The sun pours down like honey over West Berkshire this morning, 24 hours ahead of the Reading Half.
This last week has been low-key for running, and intentionally so. Some people like to squeeze out extra runs out in the week before a race, as though they fear that an unscheduled rest day will drain them of fitness, and of everything they ever knew about running. Others spend that extra rest day enjoying the sensation of strength and mental freshness pouring into their limbs, not out.
I’ve been out twice since the last entry, but only for mild canters through the snow storm (Wednesday) and the freezing streets of Tilehurst (Thursday). The latter was supposed to be another run with the group, but most of them didn’t turn up — a combination of the fierce cold and the impending half marathon.
Nearly everyone in the group is running the race. For many, it’s just another swing of the pendulum. It’s Reading time again. A couple of these middle-aged regulars have even run every Reading Half since it began in 1983. Others, like me, have it as part of a wider training programme. Mostly the London Marathon, though for me it’s Hamburg, the week afterwards. And for some of the runners in the group, the Reading Half is looming out of the darkness like some great cliff that must be climbed. It’s their first race and they don’t know what to expect.
In 2002, Reading was my first race too. You can read about it here. A first race teaches you something very valuable, particularly if you’re a solitary plodder, as I had been up to that point. Until I did a race, I was convinced that running was just my dirty little secret, and despite what I’d read on Ye Olde Interwebbe, surely no one else was really as inept as me? I’d come last, I knew it. I’d turn that final corner and find they’d all packed up and gone home.
I wasn’t last, and they hadn’t gone home when I finished. Everywhere I looked, as far as my eye could see – both ahead and behind, I could see people just like me. I was already in love with running, but this was a turning point.
Thinking about starting to run might be to turn the handle slowly, and getting out there to shuffle a few tentative steps might be to push open the door a little. But to really fling it wide open, you have to run a race. Fear keeps us away from so many things that, when finally experienced, reveal themselves to have been friends all along.
It won’t resonate for everyone, but for me, the Reading Half was one of those experiences, and to run it again tomorrow will be to meet up again with an old mate.
