November

[Sweder]

Race day. Crisp, sparkling, sunlit, perfect.
A hint of breeze out of the west stirred the last instransigent leaves as I gazed bleary-eyed onto a Narnian winterscape. Frost laden fields draped in veils of fine mist stretched out towards the ocean.

SP bounced in at 10 o'clock, a blend of anticipation and regret, his recent ankle-turn relegating him to spectator.
'I really wish I was running now' he confessed as I figited like an excited toddler in the passenger seat.

Andy dropped me off at the entrance to Madeira Drive and set off in search of valid parking. I jogged along the esplanade, radar set for a yellow Hal Higdon hat, warming my legs on the way to the start. The nature of the circuit, a sort of figure of eight loop with the start/ finish line 1.5 k from the eastern end, created an unusual scenario. As with many looped circuits the start/ finish line is one and the same. The Brighton 10K used the time-honoured inflatable arch to mark this point, with the west-facing arch showing 'FINISH' the others side 'START'. Except that, by starting the race east-bound with a 3 k loop back past the start line, we never actually used the START side, lining up to start, er . . . at the finish.

As the rusty cogs ground away in my head trying to work all this out, I spied the famous yellow cap. Sure enough, Andy, Nigel and M were gently wandering towards me. Warm greetings all round, the usual bout of self-depreciation and lowering of expectations followed. M bade us farewell, heading for the boundless treasures of the Brighton Lanes.

I wondered at the sense of deja vu as we waited for the off.
Here we stood, at the start (finish?) of a race, sun-kissed in a chilly seaside town. The comparisons with Almería would continue later as we dined overlooking the ocean. Happily for us the race distance was a major difference; I for one was quite happy to keep it to 10K today.

SP joined us with time enough for greetings and best wishes, and we were under way.
With a shade under 2000 runners on a relatively tight course, human traffic was always going to be an issue. Nigel and I set off together. N seemed to glide effortlessly through the melée whilst I bobbed and weaved desperately to find space to get going. 3K in and we passed the start/ finish. Spectators lined Madeira Drive, a pastiche of bobble hats, scarves and winter fleeces, applause softened by the proliferation of woolen gloves.

Past the fully functional Palace Pier, I turned to Nigel.
‘The only hint of a hill is just ahead’ I panted.
‘Grunt’ said Nigel.
I accelerated into the incline, aware that N had maintained his steady pace. Despite the gentle nature of the 'climb' many runners seemed to slow. I dropped a cog and stepped on the gas, moving into the cycle lane to ease past the field. At this point the lead cyclists (one the legendary Sam Lambourne, no less; another, Lycra Tony, a regular on our Sunday morning downland runs) approached, clearing the way for the lead runners. The leaders zipped by, heading for home (the winner in a shade over 30 minutes). I marveled at the controlled nature of their running style; compact, steady rhythm driving them on, economy of effort matched with relentless pace.

On past the West Pier, the burned-out husk of Victorian steel amputated from the shore, its' avian residents flocking to and fro in the winter sun. To the Peace Statue and the Meeting Place where the route dives down a mini slope and onto the promenade proper. Sunday strollers, complete with small children and dogs, greeted our passing. Every now and then a more adventurous tourist would venture across the colorful chain of runners, smiling nervously as they judged the moment to leap into the human torrent.

Past the 5 K marker – a small traffic cone with ‘5K’ taped to it – and into Hove. The turning point at 6.5 k appeared in the lee of the King Alfred Leisure Centre. Around the turn I looked for Nigel, spotting his white cap not 100 yards behind. We high-fived and I settled into my running, prepared to feel the benefits of the slight tail-wind that must inevitably help us home.
Or not. As so often seems to happen, rather than pushing gently into our backs the fickle breeze appeared to dance amongst the beach-huts, darting across our path, turning sharply to slap into our red, warm faces.

My strategy for today had been to run steadily for the first 7 k or so, see how I felt and respond accordingly. A quick systems check revealed nothing untoward, so I cranked up the pace a little. Not too much – just enough to start moving through the field again. I didn’t want to blow out too soon. The slight incline at the Peace Statue provided another chance to steal places. Past the West Pier, still feeling strong, I held back, worried about running out of steam before the finish. The 9K marker appeared and it dawned on me there was very little race left. If I was going to wind it up again it had better be now.

Once again the foot went down and I pushed on, passing a few walkers guilty perhaps of too much too soon. Down the slope to the Palace Pier, onto Madeira Drive, I pushed harder, reaching maximum velocity (for me). Several runners around me responded but I didn’t feel we were racing; I just didn’t want to leave an ounce of effort un-used.

SP leaned in on the right as the finish approached. I waved a clenched fist and tried for a cheesy grin – I’m sure it looked more like a grimace – and he was gone. Across the line, 50:44 on the race clock, in all probability a sub 50 run (with the walk-shuffle start) - a PB by some margin.

My only previous race over the distance was the British 10K in June. On a hot day I’d blown a gasket early on and puffed my way to the finish in 56 tortured minutes. Today’s run was more controlled, and all the better for it.

Nigel finished moments later, and we embraced. We joined SP to cheer Andy home before setting off to Alfrescos for beer and pasta. Mrs S and Mrs SP joined us, along with my daughter Phoebe, and we filled the early afternoon with race and beer-fuelled chatter. The glass walls and nautical setting of the restaurant reminded us of our post run meal in Almería. We raised our glasses to absent friends, and our thoughts turned to future runs.