If the Burnham Beeches Half left me mulling over the quality of the race officials, the Theale 10K was a sharp reminder that I should be grateful for any marshals at all, however dozey.
Ten kilometres isn’t a very appealing distance on a weekend when I’m supposed to run 16 miles, but I made an exception here as it’s my local race, and thought it worth supporting. As it turned out, it didn’t really need my support. When I eventually got my application in, I found that they were only 5 entrants short of the 250 maximum.
The race took place at Englefield, the local estate. This isn’t an estate of the council or housing varieties. It’s one of those posh medieval types with a stately home and 15th century church and an aristocratic family who’ve lived there for some ludicrous period of time — 800 years or something. I bet they don’t scan the property supplement of the Newbury Times with much interest.
They let the plebs in occasionally. One weekend in May we are invited in (on payment of a fiver) to admire their good fortune at first hand. And the Theale 10K appears to be another Lucky Locals day. With as much gratitude and deference as I could muster, I took my place at the start: the imposing gates you see on the left hand side if driving up the A340 towards Pangbourne.
(Note: actually, I quite like toffs. As I type this out on my lap-top, on the slow train to Waterloo, there is a chap crammed into the seat next to me who fits the description nicely. He wears a bow-tie and a pink shirt, and an aristocratically crumpled suit. He is reading every inch of the Times, and has it – and by extension, his arms – spread across me. His left elbow, and something alarmingly solid in his trousers, are digging into me. Does he care? Does he feel embarrassed? Not a bit of it. Though perhaps if he glances at this screen he’ll feel sufficiently self-conscious to sit straighter. But then, fellows like him don’t feel socially awkward about anything much, which is why I quite like ’em.
Ah, he snorts and stirs…)
Where was I? I was at the start of the Theale 10K, that’s where. On another roasting day in what has turned out to be a pretty damn glorious summer. By the time we set off at 11:30, the sun was high in the sky and we were already sweating.
I soon settled into my customary position at the tail of the field. This turned out to be a piece of unexpectedly good fortune.
It seems that early that morning, some anonymous imp had gone round the course, removing the fluorescent orange way-markers, or in some cases, switching them round to point in the wrong direction. What a thoroughly good wheeze! Certainly something I’d have considered doing myself in my younger days.
Its victims weren’t so forgiving, and the sleek creatures at the front of the field grumbled so much that at one point I thought there must be a thunderstorm on the way.
By the time I reached the troublespots the arrows had been corrected, or perhaps it was that the gang of plodders I was following knew the way. It didn’t affect me.
Had there been marshals to point the way this wouldn’t have been an issue, but there weren’t; a reflection I suppose of the difficulties of trying to organise an event like this. Runners want to take part, and non-runners probably want nothing to do with the event.
I did briefly take a wrong turning, but the sudden rush of high-volume bellowing from the rear pulled me back on the straight and narrow.
It was quite a tough, undulating course, and included one killer of a hill that almost everyone walked. Most of it was grass or rough woodland path or tractor-rutted tracks. Some might prefer these surfaces, but not me. It’s even more strength-sapping than tarmac, and the danger of stumbling over a tussock or twisting an ankle in a rut is never far away.
Highlight was being overtaken by an athletic blonde woman, pursued very closely by half a dozen panting middle-aged men, their eyes firmly fixed on the lycra-clad bottom in front of them. If you have a glamorous wife like mine, then of course this kind of behaviour holds no appeal whatsoever. I think it worth making that point absolutely crystal clear so that there can be no misunderstanding of my position.
The other highlight was the fields of sunflowers at their spectacular peak. There’s something about these flowers that appeals to the child in me. Or is it LSD nostalgia?
It was the promise of a medal and a large vessel filled with icy water that got me round. The medal kept our rendezvous, but not, alas, the water. They had run out. Which just about summed up the organisation of the Theale 10K. I did at least get an apologetic email from the organisers the next day, which is more than can be said for the Burnham people.
Fortunately it was only a mile or so from the finish to home, so I was able to avoid the indignity of dying of thirst in the middle of the West Berkshire countryside. After a decent breakfast and shower, it was time to pull on that famous hooped shirt and get off to Loftus Road for yet another astounding Queens Park Rangers performance.
