Writing a race report on the Oxford 10K without using the phrase "city of dreaming spires", or even less resistible, Frederick Raphael’s "city of perspiring dreams", is probably tougher than the race itself. But I’ll give it a go.
This is the race, mentioned here, to which I’d challenged my athletic Moriarty, Mark.
Getting out of bed at seven in the morning on a Sunday, isn’t much fun, particularly after a late night. We’d made our first ever trip to Camberley where we saw an amateur production of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying . A sixties’ satire, but with plenty of truth in it. We enjoyed it.
Am-drams is always a risk. We went to a local production of Turandot recently. Three hours out of my life that I’ll never get back. I could have driven to Oxford, run a 10K, and driven back in that time…
On the subject of which, we arrived in the city at 09:11. Multi-storey car-parking makes you acutely aware of this sort of detail. Twenty minutes later we were at the cricket pavilion in the centre of the University Parks, where we met up with Mark and Celia, his wife, and son Joe, who’d just finished a creditable 4th in the 3K race, and Harry, Mark’s wine-trade colleague.
I’d not seen them for 10 years, almost to the day. The last time was just before my 40th birthday, when we’d driven down to eat at Le Manoir, and combined it with an overnight stop at Chez Mark. He claimed that the last time we’d met was in Paris the following year, but I’m buggered if I remember that. It’s another indication of galloping age — the ability to erase from the memory a trip to Paris (in my case), or the ability to convince yourself that you’d been there to meet me, when you hadn’t (in his).
A period of obligatory banter ensued. Mark showed me his running shoes which he’d apparently had for 25 years. The sole had come away from one of the shoes, and was literally hanging off. He wore a rough old cotton teeshirt. I’d asked him about his training regime. Apparently he runs exactly one mile — never more, never less — every morning, seven days a week, 364 days a year.
And on the 365th day? On the 365th day, he runs the Oxford 10K.
We moved to the start line. Or at least they moved towards the start line. Knowing my place, I hovered around the rear of the field.
Hoo-ooot. We’re off.
The start of all big 10Ks is rather chaotic, in my growing experience. We go off like the clappers, flapping newly sharpened elbows. There’s a sense of near-panic in the air, like we’re escaping, rather than pursuing something.
I like 10Ks. Sort of. It may be truer to say that I simply hate them slightly less than the other distances. Long enough for me to feel that I’ve been out for a decent lope, anyway. My quick round-the-block 3½ miler is just a puff of athletic vapour. Ten kilometres, or 6.2 miles, is a workout, yet one that doesn’t require pasta preliminaries or a hydration strategy.
So what will I remember about this race?
I’ll remember the heat and the sunshine. Yes, you read that right: not only did it not rain, but Oxford was positively warm and sunny. So warm in fact, that the water station at 3.5K was reduced to chaos as thousands of sweating bodies descended on it within the space of a few minutes, like a swarm of flies on a fresh turd. By the time I got there, all the filled cups had been taken, and the helpers were working feverishly trying to place more cups on the table and fill them from five litre bottles just slightly faster than the runners could scoop them up. It could have been a scene from some 1970s TV game show. I bobbed around the wobbly trestle for 20 seconds or so, trying to grab a cup quicker than someone else, but I failed — until I decided that I couldn’t wait any longer, and started off again.
I’ve often run 10K races without any water, and on training runs, I wouldn’t normally consider taking fluid with me for just six miles. But it illustrates how hot it was that I felt quite dehydrated early on in this race, and could have done with the water.
Oxford itself made a good impression on me. It’s not a city I know well, partly because I knew very few visitable students there — in the days when I used to spend dazed weekends staggering from one college town to the next, like Chaucer’s Friar, who "knew the taverns well in every town". It’s bigger and grumpier than Cambridge, which I’ve always liked more. But in the sunshine of a late spring Sunday, with the college lawns gleaming like fluorescent carpets, Oxford seems to scrub up pretty well.
One of the great things about running is that shows you things you wouldn’t otherwise find. In the hunt for new territory, you push yourself into places you’d normally stay away from. My knowledge of my own area is ten times greater than my wife’s. But let’s face it, races aren’t the ideal sight-seeing opportunity. You see things fleetingly, without the luxury of time to enjoy them. I think I saw the odd blue plaque at the rim of my vision, the way I occasionally think I see a kingfisher along the canal.
A lot of iPod wearers in evidence again, bumbling around like a batallion of chronically short-sighted people who’d had their glasses confiscated. One of the two race photos I found of me clearly shows a woman behind me, far more interested in her playlist than the race, or anyone around her.
Anyway, we did a circuit of part of the town centre before heading back to the Parks for a stretch along the river, then back to the town briefly, before a final return to the Parks for the finish.
My time was a few seconds slower than at Woodley last weekend, which was a disappointment, but when I later checked my watch, I found that I’d run 6.38 miles against 6.26 last weekend, and in fact my average mile pace in Oxford (9:53) beat my Woodley pace (9:57), so I’m putting this down as a further improvement. Taking the heat and the congestion into account, I’m happy with it.
And Mark and Celia? Well, despite my pre-race bluster, they came in at a very respectable 50:12 and 51:13. Bugger.
The distant aroma of beer summoned me back to the town, while Mark returned to work in his wine shop. We all met up again a couple of hours for a deeply unhealthy, and deeply enjoyable (for a chap who’s been nibbling salad for too long now), buffet curry. The day continued well, with the purchase of a case of vintage Champagne which I got with a savage discount. Anyone joining me at Dorney next month will benefit from my good fortune.
Then back home where I decided that I may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, and took myself off to the pub for a couple of hours rehydration before returning home and devouring a lump of mature cheddar the size of a house brick. As I chomped through it, I was reminded of the convent girl’s prayer: "Oh Lord, make me chaste — but not just yet".
A great day out. I’ve a feeling this will now be an annual, rather than an every-ten-years fixture.
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