The Grazeley 10K this afternoon was like being trapped in one of those Escher trompe l’oeil pictures where those funny little men keep walking up and up stairs in an eternal climb to nowhere.
It had started so well. The course was even flatter than a pancake for the first four kilometres, and I was more than a minute ahead of schedule. Tomorrow’s Sunday Times headlines were already forming in my imagination.
But then an undulation happened. A one-way, upward undulation. Then a brief plateau before another gentle climb. Then another one. “Hullo”, I said to myself, “there’s something not quite kosher about this fellow.”
And so it went on. We seemed to keep ascending right till the finish. If I’d run the whole course again a couple of times, I’m sure I would have ended up around fifteen thousand feet above sea level. But mercifully, we were required only to get through the first 10K. Which I did, eventually, but the hilly bits and the heat had taken their toll. The race had begun at 2:30pm, and must have taken place through the hottest hour of the day. It was baking along some stretches, and I had to walk a couple of times.
I eventually came in at 62 minutes. Not a great time, but I’m glad I did this race. It was a classic local 10K event. Part of the Grazeley fete, with all the traditional stalls: coconut shy, hoopla, tractor rides, darts thrown at playing cards, Harry Potter reading tent, and so on. A really nice event. For some reason I kept thinking that this would make a great subject for a documentary film. One of those slice-of-Britain type of things.
Quote of the day came from a rather badly-equipped elderly lady standing behind me at the start. I heard her say to her friend: “As long as I beat someone wearing a singlet I’ll be satisfied.”
Happy to oblige, Ma’am.
