November Chills

[Sweder]

Following a rare lie-in - race start at eleven! - I pottered about munching toast and guzzling smoothies listening to Gary Richardson's Sportsweek. I like Richardson, a disarmingly friendly journalist who frequently gets away with pushing interviewees way beyond their stock-in-trade-answer comfort zone. I miss this excellent program usually as by the time it starts I'm shivering at the top of the Brighton Marina steps waiting to start my long Sunday run.

How I wish I could have been there today. I really don't like 10Ks. They're made for whippets, not lumbering lopers; by the time you get going the race is over. Give me a hilly half marathon any day. We got the weather I'd hoped for; all blue skies and wintry sunshine, a fair breeze out of the west offering resistance for the outward leg and a gentle shove homeward.

The Brighton 10K has become a popular gathering for local and not so local runners. Over 2300 starters lined up on Madeira Drive, the fair conditions attracting an impressive crowd. Having left it all too late to park anywhere near the start I ended up jogging the mile or so to start. As I neared the huge blue inflatable 'Brooks' arch a familiar voice called out; Niguel! We chatted over the last hundred metres before I left to drop a change of togs off at the bag drop. Reunited we scanned the heads at the start for any sign of the famous yellow Hal Higdon hat - and there he was, Mr RC, limbering up on the far side of the throng. It felt good to meet up again. I was slightly disappointed to see that Andy, despite his online protestations, had not yet reached Prescottian proportions. We swapped hopes; Andy to finish, Nigel to enjoy the run, me to run at my usual midweek pace and see where that would get me. Sadly MarathonDan was unable to join us, his sore throat steering him to the Sealife Centre with Mrs Dan and the Dan-ettes - we'd meet for lunch later.

Eleven o'clock on the dot a distant gunshot signalled the start. Niguel refuses to do any more than walk until he crosses the line - 'energy preservation' apparently - so with good luck wishes exchanged I set off into the pack. With the road narrowed by parked vehicles and further restricted by the 'out-and-back' two lane split the first couple of kilometres were pretty cramped. I set an easy pace, running to a breathing pattern . This took me past an increasing number of ample bottoms, prompting the rhetorical question about why some lardies insist on starting at the front of the pack. I could go on about this but a) it's too boring and b) I'm sure I've committed etiquette faux pas a-plenty in races past. He without sin and all that.

Past the Palace Pier and a cry of support from Steve and Paul roadside. I envied their decision not to mess with the race but quickly shook off the negative thinking. Steady rhythm was all I craved and I worked hard at not working too hard for the first 5K. The annual problem of kamikaze spectators reared its ugly head as families with pushchairs and doddery old folk tried to weave across the human stream. We veterans of promenade running know the signs - the fevered brow, the nervous twitch, the lead foot raised and extended before the mad dash into oblivion. Somewhere around this (5K) point the lead whippets came thundering past heading east, preceded by Sam Lambourne on his bike, growling hoarsely that we should 'keep left -runners coming frew'.

Another friendly yell at the Peace Statue as Chris and Cam waved, grinning madly, wrapped up warm against what was, for the static spactators at least, a fairly chilly breeze. I grinned and waved back, grateful for the support yet mindful that a wrong step in what was still a pretty crowded section could be catastrophic.

6.5K and the final turn at the King Alfred Leisure Centre. It was good to get out of the headwind, although I could discern no marked pick-up in my pace. My discipline was impressive, all urges to push on resisted as I stuck to my plan of running hard but steady to the finish.

Home with the clock showing 50 minutes, a nett time of 48, on par with last year. I'm happy with that and with my controlled performance. I chucked in my chip, pickup my medal and clothes and set off at a gentle lope along the prom towards the post-race restaurant, applauding the stragglers as they chugged home.

A pleasant couple of hours followed, chatting with Andy, Nigel and Dan about future races, sucking on cold beer and gobbling plates of pasta and pizza. The Dan tribe entertained us, young Luke making his gorgeous baby sister giggle delightfully in her highchair. We parted, friends well-met and first-met, M making noises about hitting the Lanes shops before closing, Andy muttering something about a pint.

A cracking day then, but if I ever do another 10K it'll be too soon.
Back to the hills next week