June

[Sweder]

30th June 2007 - Dorney Dash

I capped a difficult week with the perfect finish; a night on the town with an old pal, touring Lewes hostelries to sample the best Harvey’s had to offer. When the alarm sounded a shade before six-thirty this morning I had cause to doubt the wisdom of such revelry.

Moyleman had offered to drive and I’d all but taken his arm off. A 48 hour five hundred mile round trip to the West Country followed by a ten pint pub tour had left me, shall we say, a little jaded. Relentless rain battered the windshield on Moyley’s Volvo as we hammered north towards Eton and Windsor, home of the Dorney Dash and setting for Andy’s lap of honour. Early hopes that the skies would clear were smothered by an endless fleet of dark clouds; we were going to get wet. Fitting really, as Dorney is also host to the exceptional Eton College rowing course, stage for the 2012 Olympic competition.

Chris and I wandered through the tented village, impressed by the number of suppliers on hand. It then dawned on us that there was to be an all-ladies Triathlon at the same venue later that day. That would explain the Zoggs tent and the purveyors of lightweight racing bikes.

Ten minutes before the scheduled start Andy chugged into view accompanied by his mate Kev. Our glorious leader sported the pre-arranged race number ‘50’ and looked in rude health. Niguel appeared to complete our quintet and we were well met, posing for pre-race photos and swapping banter. I’d decided to fly as Andy’s wingman as had Nigel. I’m not sure how Andy felt about this at the time but we were determined. My hangover, by now settled into a steady background thrum, prohibited any attempt on a PB despite the ideal conditions (I love running in the rain). We gathered on the starting straight, a hooter sounding the off. As in Almeria this year it was hard to spot the actual start line as we lumbered forward. This didn’t concern me too much; I focused on keeping an easy, steady stride.

The course was a simple one; 2.5 clicks westward along the rowing lake, across the top, back eastward along the opposite bank with a repeat of the first section, a double-back along the same side to finish just short of the boathouse. Competitors, somewhere close to a thousand in number, soon stretched half the length of the circuit. We chugged along, Nigel and I swapping stories, chirping away about everything and nothing. Andy chipped in with occasional comments, holding a resolute station between us. The rain relented slightly and I took stock of the outlying fields. In the distant mists shadows of buildings hunched down between the trees indicated the town of Eton, Windsor just beyond. Duck of various denominations dabbled in the racing lanes, indifferent to the colourful human snake winding around the circuit.

Halfway came and went, the clock time showing 30:15 as we passed. I was aware that Andy’s PB was pretty close to the hour but kept my council; no need to anger the running Gods at this stage! Somewhere between kilometres five and six we encountered possibly the least competent photographer in sporting history. Hanging back, clearly indicating Andy’s magic number and striking any number of oafish poses we lumbered towards the young clicker, only to watch in horror as she appeared unable to operate the camera (given that she’d been stood there for at least twenty minutes clicking away this was, to me, incredulous). Muttering unkind oaths beneath our breaths we soldiered on. There was a sudden burst of energy to my right and Niguel rocketed off into the distance, leaving an almost dry track in his wake. He gained sufficient ground before turning to snap the dynamic duo as we bore down on him. I’m sure the results will appear here at some stage.

At the 8K marker I decided it was time to take Andy out of his comfort zone, suggesting we step up the pace just a tad to start the run for home. The change was barely noticeable at first but eventually we started to overhaul some stragglers, Andy leading the way. The bungling snapper appeared once more and we resumed a neat V formation . . . only to stare slack-jawed as she once again appeared to fumble with her camera! Oh well, we’ll have to wait and see what pops up on the official photo site.

The last kilometre mark reached I could sense the increased pace was taking its toll. Andy was breathing hard, determinedly focused on pushing for home but growing redder in the face by the minute. Nigel and I started to burble about catching a bunch of runners up ahead decked out in green club colours. This drew a grunt in response, though its not clear if this was one of affirmation or derision at our less-than-subtle attempts to dash for the line. We made ground, catching the first of the club runners just before the line. I had no idea as to our finishing time. Niguel’s Garmin showed 59:59, Andy’s 1:00 dead. Whatever it’s an impressive PB for the man of the hour, and much grinning and hand-shaking there was as we collected our well-stocked goody bags and delightfully bright DD medals.

Champagne served in the Glastonburical quagmire of the car park followed by a selection of fine ales in a choice Etonian watering hole completed the re-hydration. The journey back to Sussex – courtesy of the Moyleman Express – was further shortened by a rather pleasant snooze. Good luck to the JSJers taking on Bewl tomorrow; I’m spending a rare Sunday morning in the arms of my duvet before a modest local plod.