Woke up at around 9.30 am such strange luxury on a race day! and waited for Ronan, my genial host and a man I described in my Tales from Montreal, much to his consternation I might add, as having a quiet sense of humour. For the record (and now that I know that Ronan and some of his pals read this rubbish) I will expound on that and say he has a mischievous, understated and in some way mercurial nature. There, that should clear that up nicely.
During the previous evenings' pasta fest we had discussed the official pre-race dining advice as set out by the race organisers. This boldly stated that runners should dine at least four hours prior to start time. I may be over-quoting Mr Sheehan of late but given that we are all an experiment of one I find this sort of sweeping statement risible, declaring so in no uncertain terms to the gathered carb-loaders. Ronan stoutly defended his local arbiters stating that he would be taking them at their word. As things turned out, and as so often in life when people want/ need/ like to get along, we compromised. Breakfast was laid out at the student-friendly hour of eleven. Rice pudding, bananas, honey, seeded bread, coffee and plenty of water filled the table. Leo, the Oxford-based Italian greyhound, joined us and we set about our feast with great gusto. As substitutes for porridge oats go the rice pudding was excellent (if cold), mixing delightfully with chopped banana and honey. Of course we then kicked our fidgety heels for an hour or more before setting off for the Parc du Cinquantenaire whilst I whined constantly and without shame about the obvious folly of a mid-afternoon start.
Race: Start
So much of this race reminded me of the excellent Marathon de Paris; the auspicious starting place, the tree-lined boulevards, the Gallic cries of encouragement . . . the utter chaos from start to finish . . .
Well, thats not strictly fair. But before I get to the meat of the pie I have to share a gripe or two. Race starts; whats the dang deal here people? If you are a planet-munching lard-bucket no more capable of maintaining 12-minute miles than you are of walking past a chip shop why on Earth would you want to start a race ahead of the 1 hour 30 pace runners and the twenty thousand-odd runners lined up behind them? Do tell, pray, for I am sore distracted to know the flamin reason. And race organisers; hello? We have chip timing so it's no longer essential to try to get 25,000 people through a two-person gap all at the same time. How about some staggered starts? In Brussels race numbers are allocated according to projected finishing time. OK, an imperfect system when our fellow runners insist, on the basis of some bizarre bravado or idea that they might get on the telly if their sixth chin should trip up the favourite, on claiming a 1:20 finish. The orgaisers should beware such entries, stained as they often are with burger grease and chip fat. But generally this would work no? The starting pens are in seven blocks; so seven starting guns, each admittedly less pant-filling than the fifty pounds of semtex used here but just as effective, set off at ten minute intervals. That might just create enough space for some of us to actually run some time in the first five kay of your blessed race.
Equally it is surely not beyond the bounds of reason to suggest that in a big city race (25,000 starters may not match the numbers for the City of Manchester 10K Street-Sweep but its still a fair number of warm bodies in a relatively confined space) that if you find that youre moving at a considerably slower speed* than your fellow runners we could all agree (and the organisers share this with everyone before the off) that you elect to move to a designated side of the flow - left or right, I really don't care. That is as opposed to wandering aimlessly across sixteen lanes of running humanity as you fcuk about with your iplod. Its just a thought.
*[SIZE="1"]not to be confused with slower runners; Im talking shuffling/ hobbling/ barely walking here.[/SIZE]
This is not a dig at the Brussels organisers - actually this was one of the better organised big city races - but at big events in general. Id best cut to the chase before I bust a blood vessel.
The start of the 20K of Brussels takes place under the mighty Liberation Arch in Parc du Cinquantenaire. Some five minutes later, just as the runners leave the park, the actual start line appears repleat with chirping chip mats. Its all a bit confusing but you know what? It works in its own crazy way. Our merry cosmopolitan cluster separated in the starting pen scramble. With a race number in the seven thousands I found my place soon enough but managed to lose Ronan (he'd set off in search of the sub 2 pacers). Lorenzo, Ronan's colleague from the IDF (another horribly fit young man) was still with me. Pierre-Rive and Erwan, with barely any training and a few late nights tucked away, wisely chose to join the tail-enders. Ravels Bolero blasted out from the giant speakers hanging off the grand arch as we awaited the gun. Im not sure of the significance of this piece to the people of Brussels but it helped to pass the time, conjouring hazy, rose-tinted memories of 1984, Gold in Sarajevo, Torvill and Dean, Alan Weeks in euphoria, perfect sixes, jumpers for goal posts hmm, wasnt it?
Finally, after the Belgian National Anthem, an ear-splitting roar as a series of demolition charges signalled the start and we were shuffling forwards, the initial stunned silence yielding to a rising tide of excited chatter, lusty cheers and cries of Allez!.
It wont surprise you to learn (having suffered my previous petulant rant) the early kilometres involved a good deal of ducking and diving around inconsiderate human bollards. Id been warned about this over supper last night and responded by leaning back in my chair, puffing on an imaginary pipe stuffed with hubris and announcing the only way to deal with such an obstacle is with a calm clear countenance. Above all, Id pontificated to my rapt/ captive audience, one should not waste energy on scuttling about through the early congestion; rather conserve ones strength for a more valuable push some thirty minutes into the race by which time such troublesome flotsam will have no doubt dispersed.
Sadly that pompous arse was nowhere to be found as I cursed and sweated my way around and through a series of lardy roadblocks, leaking energy like a Chavs' house at Christmas and heating up nicely. Speaking of heat the expected deluge never turned up. By all accounts it hung a right on the way over from Old Blighty to offload on Monaco where it conspired to deliver mayhem to the Grand Prix and swing jammy Hamilton his first success in the Principality. That left yours truly with his favourite race conditions; sweltering nicely under an unhindered, broiling sun.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
So the first 5K was a ball of hot frustration. My Garmin showed the pace varying from 7:33 (minute miles) to 10:28, partly due to human traffic but also thanks to a surprisingly undulating course. I know – in Belgium! What’s that? You thought it was dead flat? Me too, but brother we were wrong.
A gentle downhill slope from the park along the Rue De La Loi, past the EU legislature and parliament buildings, the daytime occupants of which seek to forge our destinies whether we like it or, as seems to be more often the case, not, got us started. A sharp left at Warande started a zig-zag around the Royal Palace, our first SPA-sponsored, sharpened-elbows-at-the-ready, every-man-for-himself drinks station (I declined to take part) and on to the magnificent Palais des Justice. Lets not beat about the bush here; the architecture in this city is fabulous. Classic and neo-gothic blends effortlessly with arts deco and nouveau, a riot of texture and design that works in twisted harmony to create an ambiance of cultures past and modern. The Palace rose like a mighty temple of truth, adorned with gold leaf and sturdy pillars capable of upholding the toughest edicts. Avenue Louise, scene of plenty of nifty slowbie-dodging manoeuvres (some of which involved running along a narrow curb and risking decapitation by the low-slung, sharp-edged wall lights) took us south through a series of tunnels reminiscent of the Parisian peripherique. Runners started clapping at the deepest point, the sound resonating back through the darkness like a rolling shock wave. Back into daylight, the 5K point then on towards the blissful relief of the heavily wooded park.
I was ready for some shade. My well-documented jousts with Apollo don’t seem to get any easier and so it proved here, sweat splashing onto my knees as I pulled heavily up the steady incline towards the cool embrace of the trees. Natures’ woodland perfume mingled with the scent of fresh sweat in a riotous olfactory carnival, the multiple crunch-crunch beat of heavy footfalls on cinder tracks our soundtrack. Sunlight danced in the upper branches dappling the runners around me like a crazy open-air disco mirrorball. Another SPA stop bobbed on the horizon - time for me to take advantage. It’s bottles this time; lids arbitrarily removed by the volunteers, though please don’t think me ungrateful; how they keep up with inhuman demand from an endless torrent of clasping fingers I’ve no idea. Heroes all in my book.
The cool, clear air and the merest hint of a breeze lifted my spirits. There seemed to be a little space in which to run, breathing room in which to plot a course through the rolling, tumbling kaleidoscope of corporate and charity vests. My own white tech shirt, ceremonially handed over last night, bore the inscription ‘IK LOOP VOOR DIABETES’ - 'I run for Diabetes'. I was running for the VDV – the Vlaamse (Flemish) Diabetes Vereniging (err, association?). The VDV had a ‘meet and greet’ tent near the start, though they were a little short on the ‘greet’ when our intrepid leader addressed them in French. This is apparently like a red rag to a Flemmish bull in Belgium though I don’t begin to understand the politics. It seems appropriate that much of the push and shove that is the modern EU takes place in a country divided by age-old differences. A lot of shrugging and eyebrow-raising ensued before we loped off for a meagre warm-up – hardly necessary in the conditions – and the obligatory last-minute bush-watering. Sometimes it’s great to be born a man.
The two kilometres of winding parkland trail was a delight. With a spring in my step (and a pill* on my tongue) I gained a few more places, even smiling at my fellow runners as the uncharitable darkness in my heart slipped into the shadows. Avenue de Gronendael twisted into Avenues de Boitsfort and de la Sapinere before a sharp right-hander set us onto F. Roosevelt and halfway. I still carried my SPA water bottle, though much of the contents had jiggled and sploshed over my legs and shoes. The liquid had warmed in my grasp so I traded at the next outpost (11K) in time to wash down a much-needed gel** before embracing a delightfully long descent past yet more impressive houses and tree-lined pavements. Brussels really is a remarkably green capital, boasting a full-blown forest (Foret de Soignes) within its boundaries. So many of my preconceptions about this place were being put to the sword, not least those regarding the weather which, without the merciful shelter of the park, had once again started to interfere with my running pleasure.
[SIZE="1"]* Ibuprofen, insurance against the dodgy knee. Lyric unashamedly assimilated from Spandau Ballet
** Not for the first time this appeared to have little or no effect[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The descent from 12 to 16 is running heaven in this 20K. A long, gently curving slope towards the beautiful Parc de Woluwe, replete with silent, soothing pools and heaps more leafy trails. As we runners know only too well what goes down must eventually go up. The 17 kilometre marker, wreathed in indecently strong sunshine, heralded the start of a kilometre-long ascent towards the finish. I slowed for the lone Isotonic drink stop, aware that for once my Hammer Gel hadn’t had the desired effect. Once again and as with all the drink stations the whole pack slowed, only this time it was much harder to get going again. Simmering nicely I felt my pace fall away as if two of my four outboard engines had simply switched off. All around me people showed signs of fatigue; many stopped to walk as they gulped from the orange or yellow branded tins. Others plodded on as if knee-deep in porridge and I have no doubt I blended perfectly with these. The isotonic drink was, as expected, harsh on the throat; I discarded mine after a few desperate swigs.
Several lithe competitors flew by, hardened bodies glistening in the sunshine as they worked the hill, arms pumping, heads forward to embrace the rising road. I looked on in envy. Despite no sign of the niggle I’d been throttling back a little in deference to my knee; any attempt to follow these real athletes might awaken the patella-monster and besides, I was cream crackered. I chugged and chugged, fiercely determined to at least keep running though in truth this was now at best a lumbersome jog. My inner author paraphrased Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now; Some day son this hill’s gonna end.
And, or course, it did. Finally Avenue de Tervuun evened out, bringing blessed relief to my straining calves and a murmur of hope from the flagging field. The sea of bobbing heads seemed as one to lift a little, smiles replacing grim application. With the end, that magnificent arch, literally in sight it was as well to remember we were still two klicks from a medal, a good ten minutes plus short of relief from this lung-burning torture. I had to dig in pretty hard to maintain a modest cadence, averaging over nine minute miles on the run-in. We negotaited the last roundabout, crowds thickening as the line approached, flags waving, children, faces shaded by sun hats, mouths plastered in ice cream, cheering wildly as we scuttled by, wide-eyed and sweat-drenched. Hmm, good name for my autobiography that.
As the shadow of Autoworld, one of two impressive museums guarding the finish line, fell upon me I reached for the Garmin. 1:48:53, barely a minute inside my modest projection of 1:50. Still, given the unexpected conditions and elevations I’m pretty happy with that. This being my first road-run 20K it’s a PB and that’s always a good thing.
I took on a few bottles of water and pouched the melting mars bar proffered by a liveried distributor, certain only of my dire need for sugar and liquid. I stumbled about on the slippery cobble stones seeking the medal station where a young chap sliced off my chip and a lovely young lady handed over my medal, a thing of undeniable golden beauty adorned by a red yellow and black ribbon. It now rests, as Sir Alex would have it, consigned to history in the depths of my suitcase. Onward, ever onward: chasing the mighty Moyleman through the hills of Seaford is only a week away.
One by one our merry band of newly-made friends assembled with their own tales of the race. To a man we agreed a) it was mercilessly hot and b) that last hill was a killer. Leo bagged an impressive 1:33. Christa, the languid Swede, hit close to 1:40 despite some serious achillies issues. Lorenzo pipped me by a minute and Steve came in a shade over the two hours. Ronan, having picked the toughest conditions in which to realise his sub-2 dream, crossed the line in 1:58 and change. He was so happy that, despite obvious fatigue, he immediately declared his intent to take on the full 26.2 in Paris next April. Bravo! As for the late night revellers they survived in a creditable two hours twenty-something. During the après-run festivities Pierre-Rive did a wonderful impression of John Wayne on his way to the bar. I sense there may be some stiff legs out there this week.
Before the pub I had a strange episode on the Metro. Standing on the carriage heading back to Ronan’s apartment I felt a little off colour. Leaning forward I tried to suck in some air but the feeling wouldn’t go away. As we disembarked to change lines I felt a strange, wave-like sensation rush from my feet to my head and I blacked out, coming too a nanosecond later as my left knee hit the deck. My colleagues helped me up thinking I’d stumbled but in truth I’m not sure what happened. I do know I’ll be off to the Docs* in double-quick time to check this out. A moment sat on a plastic seat had me fully restored and I can only think perhaps either low blood pressure or low blood sugar was the culprit. We’ll see. Suffice to say it didn’t restrict my enjoyment of or participation in the evening banter or reduce my appetite for blanche beer, red wine and a laden platter of delicious mini spare ribs accompanied by the obligatory frites in Place Bethlehem in the St Gills district. Lieven, our dedicated chauffeur and most knowledgeable and interesting guide, joined us to while away the meal discussing possible business ventures involving our professions (travel, logistics, events), luxurious destinations and beautiful women.
As we sat outside the restaurant sipping drinks and patting our full stomachs Ronan ventured the question ‘So how did we get here to this place in Bethlehem?’
I indicated our host. ‘We just followed the star.’
We are, as Ronan modestly pointed out, all stars. And, for the record and judging by the lowbrow nature of our conversation, probably none too wise.
[SIZE="1"]* Just back from the check-up.
Apparently I’m an old duffer, otherwise nothing to worry about.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Stars indeed.
Your postscript was the best bit of news :-) Excellent report and I truly sympathise about the crowded "racing" conditions. A great time especially considering the conditions and your dodgy kneecap. Hope it goes well next weekend too.
Fab report as ever -- lots of texture and detail to mull over. Sounds like the Brussels 20K is one to file away as a possible for the future.
I think the reason that some slowbies start high up the field is that they think there's less chance of getting left behind. It makes no sense at all if if only they did the maths, but they don't do the maths. I did this once myself, in my first ever race -- the Reading Half in 2002. I feared I would finish last, so thought that starting high up the field would help to prevent that. It's a selfish thought, but probably typical of newbies.
We had a long weekend in Brussels a few years ago, and surprised ourselves. It's something of an ignored city when it comes to tourism. The big European cities further south seem to get the top billing. But Brusells is a fantastic place for a break. Anywhere that puts frites, mayonnaise, chocolate and beer so high up their list of priorities can't be at all bad. Admittedly they're not terribly runner-friendly, but perfect for post-race reward.
1:48 is more than respectable in those conditions, so well done.
I'll bookmark the thread in the sidebar once I've worked out the best way to do this.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I've buried my appreciation of Brussels under a little too much bleating about big city race deficiencies. Brussels was a terrific surprise to me, full of gems at every turn. It makes for an excellent (if rather fattening) weekend destination and I'll be heading back with Mrs S before too long. I'm certain to return for this race, it's a corker.
I understand the anxieties of new runners, I really do; but they can't enjoy being shoved and frowned at for mile after mile. Perhaps some simple 'first timer' guidelines would be useful from race officials, though heaven knows they'll probably drown them in sponsors' advertising.
Is there a general etiquette for running (as there is for say use of the river)? If not it seems there should be. It's difficult when city races have a 'running line' that tends to weave from side to side to map out the precise distance. This is not the case in Brussels, so they could easily suggest slower runners/ walkers keep to the right (the course is predominated by turns to the left), overtakers/ people speeding up to the left. No doubt there's a myriad of reasons why this can't happen but most people complain about slowing traffic and it has potential for danger. As have people with 'strollers'. I'm all for children getting involved, but we had a couple of Dads running with child-laden three-wheeled strollers in the middle of the pack. Madness.
Something else I didn't mention was the number of sirens ringing out during the race. I haven't heard of any serious casualties but I can't recall the paramedics being quite so active in other races. Perhaps the unexpected heat took an extra toll.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Nipped out this evening to wrangle the rust out of my road-battered legs.
After a couple of weeks of steady sunshine and a few nights of heavy rain the downs glowed deepest emerald, rich, heavy-headed grasses waving in the late breeze under a moody sky.
Sure enough it proved a painful experience at first. Heated blood did its job, flushing out the lactic acid, bringing new life to old limbs. Light rain fell as I turned for home, fresh and cool on warm skin. My right knee bickered and whimpered, far from happy but stable enough for a gentle 8 kilometres in a shade over fifty minutes.
Track du jour from The King: Mean Woman Blues
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Blimey, you and stillwaddler have put me right off big crowd races. Good effort given the conditions though - and good to see the knee held up. You probably passed out because you didn't get the Guinness into you quick enough. Silly boy.
El Gordo Wrote:I see we're getting mappish. Me like. I've been saving all my marathon training images too, and will get them on Flickr when I get round to it.
I've posted a fair number of run maps/ garmin images on reports past - feel free to poach as required. I like MMs use of the blue line - much clearer than the standard white route. I'll see if I can alter than retrospectively, although my 205 is still mullered - no 'enter' button, so the watch currently has four months' accumulated data still on it. I really must send it off
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Ronan, my friend and colleague from Brussels, has been well and truly bitten by this rabid dog we call running.
He called yesterday to let me know of the Marathon/ Half in Brussels on 5th October and to enquire if I might be interested in a visit to Dublin on Monday 27th October. With my knee now offering a constant (if mild) thrumming I'm wary of booking too much just now. However there's unfinished business in the Emerald Isle, and a half three weeks before would be excellent preparation . . .
. . . more news as it happens
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
You think you have unfinished business in Ireland?
If I owe any place a marathon, it's Dublin, having threatened to do it for about 5 years in a row now. It's pencilled in for this year too but I'm going to keep quiet about it. Big question for me is whether I could manage it 6 weeks after Nottingham. Probably not, but who knows?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
You could always use Nottingham as a training run for Dublin . . .
Go out after the race and sink twelve pints of Guinness :p
SP will confirm I bailed out of Dublin 2003 (the Mighty Plodder* went on to solo glory) at the last minute (place confirmed, number received, airline tickets purchased) - my faulty chest kicked in viciously at the eleventh hour.
[SIZE="1"]*Hmm, just went in search of SPs Dublin account to install a link but can't find it here. Sorry folks [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
If you do finish the unfinished business and run Dublin, I may have to give serious consideration to resurrecting my role as official tour re-hydration consultant.
And if the report I wrote then [SIZE="1"]bizarrely not available now[/SIZE] somehow manages to whet your appitite, I can post it here if you wish.
By a lonely prison wall
I heard a sweet voice calling,
'Michael, they have taken you away.
For you stole Travelyns corn,
So the young might see the morn,
now a prison ship lies waiting in the bay.'
Low lie the fields of Athenry
where once we watched the small freebirds fly
Picture the scene. It is 10:30pm and I am one of around 150 people pretending to know the words. I find myself in Dublins Temple Bar area along with Dan and his mates from Madison, Wisconsin. Rachel, the lovely local red-head who really does know the words to The Fields of Athenry, and numerous pints of The Black Stuff! The local folk combo is going down a storm, no one wants the evening to end and theres no room to move! ..this certainly is The Friendly Marathon!
Post race re-hydration is important, but what a last couple of days! I would recommend Dublin to anyone. My training/drinking partner came down with flu just 2 days before we were due to go so I travelled on my own. Still, if there is anywhere where this matters less I would like to know. Wearing my finishers tee shirt as some kind of uniform meant I had something in common with some 8,000 other people by Monday evening. Many hundreds were out, plenty were in that pub, and most it seemed in uniform.
The marathon takes a circular route of Dublins fair City and finishes where it starts. It was a bright, yet chilly morning and I was glad to have the turkey-foil blanket to use at the start that I had forgotten to use after London. Handing my bag in just after the finish line meant a short walk to the start, where I joined the throng about half way back, the area where you should start if your predicted time is around 5 hours, I couldnt see the start line!
At 8:50 a klaxon sent the wheelchair athletes on their way, so we had a further nervous 10-minute wait which seemed to be over in 2. Again I forgot to check the clock when I actually crossed the start line, but a fellow runner with more foresight than I advised me we were already 4 minutes into the race. Contrary to what we were told there were no microchips this year too expensive apparently and our numbers had a bar code on a tear-off section at the bottom. No one seemed to know however how this was supposed to record an accurate time.
I cannot really remember the early miles that well. We spread out quite quickly so there was more than enough road for us all and I eased into a steady rhythm; covering the first 3 miles in a shade under 30 minutes, bang on my normal pace. The route takes you north out of the city centre, and although it is a long steady incline its fairly easy on the legs. The climb took us into Phoenix Park. Here the crowds were virtually non-existent, but that really didnt matter as it was early days and downhill all the way out!
Water stations were slick. The only gripe I could have is that the power gel station was around a mile before the next water point! Still, they had all flavours. I grabbed two and immediately threw one away when I saw it was strawberry, settling instead for apple and lemon on the basis that I had a better chance of keeping it down. I have never got on with these gel sachets, but as there were only two lucozade sport stations on the whole route I thought I had better show willing. Like medicine taken as a child, they must work on the basis that the worse they taste the better they are for you.
It didnt seem to me as if I was making good progress, but 10 miles came and went, as did half way without any real problems. The organisers had had the foresight to throw in a few steep hills to ensure we didnt get over confident, and despite all my hill training I was forced to walk up a couple of the worst ones. My right hip started to ache a bit around this time which is something it has never done before, but thankfully I managed to run it off, and after that had no real problems, apart from the somewhat bizarre thought that I might have over-tightened my shoelaces!
Mile 18 (again) is where it all started to fall apart. I knew I was better prepared this time around by the number and length of my long training runs, but still I was forced into increasingly regular walk breaks. I made the mistake of assuming that Lucozade sport stations were separate from the water, as was the case in London! Apparently not and I managed to miss the first one. 18 miles and all Id had was water and one disgusting gel pack. Around this point was the other lucozade table, and I grabbed a full ½ litre bottle and downed the contents in one. Whether it is amazing stuff or a placebo matters not: it did the trick as I was off and running again.
The Irish didnt appear to care much about accurate distance markers, preferring instead to stick them on the nearest lamppost. The mile 20 marker however was significant for me, as there was also a clock; it showed a time of 3:50. Wey hey! 6 miles to go, the usual 10-minute miles, allow a little margin for error, and I will have broken 5 hours! or so I thought.
Love or loathe the Americans but they made this race. Hundreds of runners had made the journey over, as many again had come to support. Awesome is an overused word in the American vocabulary but it applies to them all, boy can they give support? Way ta Go Eeandee!! clapping, shouting and waving. The closer we got to the finish, the louder they seemed to be.
I ran all of the last 6 miles and it hurt towards the end, it hurt badly. A time when the mind is strong but the body is starting to shut down. It's a struggle to put one foot in front of the other; got to keep going; think of that 5 hour barrier; one yard run is one yard closer to the finish...Christ the pain!!!!!....gotta keep moving.....think of all those miles run in training, they are all stored in the legs for this moment; no Guinness if you walk now! All these thoughts went through my mind.
I pushed like never before, refusing to give in and walk. The mile 25 marker came and went and I knew I could keep going. Half a mile or so to go and turning to look to the left I could see the finishing line, but still I had a loop of Trinity College to go. I could hear the guy on the tannoy at the finishing line shouting at every runner to keep it up right to the line, I knew that soon he would be shouting at me!
385 yards to go, and I kick! I actually kick for home. Hardly a sprint but a definite turn of speed, overtaking a fair few fellow runners. Around the final corner and the line is there, I quickly glance around and theres no one behind. Tannoy man is now shouting for me, my number! I give it all right up to the line; I cross the line, lean against the barriers, and cry.
My clock time was 5:04.35, agonisingly close to the time I had set for myself at the 20-mile mark. Still, perhaps with bar code technology it may net down under 5. Not that I really mind, it was still a personal best by some 15 minutes. Medal on, goody bag collected and baggage reclaimed, I sit on some steps and get changed, surprised that I was getting so cold so quickly. I had now been in Dublin for 24 hours, and not had a Guinness! Had to put that right. Heading for a pub, I only had 2 before the room started moving, so I get a taxi back to my B & B, shower, and sleep for 3 hours.
6pm and my alarm woke me up. Donning my finishers tee shirt, I headed out for an evening of re-hydration in Temple Bar. Now where was I ..
On the windswept harbour wall,
She watched the last star falling
As the prison ship sailed out across the sky
But she'll watch and hope and pray,
For her love in Botany Bay
Whilst she is lonely in the fields of Athenry..
Hurrah! How good to read an SP race report -- seriously. I sensed a veritable frisson of nostalgia. Also enjoyed the report on its own merits. Nice account, and reminded me that SP and I were/are around the same standard.
Trouble is, it's done little to diminish my interest in the race. Damn. Non-runners find it hard to undersatnd how we can get excited about the prospect of 26 mile run, but marathons do that, don't they? It's like looking at an OS map the day before a long walk.
No commitment from me at this stage as there are too many possible bumps in the road ahead -- though the thought of a weekend of Guinness in Dublin, even as a non-competitor, has a definite appeal.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Great to revisit what I missed out on. I echo EG; really good to read a race report from the Mighty Plodder. Like the most faith-crazed fanatic I harbour hopes for the return of the big man to running life . . .
BTW, hope you're around on Sunday. I'll be towards the back of the stream of fools toiling up the back of Seaford Head at around 11 am - provided my knee, which continues to jibber and twitch, hasn't imploded. Be nice to see you, even if you are laughing heartily whilst slurping from a hip flask and munching on a heavily laden bacon sarnie
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Good effort given the conditions though - and good to see the knee held up. You probably passed out because you didn't get the Guinness into you quick enough. Silly boy.
somehow manages to whet your appitite, I can post it here if you wish.