Stopping to walk during a race is like committing mass murder, don’t you think? You’re a bit reluctant to do it for the first time, but once you’ve done it once you can’t stop.
I was musing on this notion this morning, as I plodded around the Blenheim Palace 10K.
The Blenheim Palace 10K? No, I didn’t know I was going to do it either. I got up around 8am today, planning on a leisurely Sunday breakfast followed by a gallop along the canal in mid-morning. I casually checked out today’s events at the Runners World website, and noticed the Blenheim Palace race. What the hell? I got into my running gear, cleaned my teeth, left a note for the still comatose M, and was on my way.
About 45 minutes later I found myself in the ludicrously picturesque town of Woodstock. It looks like a film set. Antique shops, ancient inns, village green, that sort of caper. And it just happens to contain Blenheim Palace, the gaff of the Duke of Marlborough, but probably most famous as the birthplace of Winston Churchill.
Despite the white-knuckle journey to Woodstock, or rather, because of it, I got there in good time, and had no trouble scoring a late entry. Then it was back to the car for 30 minutes of shelter from the stiff, cold breeze.
Eventually we were summoned to the start to listen to someone very posh give a pep-talk over the public address system. The only bit I remember was the final instruction, that we should "have a jolly good run and bags of fun with it". I resolved to try to keep that sentiment at the forefront of my mind as I pottered around in a state of exhaustion. Because she was so posh, we all gave out a hearty chuckle and warmly applauded. She grinned like a Cheshire cat who’d just spotted her owner reaching for the Whiskas. Looked a bit like a cat too, embedded deep in her fur coat. Meanwhile, we shivered in our singlets. Twas ever thus, brothers.
And that was it. We were off. Just over a thousand of us.
This was a thoroughly pleasant and civilised venue for a race. I’d not been to Blenheim before, but the house and gardens are magnificent. The run took us across a bridge over the lake, and up a long, winding ascent through the splendour of the autumnal woods. We passed a sign saying "Warning! Pheasants!" Impressive that they had such concern for the birds’ welfare that they should tip them off like this, but how many pheasants can read?
The entire race took place within the grounds, so there were few spectators. I did pass a ruddy-faced gent leaning on a shooting stick who waved his Sunday Telegraph at me, exhorting me to "Go for the kill!" But whom or what I should be assassinating wasn’t at all clear to me. Which is where we came in, because it was here that I began to think about mass murder. I so very nearly ran the entire way, but halfway up the second hill I just had to have a quick breather.
Eventually we bowled up to the house itself where we descended to the starting point and back over the bridge. Mercifully we doubled-back before having to repeat the long climb, and that was it.
My time was poor — I still haven’t broken the hour mark for a 10K. Do I care? Increasingly not. The last mile of today’s race was tough, but in general we all had a jolly good run, and bags of fun with it.
