Good Friday – eventually.
I rose from the dead at 6:30am (it’s OK, I’m a card-carrying atheist, I’m safe), not really in the mood to run 10 miles. I stood at the kitchen window, munching on dry toast and swilling severe, black coffee. A 10 mile race or a gardenful of torture? And how had I managed to put on 3 pounds yesterday? The pedantic voice of reason recited the list of hot cross buns, easter eggs, crisps, biscuits and gratuitous sandwiches I’d shovelled in. That’s how.
It was time to cheer up. Yes, I was conscious of the ache in my left foot, my swollen stomach and my tiredness, but at least Wednesday’s thigh aches had receded. And let’s face it, the start of 4 days off work can’t be too bad.
The morning was bright and cold. Good running weather. And the bank holiday gave me the rare opportunity of breaking the speed limit on the M4 at 8am on a Friday. Things were looking up.
The race HQ was some kind of complex in a patch of pleasant parkland to the west of Maidenhead. A modern collection of buildings including some kind of hall and a bar. I couldn’t work out what purpose it had in real life. A works sports and social club? It suited the purpose very nicely. It reminded me of that daydream I occasionally have. To be created once I win the lottery jackpot. A purpose-built running complex with a series of routes and terrains, and every imaginable facility for the runner. I even have a name for it: Plodderama.
The pre-race atmosphere was chatty and bustling and convivial. There’s something terribly English and garden fete-ish about the organisaiton of these races. It must be something to do with my age but I find it shamefully reassuring.
It was a bit like being in a large pub, except it was 9 in the morning, and no one was drinking alcohol. Or playing darts. Or watching the football. Or fighting. In fact, it was absolutely nothing like being in a pub.
I collected my satisfying plump race packet just after 9am, half an hour before the off. Number 1230. “Is this my race number or the time you expect me to finish?”, I asked. “Oh no”, said the earnest lady, “it’s your race number”.
Half an hour to kill. For some irrational reason I decided there would be no harm in drifting over to the bar and investing in two hot cross buns and a large glass of orange squash. I devoured the first bun and glugged down the sweet, sticky drink before admitting this wasn’t ideal preparation for a 10 mile run. Why do I do this? I wrapped the other bun in a blanket of tissues and stuffed it into my jacket pocket for later. I’d already felt bloated. Now it was like I’d had a bowling ball surgically implanted in my stomach.
I rolled myself back to the car, and sat listening to the radio. George Bush’s latest attempt to create World War III is in full swing. His latest wheeze, destroying mosques with helicopter gunships, is an absolute corker.
The race began and I trundled off into the distance. With several hundred yards gone, I realised that _colin, my Garmin Forerunner gadget, wasn’t playing the game. Perhaps it was the mass of competing speed and distance and heart rate monitors, but I couldn’t get a satellite signal. I’d asked the fellow to keep a very sedate pace (10:55 mins per mile), but despite that, I was being warned: YOU ARE BEHIND BY 0.45 miles. Well cheers _colin.
The course was pleasant enough. We wound our way round the grounds a couple of times, then headed out for a while through some local lanes and past a lot of rich people’s houses. The marshals were encouraging, as usual, but this time they seemed to be sincere. When they said “Well done”, they seemed to mean it. I did get annoyed once, when a marshal said “Well done you stragglers” as a group of us went past. But then I noticed that The Stragglers was the name of the running club on the vest of the guy panting alongside me.
Meanwhile, something strange was happening. My reproachful watch was slowly changing its tune. From starting at 0.45 miles behind, the figure had crept downwards. After three miles it was telling me I was only 0.1 behind, and after another two, I was 0.1 ahead. Could I keep this up? A strong sixth got me to 0.2 miles ahead before I started to flag. I got increasingly tired as the final miles ticked by, but still managed to avoid stopping at any point. Rather pathetically, this is one of my criteria for judging the success of a run. Even though I’m slow, ten miles without a break is an achievement for me. Perhaps the number of 10 to 13 mile runs I’ve done recently has put some extra endurance in these wobbly old legs.
I wonder also if I was beginning to see some benefit coming from my two visits to the running club. Last week I was given some pointers about technique. Lifting my feet, kicking back, increasing stride, running upright, looking ahead and not down… It’s hard to shed bad habits overnight but I was much more conscious of how I was running, and tried to accommodate some of these new ideas. Interestingly, I also took far more interest in how other people were moving, and even began subconsciously to sort them into running club members and solitary plodders, based on their style.
I was wary about reaching the 8th mile. This is where I’ve dropped off during half marathons. Perhaps because I knew there wasn’t much further to go, I managed to hang on this time. The final mile was hard but I tried to concentrate on how I was running, and got through it. My estimated time had been 1 hour 55, but I managed 1 hour 45, so I was well pleased. My splits were: 10:07, 10:14, 10:06, 10:34, 10:27, 10:14, 10:25, 10:32, 10:58, 10:36, which gives me the least-slow average race pace since June of last year. Perhaps things are looking up.
Collected my mug (always an appropriate memento for any race that I enter), and limped back to the car to enjoy my Mars Bar and bottle of water. I was sweating like mad, and had to mop up this fluid with a squishy bundle of tissues I found in my jacket. There was something unusual about the springy constitution of this makeshift sponge. Puzzled, I unwrapped it. There was my hot cross bun.
I can now reveal that hot, damp, salty hot cross buns are delicious, and as I drove off, grinning, I decided that they’ll have to become the trademark delicacy at Plodderama.
