Here comes summer - the British 10K

[Sweder]

Sunday 3rd July
London
10 K
Time: 52:55
Conditions: weather: warm Sweder: fat and unfit

I could hardly believe it. For the second time in less than 6 months one of the world's finest athletes would once again line up alongside Haile Gebrselassie. Ha.

My running number, received in another lifetime when I was high on the FLM and (relatively) fit as a flea, seemed to hint this would be a well-subscribed event; 22455. Of course this can be misleading. Some races only allocate one number in 5 to give the impression of a larger race. Not so the British 10K – there were in excess of 22,000 people lining up for this one.

The official start is located at the east end of Piccadilly (right outside the Hard Rock Cafe), with a pre-assembly point near St James' Palace. The idea was to assemble most of the runners a quarter mile away and escort them along Piccadilly to the start.

Sod that. I was desperate to release a little of the excess fluid imbibed both this morning in a belated effort to hydrate and last night in an equally determined assault on Newhavens' supply of Guinness. I dodged the faithful and slipped into Green Park, seeking a quiet spot to conclude my business. This was impossible, as any number of people wandered in all corners. I finally bit the bullet and wedged myself up against a large tree, just the park side of the hedge bordering Piccadilly. Aware that others were strolling not 15 metres from me, I endeavored to pee whilst keeping any potentially offensive flesh hidden from view. The result, dear reader, was indeed tragic. I succeeded in not flashing any number of Japanese tourists and American children. Sadly the right leg of my running shorts did not fare so well, for I had doused it liberally in urine.

Resplendent in my new two-tone shorts, which seemed to attract the attention of every (and I mean every) female passer-by, I strode manfully toward the start. The riff-raff (non-elite) remained in an east-bound queue whilst the great and the good gathered on the doorstep of the Hard Rock. Haile said a few words via the (impressive) PA along the lines of London will win the 2012 Olympics (so best cancel all that nonsense in Singapore on Wednesday - the Great man has spoken). The crowd then offered warm and unanimous welcome to our honorary starter, Michael Watson, former boxer and current champion of the world on so many more important levels.

Watsons' presence added spice to the already charged atmosphere. A mere 500 yards away the huge stage and tented VIP village that had hosted the finest gig the world has ever seen (did you see Pink Floyd? Unbelievable!) awaited the dismantle crew. Not 10 hours after Sir Paul had bid us take the Long and Winding Road to Edinburgh the operation to remove all physical evidence of this marvelous event was in full swing. Smoky tendrils of Live 8 Love lingered in the air like the scent of recently departed lover. All too soon, with almost indecent haste, the phenomenal gathering of last night had been replaced by 25,000 runners. And so it goes.

And to the off, 09:35, a blaring recorded rendition of the National Anthem (all verses) and the elite were away, scampering back down Piccadilly into the arms of the waiting Eros. ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ boomed out as I passed the start (09:38) and I realised with no small pleasure that I had usurped the majority of the riff-raff – only three and a half minutes behind Haile! I loped easily amongst the hoards, grinning inanely at the legions of waiting runners stretching all the way back to the Ritz and beyond.

We banked right into St James’s, the stirring chords fading behind us as we swooped on towards the embankment. How funny to be running this particular stretch, albeit in the opposite direction, with a full tank of gas. Not 2 months ago I dragged my failing carcass through these very streets, 23 grueling miles behind me, desperately seeking the Mall and the sanctuary of Horse Guards’ Parade.

Along the embankment, modest (in comparison to the Big One) yet welcome crowds cheered lustily. I marveled at the number of walkers (on the route) at this early (3K) stage. OK, there’s bound to be those who will walk-run a 10K, but why head for the front of a half-mile starting line-up? Sweder-watchers will recall my gripes about this in previous posts, so I’ll stop whining. I’m planning to carry a Tazer next time to clear a path, so it's a non-issue.

The Great Gebrselassie, in a ruthless repeat of the Almeria Half, sped by in the opposite direction. 24 minutes in and he was into his last 2K. I greeting him with a cheery wave and a toothy grin, certain he would remember me from that Spanish trail. Ha. 2 for 2, Haile old son; I’ll get you next time.

Our circuit continued through the embankment tunnel, did some loops and windy stuff and before we knew it we were at 5K and headed back toward Westminster. By this stage the euphoria of the start had left my legs and my breathing, hampered by an alarming number of roll-ups over recent weeks, laboured as that of a man 10 years my senior. Hmm, best slow down a tad. By this stage the wheat had been well and truly sorted from the chaff. As I eased my foot off the pedal I was swallowed by the chasing pack. I smiled to myself, resigned to the fate my lack of training and physical neglect in recent weeks deserved. I eased through 6, 7 and 8 Ks at a comfortable pace, enjoying the sight of some truly remarkable lycra-clad bottoms moving smoothly past. To parliament, and a left turn onto Westminster bridge. The on-rushing human traffic to our right suggested we would soon do a ‘U-ey’ and return across the river, and so it proved.

Past the Two Houses, another right-handed reverse and . . . back onto the embankment. This is getting a little tiresome . . . until a left turn towards Waterloo Place, our early morning bag-drop location, the run for home. As we entered what I assumed was the final straight (until I spied the finish on the opposite side of the road, which, yes, meant another U-turn any time now . . .), my ears caught a familiar refrain, growing in volume as we approached the large speakers that lined the final 500 meters: Vangellis – Chariots of Fire! At the same moment I spied another recent addition to the street furniture . . . a full sized replica (or was it the real thing?) Spitfire in full WWII battledress, nose cocked proudly above our bobbing heads. All this under blue skies laced with wispy white clouds – pure Battle of Britain stuff - Huzzah!

It’s sad to admit but one can’t help one’s natural response: I straightened my back, puffed out my chest and ran to the finish, head thrown back, grinning like a loon and loving every mad, jingoistic, Rule Britannia minute of it.

However good or bad 52:55 (calculated time) is for 10K, as this was a first outing over the distance it’s officially a PB, so I’m happy. My problems begin next week as I calculate the weeks left before the Jog Shop Jog and realise just how high my personal fitness mountain is going to be.