My first ever DNF (Did Not Finish) today. But it’s OK — it was expected, and I’m not unhappy about it.
I entered the Finchley 20 a month or so ago, before the recent recurrence of the calf strain. It was going to be the culmination of four carefully choreographed training weeks in which mounting mileage was to be added to increasingly frenzied aerobic gym sessions. A sturdy, indefatigable athlete was to emerge through the dry ice at the climax of this process. But that was then. Instead, I had a good 1¾ weeks, before the calf twang left me well and truly plucked. Since then, just 7 road miles in total, with (admittedly) some crazy gym stuff.
After talking to Phil the sports therapist, I decided to turn up for today’s race, with the caveat that I should stop if and when the calf started complaining. The race, 4 x 5 mile laps, made this arrangement possible. So I went, with one target and one hope. The target was that I should hit 15 miles; the hope was that the calf would survive intact.
A target of 15 miles in a 20 mile race might seem defeatist, but in the circumstances, it was reasonable. Had other factors been different, I may have allowed myself the outlandish luxury of fantasising a full complement. But on the back of the training I’ve done, a 20 miler this weekend was not a realistic reach, and especially not when I realised the topography of the course. The final abandonment of false hope came last night, when the BBC weather forecast told me to expect an unseasonably warm and sunny day in London. My running becomes ever more hopeless in such conditions.
It’s a long while (3 years) since I started a 20 miler race, and I’d forgotten how much faffing was involved. Compeeds, Vaseline, gels, what to carry, changes of clothes, food and drink. One thing I got wrong was the advance hydration. There wasn’t any. I’d normally glug a few litres of water over the preceding couple of days. It seems to make a difference. But this time, I forgot, and I suffered for it.
What could have been an even worse mistake was making the foolish assumption that the Finchley 20 was likely to take place in Finchley, the suburb of north London known mainly for being the constituency home of Margaret Thatcher. But no, the Finchley 20 takes place about 15 miles west of this hallowed Tory ground, in Ruislip. Fortunately, I Google-Mapped the start before I left, or this might have been a briefer race report.
Ruislip is a bland suburb on the capital’s north western fringe. I can recall stressful childhood visits to an aunt and uncle who lived here; and more happily, occasional trips to Ruislip Lido, which brought a touch of Bondi to our austere concrete lives. Parking today was at the Lido, and as I hurried towards the start, had my first glimpse of that unspeakably exotic stretch of water in probably 40 years. Mais ou sont les water-skiers d’antan…?
Every race offers lessons, and today’s was this: Do not attempt to change the data screens on your Forerunner 305 just seconds before the start. The first half mile was spent with me poking the spongey, unresponsive buttons, and squinting at the barely-readable display. Finally, I managed to get it to show and record my humiliation in the desired format, and was able to give some attention to my cardio-vascular predicament.
By this time I was already part of the final half dozen or so back markers. No problem here. It had been my intention to tuck in at the back and run a slow but steady pace. This race was all about my calf, and about distance and endurance, not speed. Which was just as well. The sun was already high in the sky, and an ominous stream of sweat was starting to trickle down the back of my neck.
The course, mostly suburban pavement, was dull, though the experience was sweetened by the effervescent marshals and supportive, if sporadic, spectators. We were largely ignored by the local residents who walked their dogs, clipped their privet, fed their lawns, polished their front doors and tinkered quizzically with the hinges of their garden gates, without seeming to notice the hundreds of groaning, semi-naked people plodding past them. We are just some minor English suburban custom, playing out at the periphery of their minor, English suburban Sunday lives. We should be grateful for the indifference; it has to be preferable to violent protest and flaming barricades.
It was a tough run. Race organisers like to describe courses as undulating, but this can mean so many things that it’s become a meaningless adjective. A hill is a deeply subjective notion, as I was reminded yesterday when reading the Runners World forum, where someone states that the Reading half marathon course has “two hills of note, in miles 3 and 8”, and someone else chimes in with “And don’t forget the really big hill in mile 1”. As far as I’m aware, there are no hills whatever in the Reading Half, just a couple of mild and fleeting inclines. The brutal Seven Sisters Marathon course has been described as undulating, as has courses that are generally flat, apart from one notable hill. But the Finchley 20 really was undulating. The occasional flat sections came as a respite. Most of the time we found ourselves travelling upwards or downwards, with the short repetitious circuits emphasising the wearying relentlessness of the course.
Being positive about the constant switching, such undulant terrain was a terrific — and terrifying — workout for the naughty lower left limb. It came through pretty well. Ten miles passed without me noticing it at all, but after that I could sense the calf slowly starting to emerge from its slumbers. I stopped several times to stretch it, and was struck by just how good it felt. It seems there’s a correlation between the pleasure you get from a stretch, and the need for it. Does that make sense? Today’s calf raises on the kerb, while clinging to a lamp post, were astonishingly satisfying, and evidently unusual enough to catch the attention of some of the locals, who peered at me over their shades as they ambled past on the way to the newsagents.
I started to struggle on the third 5-mile circuit. The heat was becoming a problem, and my dry mouth and salty face were telling me I was getting dehydrated. The gels were a help. SIS GO isotonic gels are my current faves, though there’s every chance I may discover something new at the Boston expo. I remember coming away from the Chicago Marathon expo with dozens of freebie samples that kept me in race sustenance for months. I’ve not always been convinced by these things, but I’m certain they helped me today. The SIS gels have moved away from the mucilaginous goo of the PowerBar and Lucozade Sport offerings, and are relatively liquiform. They slake thirst as well as pump glucose into the blood.
Decision time came at around mile 14. The normally concealed macho part of my being tried croaking an order to crack on with the final quarter of the race, but the even lesser-spotted sensible voice urged caution, and insisted I stick to the original plan — to be satisfied with 15 miles. I needed little persuasion to accept the petitioning of the latter. I was hot, dry, tired, and I couldn’t be sure just how far I could push the leg. Moreover, I couldn’t raise a convincing argument for continuing. Would it really benefit me? The clincher was having a word with a marshal at the end of the third leg, who told me that his colleagues would start to be stood down over the next half hour, before the final stragglers had finished, and there was no guarantee that water would be available when I needed it. I was happy with where I’d got to, and decided to call it a day.
Asking for a medal was out of the question: I hadn’t earned one and didn’t want one. I did however fancy a teeshirt, and was able to get one with a little sleight of hand. I’ll never be able to wear it without feeling like a fraud, however. It proudly shouts: I completed the Finchley 20. I shall blush slightly every time I see my reflection while wearing it.
This is not a bad race. The 4-lap format won’t please the purists, but I’m not sure that matters. I suspect that most of the entrants were London (or some other) Marathon competitors, and were using the race to bump up their training mileage and test their progress. It’s a sort of functional, therapeutic event that exists to help runners rather than thrill them. Nothing much wrong with that. If I ever do another spring marathon, I might well consider doing it again. And if it continues moving 15 miles west, I might just catch it in 3 years time as it’s racing past my front door in West Berkshire.
The next three weeks are make-or-break. If I can continue the progress, churning out increasing road miles along with plenty of fitness work in the gym, I’ll be happy. I have the Reading Half in two weeks time, and possibly the Worthing 20 the week after that. I need to finish Reading fairly comfortably, and get round the whole of the Worthing course without dying. If I can do that, I’ll be as ready for Boston two weeks later as I will ever be.
