When I mentioned to a work colleague that we were planning to transport 90 people to Silverstone for a race, her eyes shot to the ceiling. “It’ll be like herding cats”, she said.
Maybe that’s a general truth, but not in this case. One of the main reasons that I like running is that I like runners, and yesterday just reminded me why.
Just about everything was on time. We turned up on time. The coaches turned up on time. The bagels and the bananas were ready on time at the Sainsbury’s Local, just round the corner from the meeting point. Best of all, our fellow runners turned up on time. With one exception. So the first coach left on time, while the second waited for 20 minutes for <name-and shame> Jennifer</name-and shame>, who never showed, and didn’t call us.
This week I’ve had an uneasy relationship with my right hand big toe. Today we were friends again. Not because it stopped troubling me, but because it gave me the options I needed.
If I wanted not to run at all, it was there as the reason. If I fancied running a few miles before giving up, likewise. If I managed to saunter to a finish, I could project myself as a flimsy hero by dragging out some old cliché like “I didn’t think I’d make it to the start line, never mind the finish, so I was actually pretty pleased.”
Excellent. Perhaps the toe has a valuable evolutionary significance after all.
We made the tough decision to leave without <name-and shame> Jennifer</name-and shame>, who never showed, and didn’t call us, and set off down the M40. Here I remembered that we had two videos of the 2002 London marathon with us — and that I’d forgotten to set one playing in the first coach. Tsk. Very poor customer service. But we managed to persuade the grumpy driver to put ours on, and as the rain and hail attacked the coach, sat back and got all tearful again as St Paula of Bedford did her head-jerking best for our motivation levels.
Our coach arrived at Silverstone about 50 minutes before the race, so we had plenty of time to sit in the warm, watching the freezing rain dribble down the panoramic windows. By this time I’d been out for a quick stroll, and found my toe was throbbing again. Should I risk running?
With ten minutes to go, we arrived at the Paddock (as the announcer called it), or the fish and chips precinct, as I called it. Surely it would be mad to run? The announcements were getting ever-more frenetic, urging any stragglers to get to the start without delay.
With five minutes left, I decided definitely not to run. Then I had a brief jog and found the toe in remission. What to do?
“Just twooooooooooooo minutes to go now….”, boomed the PA system. You could just see the announcer’s palms dripping with hot sweat.
Oh bugger it. I pulled off my tracksuit top and thrust it at M. The bottoms weren’t quite so co-operative, and for a surreal moment I found myself hopping towards the Silverstone start line. As the mournful hooter sounded, I was running alongside the jogging crowds in the opposite direction, looking for a gap in the fence where I could join them. I found one.
I still haven’t cracked the hydration problem. Last year I drank too much on the morning of the race, felt bloated, and had to stop off twice during the race to release the excess. This year, I went too far the other way, and took virtually no fluid on board before the race. Result? Premature dehydration.
But I still felt strong for the first 5 or 6 miles. My target pace was 10:30 which I was able to stick closely to without any difficulty. Miles 5-9 were harder, but I hung onto the pace. By mile 10, I could feel my toe waking up. “Hold on mate”, I could hear it cry, “I agreed to give you a break, but this is taking the piss…”
It wasn’t agony but it was uncomfortable, and at mile 11 I stopped for a couple of minutes to give it a rest. The final 3 miles were stop-start, until I eventually got home in about 2:24.
I didn’t think I’d make it to the start line, never mind the finish, so I was actually pretty pleased.
The event was more enjoyable than last year. There seemed to be more spectators round the course this time, and more music. I hope they learned some lessons from last year, because this has the potential to be a really good event. Their big problem is improving the mid-race experience.
The first and last 3 miles, being on the circuit itself, have enough interest to keep spirits up. And anyway, the first and last 3 miles of any half marathon are always disproportionately tolerable simply because they are the first and last 3 miles. The starter and the pudding. It’s that long slog in the middle — the meat of the race — that’s the toughest, least digestible bit.
Silverstone doesn’t go out of its way to make it any more palatable, though there are one or two startling moments that just about make it worthwhile. Here and there in this extended middle section, the serpentine track allows you to see runners way ahead of you in one direction, and way behind in the other.
As far as the eye can see, a writhing snake of people running.
Someone on the Runners’ World forum described it as opening his eyes to the futility of running. I know what he means, but I’m making the effort to climb to the more positive viewpoint, and marvel at the way it reveals, with one 180º sweep of the head, the full range of our running community. What looks like treadmill-futility to one person is, for me, a rich source of inspiration. He’s not necessarily wrong; I’m not necessarily right.
Not a huge amount to report from the race itself. Shortly after the start, I saw a woman holding up a sign saying “We must keep Igor alive“. Was this Igor’s wife? Or the owner of the local cinema advertising the latest horror B-movie?
After 2 miles, I heard a couple of young girls talking as they overtook me. “Ridiculous to think we were told to stick to 12 minute miles”, said one, “when 10 minute miles turn out to be so easy.” Hmmm. I overtook them after 5 miles. They were walking. One was limping heavily.
I arrived back at the coaches just in time to see the first one set off. I feel guilty about not having had too much contact with the first coach. But this was the fast one, and I reckon that people who can run a half in under two hours are the sort of lunatic fringe of the sport in any case, so perhaps I was wise to keep my distance. Rather unpredictable types, I suspect.
And I wasn’t even the last one back. It was so good to sit on the warm coach, chomping fresh bagels and bananas, watching the drizzle again, knowing that I’d ticked off the first half marathon of the year. We were even able to rescue a bunch of pretty distraught people who’d missed their coach back to Milton Keynes, to connect with their London train. “Don’t worry about it”, we could say, “come with us. We’re all runners here.”
Sometimes this running stuff makes you miserable, and other times it makes you happy.
Today? Today it made me happy.
