Sun 2 Mar 2003: Silverstone Half Marathon

The inaugural "London Half Marathon" at Silverstone was a strangely soulless affair.

I should be thinking of it as a good day's work, as I knocked ten minutes off my previous best time, but I can't help feeling disappointed by the event, and by my performance.

We got there with no problems. The we includes Alfred from Mexico City, and Darryl from Chicago - two postgraduate Oxford students to whom I'd agreed to give a lift. Getting to Silverstone by public transport is more than difficult. It's just about impossible. To get there from Oxford would apparently have required them to travel first to London - and even then the journey would have been complicated and uncertain.

For some reason, I'd assumed they'd be running Blues, gunning for sub 1:15 half marathon times. I'd already rehearsed the humiliating exchange in which I'd have to explain that 2:20 was my target for the half marathon, not the marathon.

Two hours twenny for the half? But... but that's eleven goddam minutes a mile, man! You cannot be serious!

But no, they were both new runners, aiming for around two hours, and were good company.

The Silverstone track is notorious among Formula One fans for being difficult to get in and out of, but we arrived with no difficulties.

I'd not been here before. Motor racing, and cars in general, bore me silly. But you tend to associate F1 with wealth and state-of-the-art technology, and I was looking forward to the futuristic grandstands and modern facilities.

The reality was different. There was a kind of faded, seventies feel about the place. The grandstands were small and ramshackle, like those you see at minor football grounds. The fabled pits turned out to be a series of disappointingly clean, empty garages. There was nothing - not even the faintest whiff of Veuve Clicquot - to hint at motor racing.

Silverstone's most striking feature is its featurelessness. It's a sort of huge compound bounded by the racetrack and car parks. Inside the circuit is a reluctant network of patched-up paths and the odd portakabin-like structure, quite out of proportion to the overall size of the complex. There's a down-at-heel, hollow atmosphere. On Grand Prix day, it must be throbbing with excitement and colour, but here, today, it was just a vast, soulless wilderness.

It reminded me of those amateur cup finals at Wembley I used to sneak into when I was a kid. It was a great occasion for the teams and their supporters, but when you have ten thousand people inside a stadium designed for ten times that number, the atmosphere suffers. It's ghostly. You're more conscious of those who are missing than those who are present.

There wasn't much to do while we waited for the midday start. We gazed blankly at the London marathon merchandise. We sat around in the empty garages, huddled together like refugees, waiting for something to happen. The catering consisted of a string of burger and fried chicken stalls. Amazingly, they weren't selling much in the way of burgers or fried chicken to the ten thousand people who were just about to run thirteen miles.

I did my stretching and warm-up, and tried unsuccessfully to have a pee. Being able to drink several pints of fluid without wanting to urinate is generally a pretty useful skill, but when it comes to running, and the need to jettison excess ballast before setting off, it becomes a nuisance. I knew that as soon as the race started I'd want to go, but couldn't force the issue before the off.

Eventually, around 11:50, I joined the several thousands of others already lined up on the track, and waited for the midday start. There were many people arriving late, so we were delayed ten minutes. During this time, there was (I later learned) a one minute silence to mark the recent death of Chris Brasher, but we had no idea. The PA system didn't seem to work properly, and we heard no announcements where I stood (just after the halfway mark). We didn't hear the gun or hooter or whatever it was this time, but a big shout went up from the front of the crowd, and slowly we began moving.

The spirit was good at this point, and there was some noise from the supporters in the grandstand. But once we'd left the start area, the race seemed strangely subdued, and this atmosphere stayed with us for the entire thirteen miles.

I was happy for the first few miles. My target in this, the first of three successive half marathon weekends, was 2 hours 20 minutes, and for a while I was convinced I might even get round in 2:10. To do that, I needed to run about ten minutes a mile all the way round. The first five were: 10:03, 09:46, 10:07, 09:48, 9:50, followed by a slightly slower sixth and seventh (10:28 and 10:23). And that's when I hit a problem.

I'd stopped for a pee at the side of a warehouse-like building, and immediately afterwards I felt much weaker. Strange, as the relief should have driven me forward with renewed heart. It was like hitting the wall - except this was 7 miles, not 20. If it wasn't the wall... perhaps it was the hedge, or the flimsy fence. I hit something. From going at a reasonable pace, I suddenly had to stop and walk for a minute or so, and I knew then that the game was up.

I spent the first half of the race convinced I'd get home in 2:10, and the second half desperately concerned that I wouldn't make 2:20. I eventually came home in 2:20:15. My remaining splits were 11:24, 11:24, 11:20, 12:03, 11:09, 11:22, 01:03.

The finish was something of an anti-climax. We got across the line, meandered along the track to an opening, then doubled back on the other side of the barrier to a line of helpers handing out carrier bags. I was disappointed that the medal was in the bag. A medal should be put around your neck by a pretty, swooning teenaged girl gushing compliments as she does so. The other disappointment was the lack of nutrition at the end. The bag contained a pouch of disgustingly sweet Lucozade Sport and a bottle of water, but I needed chocolate or bread.

Returned to the car, met up with the other two guys, then spent an hour or so trying to leave the car park. The most interesting thing to happen in this period was the discovery that they had been allocated consecutive race numbers, even though they'd entered separately.

Overall, it was a disappointing day. It's always good to do a race, and I'd not run this distance since the marathon in October, so perhaps it should be no surprise that I struggled. But I'm concerned by what seemed to be the sudden loss of energy halfway through. Strangely, it happened shortly after I glugged some Lucozade Sport, which is supposed to produce the opposite effect.

It made me wonder how much I enjoy the act of running. I love having run, and I like looking forward to a run. I like to plan races. But the run itself? With few exceptions, no, I don't think I like it much. Not this distance, anyway. Or am I just feeling a kind of post-race weariness? Maybe this was just a bad run.

I've got two more racing Sundays ahead to think about it.

Tues 4 Mar 2003

Hmm, a rather gloomy race report from Silverstone. Was it that bad? In the interests of balance, it should be said that, according to the Runners World forums, most runners thought it was a great day out and an excellent event.

I'm glad I did it, but I don't think I'd do it again. A lot of experienced runners dislike these big events, but I normally like them. I enjoy the festive atmosphere, and the sense that running is a mass-participation sport. It was the venue. Some people thought it hugely exciting to be running on this snakey strip of windblown tarmac. I just found it kind of listless and tedious.

Near the end of the race, there was a guy lying on the ground, eyes shut, being attended to by anxious-looking paramedics. I kept wondering what had happened to him, and today I found out. He died. He was 32.

Wed 5 Mar 2003

A three and a half mile run in the rain in the late afternoon. It was quite a struggle - I think I'm still a little tired from Sunday. Managed a fast time, however. An average pace of 9:41 is the fastest I've run in recent times.

Ian Painter has a surprising entry today, being dismissive of those of us who expressed some sadness at the death of a fellow runner on Sunday. Many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people saw this young chap drop to the ground and die in front of them. It would be a stoney heart that wouldn't muster a little emotion in the circumstances. The best I can offer is something of a cliché, but the words of John Donne sum it up best:

     No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe....
     ....Any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde;
     And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
     It tolls for thee.

Thurs 6 Mar 2003

My strategy for Reading appears to be to have no strategy whatsoever. I'm undecided how much I should be running between successive half marathons. Undecided? I just don't know. Yesterday I thought I'd have a short run today. Today I changed my mind, and had a rest day.

One worry is that I've got a very tough day in the garden on Saturday. We have a turf-cutter arriving at 8am and I'm supposed to strip a large portion of the grass, moving it to a pile about 100 yards away. This will be somewhat knackering. The normal way of relaxing after a day like this is to spend several hours in the pub, getting roaring drunk.

This time I'm going to run a half marathon instead.

Sat 8 Mar 2003

24 hours to the Reading Half. This week, I've deliberately reduced training to just 2 short runs, in the hope of conserving some energy. No doubt some of this excess energy will be seeping away in the garden today.

It's windy, and the rain is about to fall. The turf-cutter has just arrived, and I have a long day of garden reconfiguration ahead.

How things change. Up until fairly recently, the idea of spending Saturday gardening, then Sunday running a half marathon, would have been quite alien.

Perhaps this is middle-age at long last.

And now with only 12 hours to go, I'm feeling drained of all strength, enthusiasm and interest in the Reading Half Marathon.

I'm going to munch another bagel, drink another litre of water, and descend into profound, and rapid, unconsciousness. If I wake up at all, I'll be surprised. If I wake up before 8am and decide to run a half marathon, I'll be seeking an emergency consultation with a psychiatrist, first thing Monday morning.

Sun 9 Mar 2003: Reading Half Marathon

A bittersweet sort of a day.

I drove into Reading, and parked on a Caversham sidestreet, 12 minutes and 33 seconds walk from the start line. This is the sort of statistic that comes easily to the chap who wears a stopwatch.

Unlike last year, there was not a massive, stressed-out crowd of people trying to deposit their bags simultaneously. They got it right this year. I sailed through, leaving enough time for a 10 minute massage from Monique, a student at Reading College. After parting with a bargain Ł4, I trotted off to take my place in the starting line-up.

Unlike last year, there was not a half hour delay for the race to start. No. This year, the delay was nearly an hour. Yes, I crossed the start line at 10:25, 55 minutes after the scheduled start. I would love to pass on the excuse/reason for the delay, but Sweatshop's attention to detail meant that the PA system didn't work at our end of the field. The elite runners and the sub-1:20 people were apparently kept informed, but not us. At 9:40, some red-faced croaky-voiced bloke ran down the line shouting into a megaphone that we would be off in 10 minutes. Twenty minutes later, an even more panic-stricken looking bloke ran down the other side, with no megaphone, shouting that we would be away in five minutes. Fifteen minutes later, amid much cursing and ironic cheering, we began shuffling forward.

By this point, I really didn't give a shit about the Reading Half Marathon. And I really didn't give a shit about Sweatshop.

What was the next problem? Ah yes. The first water station was earlier than expected - about 1.5 miles. But sadly, there was no water available there.

After such a demotivating start, I finally got into my stride. The first mile was crowded, but after a while I was able to tune into my own goal, and get on with it.

My goal was to beat last week's time of 2:20, even though Reading was a much harder course.

My splits in the first half were: 10:25, 10:14, 10:58, 09:57, 10:48, 09:45, 10:10.

Then I slowed down with 11:05, 11:01, 11:46 and 12:15.

After this eleven mile point, I realised I was running just behind last week's time, and upped the ante with 10:54, and a final (by my standards), aching 10:02 and 00:55 for the final tenth of a mile.

I finished 8 seconds behind last week. It just added to my misery.

At the moment, I don't want to say any more about this event. I've never felt less like writing about a race.

Tues 11 Mar 2003

Running a race is an emotional experience. After finishing Reading and collecting my medal, I tottered into the sports hall and found a line of deep, soft sofas. I sank, almost orgasmically, into one of these things, and glugged a bottle of water. I was in some kind of a trance. I remember, vividly, the sensation of floating through the air, above a rather drab looking town. I was holding onto some great red balloon with the word ACHIEVEMENT written across it in white. Horribly corny I know, but I can only report what happened.

This state lasted for several luxurious minutes before I awoke and got on with my life.

I was quite pleased with things at this point. I got home, showered and changed, and still felt pretty good. I even pottered around in the garden, wondering how I was going to transform this patch of rocky, weedy clay into a cornucopia of succulent fruit and vegetables. It was only later, when I began to read about the problems of the day on the internet, and discovered that the slower runners had been pretty much humiliated by the organisers of the race, that I began to feel anger. They had taken down the mile markers, dismantled the water stations and reopened the roads while there were still hundreds of runners on the course.

I'm feeling equanimous about it now. More than that. I'm going to do something positive. After a correspondence on the Runners World forum, I've decided to get involved in the organisation of a race, preferably my local one - the Theale 10K in August. I've spoken to the organiser this evening, who is in two minds whether it will take place this year at all. They also had some organisational difficulties last year, which meant that most of the runners ran not ten kilometres, but thirteen. I'm going to see her on Saturday, and will see if we can sort something out.

On Sunday, it's the Bath Half. Still on this theme of organisational glitches, I've been omitted from the official list of entrants, and hence not been sent a race number. This morning I finally managed to make contact with the organiser, who has assured me that my number is in the post.

After the dullness of Silverstone and the Reading debacle, I need Bath to be good. I've had two 2:20 half marathons. This Sunday I'm going all out for a PB.

No run today. I got suddenly taken drunk on Sunday night and last night, and just didn't fancy it today. Tomorrow and Thursday I'll have a gentle jaunt along a few country lanes, and plan Sunday's assault on the world record.

Wed 12 Mar 2003

Hurrah! Something great has happened! I've got an injury at last!

I've often thought that I should have more injuries. I'm overweight, I never stretch or have massages or do warm-ups or warm-downs. I've run two marathons and 5 half marathons without training properly. And yet I never get injured. I've been feeling quite inadequate. Equally, a few weeks ago I had a bad cold, much to my relief. It was so long since I'd been ill that I was beginning to think there must be something wrong with me.

My right calf seized up after the Reading race. Naturally, I did nothing about this, though the ache has remained. Today, I popped out for my first run since the weekend. All was going reasonably well until, about a mile into the run, I realised that my calf was hurting enough to have to stop and walk. I walked for a couple of miles, but all attempts to jog failed. No idea what to do about this, but I have three days to get it right before the Bath Half.

At least I feel like a real runner at last.

Fri 14 Mar 2003

The calf is still whining a little, so no run again today. I'd say I'm fifty-fifty for Bath in two days time. I suspect I could run two or three miles with no problem, but thirteen? I don't know. Tomorrow I'll have a brief plod, and see how it feels. If it's worse, I'm out of the race.

Sat 15 Mar 2003

When I left the house for a brisk 3 miler this morning, I wasn't sure if I'd be going to Bath tomorrow. By the time I returned I'd decided not to run. I did get through the three miles without hobbling, but towards the end I could feel my right calf tightening and beginning to panic. I wouldn't make it through thirteen miles.

It's disappointing, but just one of those things you have to accept. I've been lucky with injuries, and this is the first race I've had to pull out of, so I can't complain too much. What's more constructive is trying to decide how this happened. I can't help feeling that the final stretch of the Reading Half took its toll. I was tired, but ran those last two miles relatively fast to try and beat my Silverstone time. When I stopped running, I was immediately aware of a pain in my calf, and it never really went away. Perhaps if I'd stretched it a bit at that point, and iced it when I got home it may have repaired itself sooner. But I didn't. I just need to take it easy for a few days and allow it to heal.

Later this afternoon I went to see Sylvia, the local 10K race organiser, to talk about the future of the race. She's short of volunteers this year, and minded not to hold the race. We talked about last year's problems, and how things might be improved. I'm going to try recruiting a few volunteers and see if we can't guarantee the race this year.

This evening, I thought I might as well take advantage of my injury, and we went out for a great meal at one of the local posh pub restaurants. Mmmmm. Injuries do have their silver lining.

Tues 18 Mar 2003

No run today, but does anyone really care at the moment? Certainly I don't. Instead, I sat watching our slide into World War Three.

Oh Tony. What a wasted talent you became. Such a nice boy, until you started hanging around with Idiot George, the bully from the other side of the lake. That Bush family are a bad lot.

Too late, too late. A truly terrible day, and one that some of us will live to regret, while the rest of us won't live to think anything.

Wed 19 Mar 2003

I decided to give my calf another day of rest even though I've not felt a twinge for a couple of days now. Tomorrow I really must give it a test. Resting is good, but there's always the fear that a rest might turn into an extended lay-off.

It's still uncertain what the next race will be. I'll be doing nothing this weekend, but there are a couple of 10Ks on the following two Sundays that appeal.

The phoney war continues. We all now know there'll be a military assault on Iraq, and are just waiting for the off.

The weather has been glorious for the last few days. I've been able to spend a couple of hours each evening in the garden, digging and scraping at my first vegetable patch. Birdsong and crocuses, and early Spring sunshine. I need to remember that this is how things once were.

Fri 21 Mar 2003

Yesterday I put my calf to the test with an early morning three miler. It failed. The first mile I felt nothing, and was beginning to feel smug. But then mile two exposed a twinge, and mile three turned the twinge into an ache. It was bad enough to make my 300 yard warm-down walk quite a painful affair.

It's a little depressing, but I have to be glad that I've no races coming up. If I was doing the London marathon in three weeks time I'd be panicking. On the other hand, had I planned to do the Washington DC marathon this weekend, I'd be fuming. The organisers have called it off for unspecified "security reasons", much to the anger of most of the runners and the city authorities who weren't, it seems consulted. No refunds will be given.

One ray of sunshine in this glooomy non-running period is the lack of guilt I feel about going to the pub. Last night I went down the local and plonked myself in front of the TV to watch the latest. It was depressing. Two nations at loggerheads. Shocking scenes. All that noise and fury and misery and pain.

And that was just the Liverpool - Celtic game. I couldn't bring myself to watch the other stuff.

Mon 24 Mar 2003

This barren running period continues, but I feel OK about it. The strained calf means an unscheduled rest, that's all, and I'll be better and stronger for it. I've been miraculously lucky with injuries considering how fat and old I am, especially as I never do any stretching and eat all the wrong foods and spend a lot of time in the pub. Let's face it, it doesn't much matter.

Sometime soon I need to draw up a list of races for the summer and autumn. There is a strange, unspoken assumption that I'll be taking part in the Dublin marathon in late October. I'm already in the Great North Run on Sept 21, and I'm keen to do the Bristol Half two weeks earlier. I had a mail from Pete (Griff from the messageboard), asking whether I'd be joining him at Bristol. It would seem rude to turn down the invitation, and I should manage a pass-out by suggesting to M that it was time we paid a visit to the Bristol IKEA again. No need to overburden her unduly with news of my running commitment until we're speeding west along the M4, when I can slip in a casual reference to the half marathon.

I do, or did, have a couple of races pencilled in for next month, but I'll take a rain-check on this calf nearer the time.

The military assault on Iraq is into its fifth day, and latest estimates are about 19 dead Brits, around 30 Americans and countless Iraqis, no doubt. The worst image of the war so far came from the Al-Jazeera website, with its photos of some of the civilian victims of the bombing of Baghdad. It showed a teenage boy with the top of his head peeled back, like a can of sardines. His head was empty. Let's hope the pro-war people saw it too.

And that's why my running injury really doesn't matter.

Mon 31 Mar 2003

The final day of an anticlimactic month.

It's ten days since I last ran. In this brief period I've put on about 5 pounds and devoted most of my evenings to getting mildly drunk. It's been pleasant enough - war notwithstanding - but it must be time to try again.

This week is supposed to be the start of the Hal Higdon 12-week Spring Training Programme. It's designed to keep you ticking over, and to prepare you for a more rigorous programme. The twelve week schedule finishes just as the 18 week Dublin marathon schedule is due to begin.

The intention is to test the water tomorrow with a leisurely three mile run/walk just to test out the calf. I'm not working at home these days, but now that Spring has sprung, the plan is to get up early, and begin to establish a daily early-morning running routine.

No, of course I won't be able to do it. But self-deception is an essential part of the runner's toolkit.

Ha ha!!

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