It seemed like several days since I’d done a race. I was getting twitchy.
There’s something satisfyingly to-the-point about a race called the Maidenhead Easter 10. Where, when and how far. A pair of running shoes and those three words. What else do you need?
How about a urination strategy? The more genteel runner prefers to describe it as “hydration strategy”, but it amounts to the same thing.
Yes, I spent the entire ten miles thinking of my bladder, or thinking of ways of not thinking about it. But all these paths were cul-de-sacs — I was conscious of forcing my thoughts into some direction so bizarre that I couldn’t help arousing my own curiosity. What is it I’m not supposed to be thinking about? Oh bugger…
And for every second that I thought about it, it seemed to get very slightly heavier, bouncier and more painful. It’s the third race in a row that I’ve had this problem. At Reading and Silverstone I relieved myself half way through, but Maidenhead… Maidenhead is different. The sort of place that will have a by-law punishing public urination with a spell in the ducking stool. So I thought better of it.
There’s also the “wet weather tyre change” dilemma to wrestle with. Will the extra time taken to stop be made up by the extra time gained by being better equipped? I guessed one way at Reading and Silverstone, and the other this time. Who knows?
This was the 30th race of my plodding career. That’s OK, but it was also the 3rd in the past 20 days, and that may be too many. It’s not just the physical fatigue. The mental stuff is even more corrosive. A race is an emotional plug hole. You need time between them to fill up with enthusiasm and appetite and excitement again. Too many races too close together, and you don’t replenish yourself.
Which I suppose explains my ambivalence towards this year’s Maidenhead Easter 10.
I drove the 20 miles and parked without problem, then walked to the start, feeling sort of uninspired. There was something annoyingly insipid about the whole affair, though the majority of the other thousand runners seemed to be well up for it as they flapped to the start, hyper-ventilating, starey-eyed and glistening – like plump fish floundering on the riverbank.
I stood in the crowd at the start and considered feeling melancholy. Sometimes I must feel this way at the start of races. There is just too much to think about in those last, shifting moments before the hooter hoots. You look around and try to remember what life was like before this running stuff came along. A cheer goes up. Let’s get outta here. My bladder wakes up.
What makes for a good race? Hard to say. I’ve been reading the reports on the Runner’s World forum, and everyone is praising the Maidenhead race to the heavens. I’ve no big criticism of it myself. It was well marshalled and flat. Nearly all was traffic-free. The runners and spectators were friendly and supportive. Maybe I’m just a bit worn out at the moment. Or perhaps I can see Hamburg looming. But this year, I just found the Maidenhead Easter 10 a bit… a bit dull.
Oh god, I feel so anarchic.
Within the ten, there’s a 2 mile stretch that releases us from the Midnight Express-style endless winding around the corporate tarmac. For eight miles we bing-bong-ping between the faux grandeur of the Nortel entrance and the social club buildings. Somehow it made me think about work, which wasn’t really the idea. That said, I may have been thinking about work only to stop thinking about… oh god, I’ve just remembered again. Heavier, bouncier, more painful.
The lunch break, as it were, comes around miles 5 and 6 when we’re led through a gap in the fence, and set free for a bit. For a brief 20 minutes or so, it’s like we’ve been paroled unexpectedly. Free at last, we flee past the enormous field of cabbages and kale (or possibly radishes – the Runners World forum is uncertain), and on past that stunning row of wobbly 18th century houses. You know, the ones fringed with high-end Mercedes and BMWs…
During this period that I caught up with Walking Girl. A beautiful sight. There are times when athletics become aesthetics. To see this tall, muscular woman striding forth with astonishing grace and rhythm was truly startling. We played cat and mouse for two or three miles before I finally lost her. Where’d you come from, Where’d you go? Don’t know, but she was replaced by bladder-think and more corporate tarmac. Not a good swap.
6 miles, 7 miles… how was I doing for time? My only target was to beat last year’s performance – 1:45:20. If I could stick to 10 minute miles or thereabouts, I’d have no trouble. Miles 1 to 6 stuck to the script…
9:39
9:42
9:34
9:54
9:48
9:37…
Then it hit. Just like my long run last week. Suddenly I had to stop. Then I first pulled up on 15 miles. This time it was 6. I don’t know why. I just ran out of juice. For months I’ve not had to stop during a long run. Now it’s happened twice in a row. What’s going on? I seem to be overdrawn at the energy bank all of a sudden. Why? Am I being too profligate early on?
The final four miles were stop-start:
1015
1112
1021
1040…
The good news is that I did squeeze home with another PB. My fourth in four races, and more than three minutes less slow than last year.
