November

[Sweder]

As ten kilometre races go this one wasn’t too bad. As Brighton seafront races generally go it was really rather tame. The westerly wind, threatening early on to offer stiff resistance to our outward slog, failed to live up to its boisterous billing, instead providing a gently cooling breeze to aid our cause.

The Mighty Plodder arrived at the appointed hour at Chez Sweder, clad for a Sunday promenade stroll, a smug grin fixed on his mug. ‘Done mine already’ he scoffed, referring to an 'early doors' seafront plod in the parish of Seaford. We drove to Brighton marina where we met Niguel, just parked. I accompanied the lanky on a brisk walk to the start, joining 2,300 souls for this breathless scarper along the prom. Athletes of varying stature buzzed about is, warming up with dashes and darts, steady plods and energetic stretches.

Despite my early trepidation, founded on a noble but tough effort at yesterday's BHTT, a natural aversion to the distance (10K is the longest distance race that one cannot take a breather – or at least take one’s foot off the gas) and a pathalogical fear of the joint-hammering surface the running was relatively comfortable. Without the strong headwind and having taken my place amongst the 50-minute merchants (the start area delineated by carefully crafted cardboard signs held aloft by bored-looking volunteers), I found my place and pace with relative ease. Out to Black Rock, just shy of the marina walls, a u-turn to westward and the longest section. Past the Palace Pier with its choking smells of deep-frying fat, up the mini-slope, the lower prom already busy with Sunday strollers, towards the decrepit West Pier, it’s burned-out frame crouched desolate beneath cloud, the horizon hinting at a brighter future as sunlight sought an audience.

I caught and passed Gillybean, running with the Remster. My Garmin showed a steady 4:45 minute/ kilometre pace. I wondered at the efficiency of my style; slight as it may be this breeze ought to be slowing me down a little. My target had always been fifty minutes (or perhaps a little less); 5:00 minute kilometres would deliver that and less would deliver more. We passed the Peace Statue and The Meeting Place, a popular al fresco eatery where summer Sunday breakfasts happily last all morning long. The cheerful crowds gave good support as the leaders, positively flying with the wind at their heels, careered towards us, powerful endeavour focused on the finish. I turned at King Alfred, confused by the lack of a water station. The 6.5 kilometre marker gave me heart and I tried to step up the pace. A glance at the Garmin showed 4:30 minute pace; I shouldn’t have looked. Worried that I might burn out before the finish I eased off, scanning the on-rushing throng for familiar faces to take my mind off times. In the near distance the tall, gangly form of Niguel; our hands extended for the customary greeting. A little later El Gordo, looking I must say a good deal less Gordo than last we'd met and looking entirely comfortable at a steady pace, well up in the second half of the field.

By the time the Palace Pier was once again close and a marshal called the arrival of the last kilometre I realised I’d waited too long to get cracking. I tried stepping up again but my brain wouldn’t get out of the way, cluttering my thoughts with admonishments for my earlier caution. My watch time of 47:06 – chip time confirmed at 47:10 – was fair reward, as was the 25th anniversary medallion and cup of cool water from the hard-pressed volunteers.

SP, fresh from official RC photographer duty (and having polished off a bucket of chips) appeared with my bag of clothes and we wandered back down the pavement to see EG home.

Later we gathered at the restaurant to chatter and chomp as the sun finally broke through to add sparkle to the dancing waves below. Gary and Ladyrunner popped in to say hello. Gary had bagged a PB despite an unshakable niggle in one of his glutes, crossing in an impressive 37+ minutes. The fellow’s in fine form after his 3:14 in Abingdon and I look forward to more heroics from him soon enough on the streets of Almeria. EG and I opted for the house salad, all good intentions swept aside as the platters of oiled meats and fresh mozarella surrounded by foliage landed. There was nothing for it but to battle manfully on, clearing our plates as all well-raised children of post-war Britain should.

After a pint (for me and Niguel - SP bailed with Mrs S to find his car, EG remained stoically on the soft stuff) in a local bar EG gave me a lift home where I now sit, content that my one 10K of the year is safely banked. Now I can get back to training for Almeria, to longer, gentler running and the soft embrace of my lovely, luscious hills.