A good morning’s work on the Brighton seafront — a surreal mixture of Edwardian grandeur and kiss-me-quick frivolity. Reassuringly British.
The weather was untypically mild. I associate the Brighton 10K with razor winds whipping off the sea, and freezing rain. But today was cool and bright and dry, and for the first year I can remember, the black bin-liner remained in my pack. Worn over the head, it’s normally the only thing that separates me from hypothermia as we wait for the start.
I drove down from Crawley, where I’d lodged with the in-laws. Driving into Brighton earlyish on a Sunday is to peek beneath the covers of this party town. Clumps of tottering revellers meander homewards. Only the dense traffic saved the life of one staggering kid who stepped off the kerb into the road in front of me. I braked hard and swerved to miss him. If I hadn’t been forced into a 10 mph crawl, I’d have been giving a witness statement to the police rather than running the race. Reaching the front, I turned right and right again into Black Lion Street, where I parked up in the multi-storey. As usual on a race morning in any town, the car park was populated with undressing runners. In Brighton, somehow you suspect that this wouldn’t raise an eyebrow on any day of the year. I left them to it, and made my way along the front to the inflated arch that marked the start and finish of the race.
The published rendezvous point was bereft of recognisable RC types, so I dumped my bag and went to join the swelling throng behind the start line. Here at last, I found the characteristically ebullient Sweder, and shortly afterwards, the mighty Nigel, running his first race since the corresponding 2007 fixture.
We went through the ritual exchange of predictions. Without shame, I admitted I’d be delighted just to finish the race without having walked. If I could manage it in under 1 hour 10 minutes, I’d be surprised and happy. This will seem unambitious, but I was being realistic. I’ve been back training for 6 or 7 weeks, with priorities of losing a few pounds and improving my overall fitness. Speed hasn’t figured in my thoughts yet, and recent training times have only just fallen to 11-11:30 a mile.
Sweder had moved up through the starting pack to a position matching his own expectations, while Nigel and I remained at the rear. After the starting hooter, we had a 2 minute shuffle to reach the squeal of the chip mat, where Nigel bade farewell and launched himself into the heart of the two thousand runners up ahead. For 10 or 15 seconds, I watched his bobbing figure diminish until it was lost in the multi-coloured swirl of humanity in front of me.
We move east for 1.5 km before the u-turn that takes us back through the start, where I catch sight of the daunting figure of Seafront Plodder, waving a camera at me from the sidelines. It’s a cheering spectacle.
For these first 3 kilometres I go through the usual “Oh dear, why am I doing this?” interrogation of myself. But then I notice my time, which shows a first mile of 10:05. What is the race magic that whips 1 or 1½ minutes off a typical mile training pace without seeming to make you feel much different from normal? Wherever it comes from, it gave me a strong morale boost.
The second mile was 10:04, and I suddenly realised how comfortable I was feeling. Instead of sinking into the usual plod, I decided to try to maintain the pace – and I very nearly managed it. Through the 6.5 km turn at Hove, and on as far as around the 8 km mark, I felt great. But here I started to weaken a little, and for the final 2 km I felt myself struggling. A couple of hundred metres from the finish, I spotted Sweder and SP, and they encouraged a sprint finish. I did up the pace a little as I headed for the line, but just 50 metres or so before it, I came across a runner lying on the ground, being attended to by anxious paramedics. It threw an uncomfortably cold bucketful of common sense over me, and I decelerated as I crossed the line in a watch time of 1:03:47, giving me an average pace of 10:16.
I met up with Nigel, and we walked up Marine Drive for a recuperative few hundred yards, accompanied by comforting post-race “how was it for you?” banter. He continued to collect his car while I did a few minutes of stretching and walked back to collect my pack from the ultra-efficient bag drop (a huge improvement on the chaotic chuck-everything-in the-back-of-a-van-and hope-for-the-best ‘system’ of previous years).
Passing the Jog Shop Jog apparel area, I gleefully noticed a Clif Bar sampling stall, and headed for it. I discovered Clif at the Chicago Marathon expo in 2002, and have craved their products ever since. An American company, they make the best-tasting energy bars in the civilised world. At the expo, I loaded up on as many free samples as I could get away with, and continued to enjoy them over several weeks — even when I wasn’t running. Alas, they didn’t export to the UK. Until now. Check them out.
A bracing 10-15 minute walk along the seafront followed till I got to the lunch venue, the ever-welcoming Al Fresco. I like this place. It’s become as important a part of the Brighton 10K as the race itself. The Italian food is beautifully presented, well-priced, and very tasty. All around us, glass, the glittering English Channel, and the happy chatter of sweaty 10K veterans. It’s truly one of the happiest hours of the year. Thank you gents, and ladies.
