The Shinfield 10K was a sort of accidental race. A minute or so into this event, I suddenly thought: “Crikey, I’m running a race”. It was as if I’d suddenly woken up and found myself sleepwalking.
In the real world, I’d opened my eyes at around 8 o’clock, got up and mooched around for a bit. Over a cup of coffee, I absent-mindedly checked out local 10K races for the coming months, and saw that there was one happening today, in just over an hour’s time. Hmm, well, why the hell not?
If you want to know what the Shinfield 10K is like, think of the Boston Marathon, then go right to the other end of the spectrum. But this spectrum is horseshoe-shaped, so the two extremes are actually closer together than other random points. It’s just different, and my preparation for it is equally different. Boston I know all about, and I enter one year in advance. Shinfield? One hour.
Runners need to support races like this, I thought, as I threaded my way through the fragile, trestle-tabled stalls on the green. Here we had the ladies of the Women’s Institute selling their jams and chutneys. Others dispensed indefinable knick-knacks for unknown causes, while others were more up-front: the church fund, Help The Aged, an Indian orphanage project. Over there, the pitch ‘n putt and the kiddies’ slide. In the village hall, where I was able to hurriedly register, were the tombola and the cake stall.
Everywhere was polite but animated chatter. Small-town England still exists alright, despite what it says in the Daily Express.
I had a few minutes to consume before the race so I wandered round the green, taking random snaps of the scenes around me. No great pictures, but should help to convey the atmosphere.
I was intrigued by the sight of one almost perfectly spherical fellow, his intrinsic circularity emphasised by a gleaming pate and expansive grin. Not the sort of chap I’d have earmarked as a natural athlete, which I suspect was exactly what he was thinking about me as I wobbled past.
Dammit, let’s not revert to self-caricature so soon after yesterday’s personal call to arms. I’ve lost 12 pounds in the last month, which is really pretty good, given that this period includes 10 days in the land of pasta and vino and exquisite ice-cream. I’d forlornly assumed that the past month would be two steps forward and three back, but [whispering] I seem to have got away with it. Twelve pounds down, and another 30 to go to reach my initial target. I’m totally confident about doing it. The last time I said something like that, I was just very much hoping I’d make it. This time I know I’ll succeed, because this time I’ve decided to do it. Simple as that. As my last boss used to say: “hope is not a strategy”. He was right about that at least.
There was a good turnout of runners. Perhaps 600? I made my way to the back of the field and waited for the hooter to hoot. It hooted, and off we set.
And that’s when I thought: “Crikey, I’m running a race…”
It’s been only three months since the last (Almeria Half) but it seems like a long time ago. The spring is usually full of races — including a marathon — but this year? Nothing. I suppose the absence of a marathon has removed the need to collect the usual halfs plus the odd 20-miler. It’s good in a way. I feel mentally fresher, and have more appetite for the challenges ahead.
I knew I’d break no records today, but was keen to improve on my terrible Brighton 10K in November.
The course was a pleasant enough circumambulation of Shinfield and Spencers Wood. The first kilometre was uncomfortable — the usual mixture of mild physical trauma (if you can have mild trauma) and a sense of slight regret that I find myself where I do. Why invite this upon myself?
But I knew that this would give way soon enough. Once into the second and third kilometre, I’d found my stride and was plodding merrily, managing to maintain a pace of around 6 minutes a kilometre.
The topology was reasonably kind — flat apart from an annoyingly long, rather than steep, incline at around the 4km mark. I’d just got to the top of it when the rain started. Mild, even pleasant at first. I thought about the grumblers who whine about running in the wet. Somehow they seem to miss the point of it all. Running, and particularly running in the rain, allows an adult to be a child. It brought to mind something George Sheehan said:
There are as many reasons for running as there are days in the year, years in my life. But mostly I run because I am an animal and a child, an artist and a saint. So, too, are you. Find your own play, your own self-renewing compulsion, and you will become the person you are meant to be.
The long upward slope was a strain, and I felt the pace fall back a little. I had a brief chat with an older guy who said two things that made me laugh. As the downpour intensified, he said “One wonders how much of this is sweat and how much is rain”. And another kilometre further on, we approached a sharp left hand turn at which an ambulance was parked, back door open, ramp down, directly facing us. As we got closer, he panted: “I’m just weighing up whether to turn left here or just keep going straight ahead.”
Well, perhaps you had to be there.
In the final two kilometres, the rain gradually became a deluge. We’ve not had any rain here for months, and this was payback time. The last few hundred metres were manic, and the finishing area was chaotic. Someone with a plastic carrier bag over their head staggered round blindly, holding out an armful of medals on the off-chance that someone who’d just run a 10K race was passing at that moment. Another child, close to tears, was finding that handing out chocolate wasn’t quite the dream career she’s hoped it was going to be.
I grabbed my medal and Mars Bar without stopping and carried on running through the funnel, across a muddy field, down a lane and back onto the main road where I eventually found the village green and hall again — and my car. I heard someone complain that this course is a shade short, but my race was 11km at least.
The village green was a sadder sight than it had been an hour earlier. Clumps of saintly people huddled around their merchandise under flimsy awnings, awaiting the post-race revellers. But the revellers were gone.
I drove home wearing nothing but a pair of sodden lycra shorts, and a modest grin. As accidents go, this hadn’t been a bad one.
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