All, it seemed,
was going well. It was time to re-evaluate now as we entered the tricky part of the course. Up till now the terrain had been flat, paved and uneventful. After the 7 mile marker the course headed upwards and inland, up and onto my regular Sunday training path from Brighton Marina to Rottingdean. I was naturally happy about this, familiar with the route and with faith in my ability to handle the slopes and inclines. But also slightly wary: hill work requires additional application and stress on the legs. Again, pace would be the key, and I resolved not to blow up here.
As expected a number of early pace-setters found the slopes not to their liking and I picked off a few stragglers. Remy, one of the Sunday regulars, a monster for eating the toughest of hills, roared along, travelling in the opposite direction looking comfortable and
fast. He was I reckoned a good 2 miles up on me. I felt happy for him having such a good burn.
Inclines increased as did the number of slowing runners I passed, maintaining my easy rhythm without lighting the afterburners. Past Roedean School, its usual gothic gloom diluted by the fresh wind and continued sunshine. On to Rottingdean and the turn for home, just under 3 miles from the finish. I bypassed the water offered by the marshals, my trusty Nathan providing frequent refreshment en route, and turned. Into the wind.
Devoid of the human shield wed enjoyed at the start, the Westerly revealed itself in all its undiluted glory; strong and biting. What had felt like the lightest caress on our backs now took on an altogether more malevolent visage. Coupled with the wobbly terrain of the off-road path I embraced the wisdom of holding back a little for this last effort. Runners streamed past on the road side of the 2-way circuit, headed for the recently-ignored water stop. I spotted Tim, still looking pretty fresh and only a few hundred yards behind. Wed parted company, gently and without acknowledgement, between the piers. It occurred to me he might overtake me on the run-in, but so happy was I to be still going it wouldnt have bothered me if he had.
I plugged on, steadily passing tiring runners. A few minutes later I exchanged Shearers with SP as he appeared at the top of an East-bound climb. He looked tired, but then he always does, and his wave was cheery enough. Later still I saw Simon, resolute, eyes fixed ahead. I called to him and he waved, grinning. This was Simons first sojourn of any description into the runners world (Tim had run when much younger) and he was performing admirably.
Another climb into the wind, atop the crest and into the slow descent towards the Marina. A young girl overtook me and it occurred to me that now, with the welcome waft of the finish in my nostrils, I could finally give chase. We entered the last mile together, weaving down the ramp from clifftop to ocean-side drive, catching yet more flagging early flyers. Then into the straight, the final ¾ mile. I thought of Tuesday night track, the hated last mile, and I cranked up a gear. I cant say that I sprinted home, but I got up to around 7 minute mile pace as I crossed the line, the family waving and shouting wildly from their balcony vantage. I glanced up at the clock as I crossed the line: 1:52
omething. It occurred to me as I fought for breath, hands on knees, medal delivered by a marshal, that with the time spent crossing the start line this might be fairly close to last years time and my PB. Remarkable! Only in the last 200 metres had I forced any amount of serious effort through my legs, yet I was so close!
What does this mean? Am I fitter? Did the week off really help that much? Was it last nights Cadburys Fruit and Nut bars (plural) devoured selfishly during
Match of the Day?
Who cares? I
finished, and I can still walk! Marvellous!
I grabbed my finishers pack, wolfed down a banana and some water, and turned to seek out family Sweder. Then back to the finish. I felt sure Tim would not be far behind, and sure enough he crossed at 1:57, a sub 2 half at his first attempt. We embraced, and he revealed his calm exterior was just that: an exterior. Im bloody knackered he huffed in his best Wolverhampton dialect.
Well, duh! So you should be mate!
SP came in soon after, and we gathered near the finish as Tim and Simons families joined us. I reckoned that Simon would find the last few miles pretty tough, and forecast a 2:30 finish. But much to our delight he crossed in 2:23 (these all to be rounded down), a fabulous effort and far better than he had hoped for. As he turned towards us we noticed his cut knee and a fair smattering of claret on his shirt.
Blimey Si, what happened to you?
Took a tumble after three miles. Nipping into the bogs for a slash and whey-hey, watch the steps! he grinned. Sub 2:30
with a cut leg! Impressive stuff.
SP said farewell and left to cook Mrs SP her Sunday Roast (sorry girls, hes happily married), the rest of us retiring to
Alfrescos, an excellent Italian lunchery situated to the West of the crumbling West Pier with excellent sea and promenade views. As I sat ruminating, laughing and exaggerating with friends and family over good food and cold beer, I once again remembered the camaraderie of Almerĩa, the hospitality of Antonio and José, the banter of friends, a welcome meal in elegant surroundings. This is some life!
postscript: I did the text thing offered by the organisers to obtain my official time, 1:50:15. I missed a PB by 7 seconds. If Id known, would I have put the hammer down? Would I have cranked it up with 2 miles to go? Would I have blown that hamstring with the finish in sight? Who knows, who cares?
I for one dont
