I don’t believe in astrology. Perhaps this is a Cancerian trait.
God and the stars; tarot cards and alien abduction – emotional Big Macs for those who need their hunger satisfied, and quickly, without the inconvenience of having to think for themselves. Low hanging fruit for those who don’t want to have to reach too far. There – I’ve put my cards on the table. So the question is: can I still have a lucky number?
This question consumed me for several moments a week ago, when I received my Dorney Dash 10K race pack. I decided that if I called it a favourite number instead, I’d be in the clear. “Lucky” suggests some external power; “favourite” could have some psycho-physiological justification. Anyway, my favourite number is 67, which always seems to startle those sufficiently interested to ask. The convention seems to be that a favourite, or lucky, number should be between 1 and 9. But surely this becomes one’s favourite digit, not favourite number? I don’t have a favourite digit, sorry. [Celestial voice: Get on with it]
1167 isn’t quite the same as 67, but it will do. Perhaps it would bode well for my 10K PB attempt. After an unsuccessful 2004 in which no progress was made, my aim at the beginning of the year was to get a new set of PBs at all distances in 2005. And it’s been a pretty good 6 months. Before today, I’d taken part in 7 races this year, and apart from the New Year’s Day 10K, all of the others had produced PBs – 1 marathon, 3 halfs, a 10 miler and a 5 miler.
The 10K has always been a particularly troublesome distance though. It’s short and fast, and not really designed for plodders. There isn’t much time for sight-seeing. That said, there is something comfortingly local about most 10Ks. Unless it’s a high-profile event like the British 10K in central London, runners tend not to travel too far to run 6.2 miles, and at the back of the field you do still find people nattering about the new headmaster, and controversial planning applications for that empty shop in the village high street.
I nearly didn’t make it to the race. At 9:15 this morning I was still in my dressing gown, munching on some dry toast and sending a vinegary email or two to temporary enemies. I had 45 minutes to have a shower, find 4 safety pins, assemble my running gear, leave a note for the still-sleeping M, drive 28 miles, park up and walk the half mile to the start of the race. There seemed little chance of achieving this, but after 20 seconds or so of considering the matter, decided to go for it. Rather shockingly, at 9:40, I found myself sitting in the car park at Dorney, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, and fiddling with the car radio to try to find something to waste a bit of time on before I had to make my leisurely way to the start line.
The newly-constructed Dorney Lake is a stark, almost bleak race venue. Owned by Eton College, it will be the location for the rowing events, should Britain be awarded the 2012 Olympics on Wednesday. It seems a remote possibility, but wackier things have happened. 
It was a perfect opportunity to get a 10K PB. All I had to do was beat an hour and 20 seconds. This course around the lake looked dead flat, and the conditions – bright but with a cool breeze – as good as you could reasonably hope for. I lined up at the back, by a sign that said GREATER THAN 51 MINUTES. Greater than? Did they mean SLOWER THAN? Yes, they did, but I suppose “slower” is one of those words that the organisers decided they couldn’t use in case it made me burst into tears. Thank you.
Boom! The gun goes off and we get going. There’s no start line, so I hit my Forerunner button at a fairly arbitrary point close to the flapping “Start” banner set back from the path. I need to run every mile below 9:45 to get in under 60 minutes. Let’s cut to the chase. Each of the first 4 miles is under 9:45. The GPS gadget tells me I’m 40 metres ahead of target. By the end of the 5th mile I’m 30 metres behind target, and desperate for a pee. There isn’t much cover, but I have to address the problem. I spy a tree and head for it. By the time I’m back on the path I’m 150 metres behind target, and fading fast. I even stop for a walk break – not a good sign in a 10K race. With just under a mile to go I stop for another break, knowing the game is up. I walk past a panting girl who’s also stopped for a breather. She says: “Come on, I’ll run if you do.” So we jogged the final mile at a gentle pace.
Will I ever do one of these buggers in under an hour? I came in at 63 minutes dead. As it were. 804th out of 918 finishers. I picked up my engraved spirit glass (not had one of these before), and allowed myself a moment of satisfaction. “Greater than an hour”, I thought.
So the PB sequence comes to an end. I’d hoped to do it today to round off a good first half of the year. My hope is to get a new set of PBs at all distances in the second half of the year. But I’d swap them all for one 10K in under an hour.
Then it was back home for some sporadic Live8 watching. There’s been a lot of high-decibel mouth-to-ear combat on the internet messageboards and on the radio about Geldof and the Hyde Park beano. It seems that most of the antis are either disaffected teenagers who can’t quite bring themselves to endorse an event showcasing so many crusties, or watery BNP types who can’t understand why Africa is an issue that should bother us so much while our roads are still potholed. There’s a confusion between the music and the cause that’s creating some very muddled arguments, with people who hate the pop industry being forced to denounce the political campaign – possibly against their normal instincts, and those unhappy about the politics being drawn into denouncing the bands who, you suspect, they probably like.
The concert was a curate’s egg, with something to please and infuriate most watchers. Oldies like me will bend towards the view that Pink Floyd and The Who were worth the wait, with Snoop Dog at the other end of the spectrum – a crushingly depressing low point.
I’m starting to enjoy old fogeyhood.
