We were nearly halfway round when I overheard a woman in front of me wearily ask her running partner: “How many miles are there in this race?”
“Thirteen”, he panted.
“Thirteen! Oh bloody hell!”
This struck me as a curious exchange.
Come on. You get up early one Sunday morning, pin your race number to your top and put your running gear on. You check the map to find the best way to Reading, and to the start line. Meet up with your running mate and stand in a frozen field for an hour, waiting for the last possible moment to take off your fleece and dump your baggage onto the truck. You queue for another half hour at the start, manufacturing yet more small talk before setting off. You then run six miles.
And then, and only then, does the question cross your mind… How long is this race I am running in today…? She was no first-timer either, on the evidence of her well-used Asics and pleasingly Lycra-ed bottom.
Reading does attract a lot of them. Lycra-ed bottoms? Yes, but I really meant first-timers. Numbers pinned to the back of hooded fleeces (with just two safety pins). Khaki shorts. Tennis shoes. Coarse walking socks. A duffel bag. Balaclava. Two litre bottle of Pepsi. All exhibits for the prosecution case. Not that it’s of any concern to me really. I just find it odd that some people find it hard to distinguish between strolling in the countryside and running an urban half marathon.
As I mentioned recently, I was a first-timer at Reading too, in 2002. Today was my third visit in four years, and I’m delighted that even though the course has changed since I did it last, the organisers have decided to retain some of the race’s most celebrated traditions, like delaying the start by half an hour to ensure that any odd toes escaping frost damage in the long wait in the playing field can be properly finished off. This makes sure that any trace of pre-race high spirits can be thoroughly subdued, greatly reducing the danger of releasing glee onto the streets of Reading.
But if you survive the annual, terrible start, you’re in for quite a treat. Reading is surely the most frustrating of the big races on the calendar. Every year, the organisers so nearly get it right. Every year there are Everest-like, man-made organisational obstacles to overcome. Every year, emotional runners line up to denounce the race on the running forums, declaring that they will never run this race again. Unsuccessful social gatherings in breweries are referred to. And yet.
And yet so much else about the Reading Half is good. For an urban race, the course is good. If you subtract the opening stretch through Whitley, and the final mile or two round the featureless business park behind the Madejski, it’s an attractive course that takes you through the university, a variety of tree-lined residential areas and the town centre – all to the accompaniment of the best crowd support I’ve come across outside the big city marathons. One or two inclines aside, it’s a flat course. Ten thousand-ish good humoured runners, many rehearsing their London Marathon fancy dress performances.
I collected Antonio at 7:30 from a hotel a couple of miles up the A4. Our meeting in Shepherds Bush yesterday evening was smoother than feared. No Doctor Zhivago syndrome here. And lost among the subway crowds I try to catch your eye.
We drove back to Berkshire via floodlit Windsor Castle and the quaint Eton High Street. The itinerary looked simple on the map: Eton and Windsor are adjacent, facing each other across the Thames. Trying to get from one to the other by car, however, was a complicated affair, and involved a detour of about 5 miles. Antonio kept me amused with his analysis of the impending constitutional crisis to be triggered by the marriage of Charles and Camilla. This was followed by his lusty rendition of “It’s A Long Way To Tipperary”.
We eventually arrived home to find a bloke called Kevin in the sitting room. He was also running the race, and had offered to stay the night with us. We exchanged gifts and went for some pre-race pasta in Pangbourne.
After collecting Antonio from the hotel on race morning, I gave him the ten-bob tour of the area and its running routes. This took a bit longer than expected, and we arrived back home to find those luminaries from the forum, Sweder and Seafront Plodder, skulking in my kitchen, being fed and watered by Kevin, the mysterious houseguest. His presence hadn’t been in vain.
Then we all went and ran a half marathon.
Delays notwithstanding, I enjoyed this race a lot. The first two numb-toed miles were challenging, but after that it just slipped by, without me really noticing it. 3 miles, 5 miles, 7 miles. Eh? 7 miles? Over halfway? Why wasn’t I feeling this more?
I think the answer is that I’ve been doing my long runs this time, and 13 miles just isn’t that big a deal at the moment. When I got to mile 11 I suddenly realised that this was easy, and began to accelerate. The final mile, in just over 9 minutes, was one of the fastest race miles I’ve ever run, and was more than a minute faster than my average for the race. The final time, 2:14, still sounds embarrassingly slow though it was a 1 minute 20 seconds PB, so I’m pleased. Second half marathon PB in a row. Could I make it a third successive one at Silverstone on Sunday? Bizarre thought.
Back to the pub for a swift couple of beers where we were unexpectedly joined by Nigel and his three children. The usual post-race mellow afternoon followed. I was able to reflect on a strangely mixed day. The race had started badly but ended well. I’m trying to keep a lot of balls in the air at the moment, and the race, and my preparation for it had somehow got lost in amongst the other stuff. I forgot about my Champion chip till we were going out the door – when I happened to notice someone else’s around their ankle. Then I got to the race where I realised I’d not brought any energy gels with me. Then I had a banana and a cereal bar while I was waiting for the start. I never eat this close to the start of a race. What was I thinking? I was thinking about other stuff.
But at least I knew how many miles I had to run. And I ran them.
