And so, the fabled three-week taper begins. Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here. The encouraging daily emails I get from the Hal Higdon training programme say back-slapping things like "Don’t worry! The hard work is now behind you!" Well perhaps it is: apart from that last tiny detail like the 26.2 miles of the marathon in 20 days time…
Yesterday was a big day: the longest long-run of the entire training programme. Not only was it a red-letter day but the strong Spring sunshine made it a red-neck and red-shoulders day, and the distance ensured it was a red-thigh day. It was also a pretty red-face day too (let me know when you tire of this weedy joke) as I only just avoided finishing last.
It was certainly a more serious field than the two half marathons of the past two weeks. At Fleet and at Reading in particular, there was a good proportion of fun-runners and charity-racers which ensured that I had plentiful company at the back of the field. Perhaps the 20 miles of Worthing was just too intimidating for most casual runners, or perhaps it was a little too out-of-the-way for many. Whatever the reason, there were very few plodders like me to be found.
Worthing is a pleasant-enough town down on the south coast. It’s always had a somewhat moribund public image though recently it seems to have begun to wake up from its long sleep, and there’s even talk of of it ‘doing a Brighton’ and becoming a breakaway fragment of the Home Counties’ IT industry. When I originally booked a place I had visions of running majestically across the golden sands, the sea breeze in my hair. Or at least the chance to pound along the front, hearing the waves crashing against the rocks. But I never even found out if Worthing has any rocks or golden sands. Certainly there wasn’t too much sea to be seen from the course.
I was accompanied this time by M and the in-laws, who live only 25 or so miles away. They dropped me off in good time though I still managed to start in last place as, right up till that last moment, I was trying in vain to have a final pee in a nearby field. Urinating in front of a thousand people, especially when they are running away up the road without you, calls for a particular kind of single-mindedness. Whatever quality it requires, I don’t seen to have it. Eventually I had to give up and tear after them.
This was a hard slog of a race. It was warm and sunny, and the pace was brisk. Too brisk, which was probably half the trouble. My aim was to complete the 20 in 4 hours: an average of 12 minutes a mile. The first 6 miles, however, were: 09:15, 09:20, 10:22, 10:16, 10:23 and 09:21. Quite bizarre, and unwise.
The course was a 5 mile circuit, repeated four times. The first was perhaps the hardest – and certainly the fastest. At the end of it, I began to slow down quite markedly. After around 7 miles I was caught up and lapped by the leader. Just shot past me like someone running 50 yards for a bus. There was a bit of a gap, then came a steady stream of sickeningly fresh-looking, sturdy athletic types.
Halfway through the second lap I got chatting to another runner who, like me, preferred the civilised climate at the rear of the field over the undignified frenzy of the front. I warmed to him when he revealed that he lived in Shepherds Bush, my spiritual home, and the real home of my football team. Tragically, he then confessed to being a Fulham fan. Oh. There followed a slightly awkward silence for a moment until we realised that we must both hold Chelsea in equal disdain, and this got the conversation going again. We chatted for a few minutes before I pressed on again. But our shared lack of speed and energy kept dragging us into alignment, and we chatted on and off for much of the last half of the race.
One of the several low points of the race was the end of the third lap. As I passed through, onto the fourth circuit, most people in front of me had already done this, and were now completing their race, branching off instead towards the finish. Bitterly, I wondered how many back markers like me had taken the opportunity to pretend that they’d done four when really they’d managed only three? Perhaps none, but I was struck by how deserted the race suddenly became after that point.
For the whole of the final lap there were two teenage girls about 200 metres in front of us. Eventually they began to tire and I decided I had to overtake them – which I finally did, about 100 metres from the finish. I felt a bit guilty about having left Gordon, the other guy behind, but well, he was a Fulham fan after all. I diluted my guilt with a cup of orange squash that I had waiting for him as he eventually crossed the line a few minutes later. We chatted for a moment or two before I went off to meet up with M again. If he reads this, good luck for the marathon, and thanks for the company.
Final time was 3 hours 57 minutes, just within my target. All in all a strange, low-key occasion with very few spectators and surprisingly little excitement despite a thousand people either haring or hobbling round the town 4 times. Perhaps that says it all about the endearingly English languor of Worthing.
Oh yeah, and my toenail finally fell off…
