Last night, I tossed the influenza coin in the air before turning in, not knowing how it had landed till I opened my eyes at 7am. The news was reasonably good. Throat still a bit sore, head fuzzy but after some dry toast and Lem-Sip I passed a late fitness test and was on my way.
Only eight miles to Goring, but it was my first visit. And what a charming village it is. You can see why Boris Johnson was elected the MP. He actually looks like the place. The similarity between him and a thatched cottage is quite uncanny.
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The tiny High Street was jammed with race traffic when I arrived, and there was a brief, last minute panic when I thought the event might begin without me, a la Fleet 2002. But there were so many other sinners in the same delayed boat, I needn’t have worried. The race started eventually, only eight minutes late.
I felt good, and confident. Quite different from the start of the Serpentine 10K on New Year’s Day. Then, I felt ill-prepared. Today I felt only ill. Only four pounds lighter than I was at new year, but a revised breakfast strategy made all the difference this time.
And still they came. How many were here? Who knows? No one in Goring High Street will ever forget these fantastic scenes. The police said a million people; the organisers reckoned it was nearer two million. Being in the thick of it, it was hard to say for sure but I can confirm that the narrow High Street looked pretty crowded to me, with the excitable throng extending almost as far as Nappers the Grocers. Whatever the numbers, the start was congested and tricky, but within a half mile the road had widened and we were out in open country.
By my standards, I was running well. It was cold alright – but lovely cold. Running cold. The sort of cold that makes you want to… well, if I believed in God, the sort of cold that would make you want to throw yourself at his chilblained feet, in gratitude.
There’s good cold and bad cold. I can well understand the despair of some runners when faced by bad cold. Evening runners are especially unfortunate, spending all day in a toasty office, driving home in a heated car. Strolling into a centrally-heated home wearing coat and scarf, and gloves… and then stripping almost naked and stepping back towards the front door. Opening an inch or two. Looking at that big, black, perishing night out there. A dagger of freezing air whistling past the ear. In the background, the womb-like comfort of the Coronation Street music can be heard, along with the sound of another log being thrown on the fire. That’s bad cold.
But today’s is different. This is the bright, Sunday morning cold with a race ahead of you cold… this is jogging to your car in race-gear cold… a cold you’re in charge of, and not the other way around. This is good cold.
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| The start of the Goring 10K |
Some people think that if it’s cold at the start of a race, then it will be cold all the way through a race. You see people wearing sweatshirts and fleeces and pullovers and hats. And no, these are not just first-half-mile garments. They are still there after two miles, when they have now become very hot. And they now have to be removed and tied around the waist. Except it aint that simple, because the number was pinned to the offending item, and so the garment must be removed and remain attached to the body in such a way that the race number remains visible.
At the Reading Half 2002, I saw someone wearing a T-shirt, jumper and overcoat with his number attached to the back of his coat. And it wasn’t a charity outfit, because I ran beside him for a while and talked to him. After five miles he was carrying his coat and jumper, and cursing his stupidity.
Yikes, here I am chatting like this while the race has been going nearly ten minutes now and… look! Look who’s going like the clappers!
It’s true; I admit it. Today I tried running quickly. Everything is relative. I’ve run only two 10Ks before: Theale and Hyde Park. My times were about 1:05:30 for both. Today I decided it was time to consciously run faster than previously. I really wanted to get home in less than an hour. This meant running each kilometre in six minutes or less.
My first six kilometre splits were: 5:37, 6:09, 5:58, 5:40, 5:46, and 05:52. This was great. I was striding along, well within pace. I felt quite strong and in control. My only concern at that point was my breathing, which was heavy and difficult. The semi-flu I had seemed to have closed down some of my lung capacity, and I was conscious of breathing more quickly and less effectively than normal. It made me appreciate the problems of asthmatic runners a bit more, that’s for certain. Runners like Ian Painter, who ran the London Marathon last year must have this problem all the time. Mind you, I’m pretty certain he cheats. A half marathon in 1:26? Must think I was born yesterday.
I was now sure I’d be home within the hour, but just as I’d finished counting that last chicken, a horrible hill suddenly appeared, and the kilometres that stretched up it had me struggling in a 7:00, followed by a 6:45. At last, the course flattened out again, and my penultimate split was back to 05:54. By now the exertion was getting to me because a stitch appeared, and I’d no option but to stop and walk for a minute or so, hoping it would go. Eventually I started up again and sprinted for the line, making a final kilometre time of 06:14, and a final race time of 1:00:57.
It was disappointing to miss out on the hour mark by less than a minute, but still encouraging to achieve a 4 minute PB over a 10K distance. The overall pace was 9:49 a mile, which is good for me over 6 miles. I’ll be interested to see my official time. The congestion of the start was repeated at the end, and I had to join a 10 minute queue just to cross the finish line. As far as I’m concerned, my watch stopped when I reached the final melee, and not when I eventually crossed the line a few metres further on.
Next weekend is the lull before three successive half marathons (Silverstone, Reading and Bath). This was a good preparation.
