August

[Sweder]

Thank God for small mercies.

Due to the disturbance to sleepy village life caused by several hundred lycra-clad runners descending, the organisers of the Henfield Half opted to start the 2006 race at 10:30. Frankly I needed all the preparation time I could get. A ‘swift pint’ with SP the night before, on the back of several weeks on the wagon, had developed, most acceptably at the time, into a mini-session. My head on this damp, grey Sunday morning was decidedly woolly.

Arriving in the West Sussex village the nature of this annual problem became clear. The leisure centre, home to the race organisers and the start/ finish line, accommodates around fifty vehicles. With well over three hundred entrants the remaining cars were scattered liberally around the leafy streets of Henfield. 'This would probably piss me off too' I thought as I abandoned my pick-up truck on someone’s grass verge. With thirty minutes to the off and me not yet registered a cursory thought for the locals was all I had time for.

Chris and Mike were already in the registration hall clutching their entry forms. I thought this might be the sum of the Jog Shop Joggers – Shaun had managed to bash his knee, no-one had heard from Gary and Rog was missing presumed on holiday. As we loitered in the (rather small) car park we were hailed by Purple Plodder, replete in her Brighton AC vest and looking horribly fit. Turns out she’s currently running a hundred miles a week (that’s one hundred miles every week, ladies and gentlemen). PP is going for a PB in the Washington Marathon (October). With a FLM 2006 time of 3:23 she’s shooting for a sub 3:15 and following the Runners World ‘Hard Schedule’. Whilst this is obviously diametrically opposed to my own ‘less is more’ strategy I’m not one to speak ill of others so I’m saying nowt – except bloody hell!!! I don’t even managed a hundred miles a month!

Gazing around at the assembled throng I realised there was a distinct lack of lardies – these people looked serious; trim waists, developed muscles, a high percentage of vests bearing running club emblems or commemorating tough races like the South Downs Marathon. Being someone of rather less-than-svelt proportions I’m always happier with a few dumpy folk in the field – it helps me blend. Oh well, I’ll just have to act like a runner.

The race itself starts in the playing fields adjacent to the leisure centre. Rather annoyingly it begins with a couple of laps of said field – hardly the stunning countryside views we’d been looking forward to.
‘Reckon we’re just going to run round this field then?’ asked Chris.
That wasn’t even funny.

After the second lap we set off for a break in the hedgerow and the first bottleneck as runners squeezed through the narrow gap and into a shaded lane. Several twists and turns took us through farmed fields in various stages of harvest and through more lanes. I struggled with the early pace, foolishly hanging on to Chris’s shirt-tail for the first three miles. Finally it dawned on me I was running closer to 10k pace and I’d better ease off. I relaxed into a far more comfortable gait, calming my breathing and enjoying the feeling of running in the shade with a cool breeze for company.

Despite my throttling back I didn’t truly settle into my running until mile six. This seems to correspond with my Sunday runs, when I struggle until well over Telscombe Tye - about five-and-a-half miles in. There may be something I can do about this, maybe not, but it’s something I need to think about.

After mile six the countryside opened up to reveal a river gently meandering through unkempt tree-lined fields. The cloud cover started to break up, bathing the winding, multicoloured running snake in warm sunshine. I took regular belts from my water bottle, the contents enhanced with a dash of Lucozade Sport, mindful that most of last night’s Guinness had sweated out. I perspire copiously at the best of times; today in muggy conditions I was drenched, my shorts, suitably enough Ripcurl swimmers, saturated with recycled beer; it wasn’t pleasant.

Miles 7, 8 and 9 seemed to fly past. I’d not been overtaken – or for that matter gone past anyone – for some time. My pace was steady, I didn’t push, just ran according to my breathing, nice and comfy. The lack of any hills worthy of the name – the trail occasional rose and fell, but the exertion required to maintain pace was negligible – meant that my energy reserves remained healthy. Through this stage of the race the circuit joined the riverbank. Swans dabbled in the murky brown water, the river engorged by last night’s heavy rain. Silent souls adorned the far bank, wrapped in Barbers, faces hidden under floppy hats, their fishing rods angled above the water. I wondered what they made of this procession of puffing people, and if the steady thump- thump of our footfalls were in any way helping or hindering their chances of success. On reflection I don’t think they cared much either way – it seems to me river fishing is less about actually catching fish, far more about peace and quiet and one-ness with nature. Err, sorry chaps.

Another feature of the Henfield Half is the ubiquitous placement of styles in the mid-section. There is, I realised, no easy or dignified way to cross a style; how poorly these cumbersome crossing are named. Shuffling to a stop one steps up with one leg, across with the other and then attempts to pull over the trailing leg without falling arse over tit on the other side. I thought at first it was me, but as I watched runners of all sizes and both genders suffer equally I accepted this was if nothing else an equitable hazard.

Into the teeth of the race, then. That is, the part of a half marathon where teeth are bared, in some cases gritted, and one is asked to dig a little deeper. Miles 10 and 11 brought us back to the shaded, dusty lanes. The wind picked up, seemingly blowing against us whichever direction we faced, a cooling edge suggesting rain was not far away. How I would have welcomed a small deluge in these final miles! Thanks to the regular intake of fluids I was still perspiring for England, sweat running in continuous streamlets down both legs. Past the eleven mile marker I saw my first walker – ie, a participant who has run out of gas and elected to take a break. I saw only three in all, compared with hoards in the Brighton Half. This supports my early theory that this particular race is one for the ‘serious’ runner, albeit that my own presence appears to fly in the face of such a notion.

Into the last two miles I stepped on the gas ever so slightly. I wanted to finish strongly (another reason for dropping off the pace at mile three), and whilst two miles out seemed a long run for home I felt good, so why not? I settled into my new rhythm and started to reel in one or two tiring runners. Weaving back through the farmland I past a girl in a yellow vest, her head down moving side to side, arms pumping, working hard.
‘Great’ she breathed a I pulled level, ‘nice strong finish – go for it!’
I found this strangely touching – she must have been thinking ‘Great – some old fat bastard’s overtaking me. Wonderful.’

Into the field once more and, yes, another bloody lap and a half. I spied Chris strolling about in the middle, cup of water in hand, and gave it a bit of extra wellie (I just can’t get the horrible image of my Almeria ‘sprint’ out of my head) crossing the line with 1:51 on the LED display. Happy enough with that – I’d hoped for a 1:55 without planning any kind of strategy. There was more in the tank if I'd wanted to push it, so training appears to be on track.

Purple Plodder was standing by the circuit tape looking as fresh and carefree as she did two hours earlier. I’ve no idea what her time was but I’ll wager it was pretty decent. I hope she ‘pops in’ to RC to keep us posted on her training and the race in Washington. Mike was long gone. He's a seriously fit fellow, and I doubt he found the Henfield Half much more than a walk in the park. A sub three marathon is undoubtedly next on his agenda.

Home then to a shower, some lunch and an afternoon painting the hallways and stairwell. Phoebe and her mate helped out, so I’ll be putting another layer or two on later in the week. Running-wise a rest on Monday then its back to some serious midweek hillwork.
100 miles? Not flippin’ likely.