(Written Sunday 1 July 2007)
There’s nothing quite like a rainy race to wash down the first fifty years.
The Oxford 10K last month broke a long sequence of races run in filthy conditions, but the Dorney Dash 10K got us back on track. The steady drizzle leading up to the start suddenly became a hefty deluge just as the hooter went. For the next hour we were splattered with varying strains of rain, but still managed to squeeze some pleasure from the occasion.
I arrived with Kev, a mate of mine from distant schooldays, and we soon located Nigel, Ash and Chris. It was good to meet up with Moyleman, the legendary loper from the hills of East Sussex.
The race was generally well organised, but there were two minor complaints. One was the Almeria syndrome: no start line. We heard the hooter, we moved forward… and moved forward. Eventually started jogging, wondering when to start watches. But no start line appeared, and I eventually realised that this was like lying in bed, waiting for the day to start.
Ash and Nigel, evidently consumed by morbid curiosity, decided they wanted to witness the wretchedness of life at the back of a race field. They stayed with me all the way, Ash relating the odd saucy joke and music-biz anecdote, while Nigel uncharacteristically entertained us with a series of single entendres.
The second complaint was that the race numbers started to disintegrate in the rain — a shame, as I was rather proud of my number 50. I’d asked the organisers if I could have the number to mark my notable anniversary, and like good sports, they agreed. It’s one of those small things that actually means quite a lot. So the first thanks of the day go to the Dorney organisers. But the number proved strangely unresilient in the rain. These things are usually pretty indestructible but halfway through, the pinholes tore, leaving the number flapping about on my chest. Does this matter? Well, it does a bit. Firstly, it meant I lost a few vital seconds in mid-race as I stopped to hurriedly re-pin it. And second, it means all the race and post-race photos show me with a wonky number, suggesting that I’m incapable of performing this simple task properly. (As it happens, this is one of M’s pre-race duties.)
But there are worse things happening in this world. Compared to the fate of many, a misaligned race number shouldn’t rank high on any misery list.
So we chugged on — through the billowing curtains of rain. The splits tell the tale. By my usual standards, a fast opening, slower middle, and fast finish. We decided to pick it up in the last two. I found it pretty tough, but I knew this was the best chance I’d had in a long time to get down below an hour for a 10K.
It’s a sensation familiar to all racers, whatever their standard. The closing stages, when you’re going for a time but are beginning to feel stretched and stressed. The conflicting emotions. I read something in a newspaper recently which resonated. A guy discussing his alcoholism. Described how he cracked his problem only when he began to think of himself not as a single person with a single voice, but as a sort of committee. It seemed to me a useful way of thinking, helping to rationalise some of the paradoxes we experience.
In my own head, during those last couple of kms, there was quite a hubbub. The committee was excited, and there seemed to be a consensus that we should be gunning for a PB here. But then a voice from the back cries out: "Nah! Why bother? It’s not the end of the world for heaven’s sake. It’s your birthday. Just take it easy."
The committee shrinks back, and seems to say, "Er, OK". And for a few moments, I gave up.
Then another voice, from the side. "Eh? Come on, you won’t get another chance for ages!" And another voice: "And it’s your birthday! How good would that be?"
And so the discussion goes on.
The final kilometre was hard. I started to feel sorry for Ash and Nigel, running so far below their instinctive pace, they must have been considering taking a nap. I could imagine them thinking: "Wake me up when we’ve crossed the finish line". But they stuck with me, and kept the encouragement going. Being the person I am, I found this a little uncomfortable, though I greatly appreciated their help. One of my problems is that when people say nice things about me, I ‘know that they are lying’, and it embarrasses me. Also, I was trying hard to concentrate. But I think the true reason for my grumpiness was that I was struggling quite badly, and was forced to the very margins of my comfort and my patience.
But we made it. My GPS watch showed us reaching 10K in 59:40, but I always run to the course, and by the time I’d stopped my watch, a few yards over the line, it was showing 10.11 kilometres travelled in a few seconds over the hour. Still the fastest 10K I’d ever run. A month or two back, I resolved to break all my main PBs before the end of October, and then again by the end of April. This was the first to be crossed off.
Dorney, the venue for the 2012 Olympics rowing events, is an unusual race setting. The two laps of the lake strike some as dreary, but I like it. My most memorable runs seem to have been alongside water, whether lake, sea, canal, or river. Running and water seem to go together well. Some sort of confluence of nature takes place. The two things fit and feed off each other. And a long run alongside water is always a more contemplative occasion.
Walking back to the cars, we talked about the idea of forming a proper running club. There was general agreement that this was A Good Thing To Do. Watch out for developments.
And so, beneath a sky striped grey and black, while the rain held off for a few minutes, the five of us shared a bottle of Champagne and reflected on an enjoyable race. I’ll aim to be back next year.
Time to hit the pub. Our first choice, a genteel gastropub, the Palmers Arms in Dorney, was unavailable, so I decided to slide to the other end of the scale. The Watermans Arms in Eton is a good old backstreet boozer, what M calls "an old man’s pub". Well, I’m an old man now, so it seemed quite apt.
We were joined by some other friends, and even my older brother came out of social retirement to attend. The carousing went on for another 12 hours or so, in Eton and back home, but I’ll draw a discreet veil over the proceedings. In a case like this, we must protect the innocent.
At the age of 50, my own innocence is now well and truly shot. Still, I like that quotation from Abraham Lincoln: It’s not the years in your life that matter. It’s the life in your years. The discovery of running six years ago has changed the rules for me. I’m much fitter now than I was when I was half my age. I’d like to think that 10 years from now I’ll be writing an entry describing the race (and PB) I did to mark my sixtieth, and I hope that some of the good friends I’ve made through this site will still be around too.
