Key West Half Marathon
Sunday 14th January 2016
Key West, Florida
There were so many reasons not to head to the start line.
First up, I was ill. Not kiss-me-Hardy, Rosebud, Carlito's Way ill, but feeling pretty lousy. Cold in the back of the throat, bunged up, not sleeping well, that kind of thing. Then there was the weather. Doppler radar showed an apocalyptic front bearing down on the Keys. Strong winds hammered hard rain into the windows. Tornado warnings flashed up on the TV, flights were cancelled, 'Baton down the hatches' was the cry. I thought about the race director, weighing all this up against the cost of cancelling the race. Poor bastard, he must have been pulling his hair out.
But it was too late for me. I'd pinned my race number to my specially-prepared CWD running vest the night before, laid out my kit in traditional RC style, set aside my margarita-flavoured energy gels and said my prayers. I was going.
Race start delayed, said the e-mail at 05:00. An 08:00 start would allow the inconvenient tropical storm to have its tantrum and jog on. And so it came to pass. Come 8 o'clock, come dry skies and streets filled with colourful shirts and bubbly chatter. I lined up with the hopeful hoards, bouncing gently on my toes in the after-mizzle, feeling every ache and pain in every nook and cranny. So, this was it. Two years since my last race in Almeria, my first half marathon since an ill-advised showing for the Lewes FC Mental Wellbeing side and that fateful, knee-mashing tackle. Virtually no training, definitely no distance work, a heart full of hope and a head full of anxiety. Game time.
We set off, a gently bobbing stream of coloured lycra. Cheered noisily along Duval street by revellers barely aware that night had fled, out east towards the long and lonely coastal highway. The weather that had threatened to end our race left a legacy of still impressively strong gusting wind. In the early stages that scooted us along, lifting us, shoving us northward along A1A towards the airport. The path was strewn with battered palm fronds and decapitated coconuts, lined with occasional cheerers and the odd, very odd, musician.
I felt great. Unusually I'd opted to go with earphones, Motorhead's back-catalogue on shuffle. I danced along, relishing each new aural arrival like a long-lost friend. Around me runners came and went. My pace was modest - how else to take this on? - yet I still managed to pass a few flagging folk. Lycra-clad bottoms of all denominations bounced jauntily, keeping me focused on foreword momentum. Around 8ks in we saw the leaders approach, coming back to us on our left. They looked pained, teeth clenched, eyes squinting into the near-distance, arms pumping. I bounced easily, dodging puddles, skipping flotsam. I laughed. Ha ha! Well, if you will push so hard ...
And then we turned. We crossed a bridge - the only measurably rise and fall on the course - before turning 180 and heading back, straight into a 35 miles-per-hour headwind. Oh my days. Five straight kilometres into the teeth of a raging, howling BEAST. It felt like running the gauntlet through an army of plywood-wielding miscreants, each step greeted by a resounding slap across the forehead. I ploughed on, taking walk breaks at the water stations, sucking on a combination of (rather tasty) margarita-flavoured energy gels and thick, warm air. Grinning runners and walkers streamed by to our left, still buoyed by their tail-wind, waving and clapping as we fought past. Poor fools.
We struggled on for what seemed like an eternity. I got into a tit-for-tat battle with a couple of fit-looking ladies. I'd pass them, cruising easily as they succumbed to the relentless blast, only for them to pass me minutes later as I ran out of steam. Finally, mercifully, we turned inland, onto the sheltered roads between the wood-clad homesteads, bars and motels of east Key West. My legs complained bitterly at the concrete pounding. As I glanced down to admonish them I spied a tell-tale streak of claret leaking from my left nipple. Damn. Schoolboy error; new shirt, no vaseline, nipple down. No, wait - a crimson blush formed above my right teat. Nipples, plural.
I held my form, such as it was, right through to the finish. I spied Jake and Shayne, the former clutching a well-filled, most apropos Bloody Mary, the latter flushed from her 5K exertions, both cheering wildly. I grinned, straightened my hunched back and blasted round the last bend, pointing proudly to my gushing breasts before striding boldly for home.
2:04:58 (official chip time). Happy with that, given the lack of suitable training.
I joined my fellow CWDers to cheer home the last few, quaffing my free IPA courtesy of the the Concrete Brewing Co. I'd thanked the chap who'd handed it to me - 'thank you - not just for free beer, but really good free beer' - having inadvertently jumped the queue. Bob, a friend based in Florida, made the peace on my behalf.
'Sorry, he's from overseas'.
This was accepted with nodded heads and a gentle murmur. I couldn't have cared less. I'd stopped running, I had beer. Life was good.
