would never see again.
Phew.
